Mr. And Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet pressure, were proud to say that they have been perfectly traditional, thank you very so much. They have been the last men and women you would anticipate to be worried in something strange or mysterious, considering the fact that they only failed to hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley used to be the director of a firm known as Grunnings, which made drills. He was once a giant, beefy man with infrequently any neck, although he did have stonean awfully large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had just about twice the natural amount of neck, which came in very priceless as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son referred to as Dudley and of their opinion there was once no finer boy at any place.
The Dursleys had the whole lot they wanted, however they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that someone would realize it. They failed to feel they could bear it if any individual found out in regards to the Potters. Mrs. Potter was once Mrs. Dursley’s sister, however they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, considering that her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were because it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to believe what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the road. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, however they had in no way even obvious him. This boy used to be an extra just right rationale for retaining the Potters away; they didn’t wish Dudley mixing with a baby like that.
When Mr. And Mrs. Dursley woke up on the stupid, gray Tuesday our story starts, there used to be nothing in regards to the cloudy sky outside to endorse that strange and mysterious things would quickly be taking place in every single place the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them observed a huge, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half of previous eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but neglected, considering that Dudley used to be now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the partitions. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the residence. He got into his car and backed out of number 4’s force.
It was once on the corner of the street that he noticed the primary sign of whatever bizarre — a cat studying a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley failed to have an understanding of what he had visible — then he jerked his head around to appear once more. There used to be a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet drive, however there wasn’t a map in sight. What might he have been pondering of? It must were a trick of the sunshine. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his replicate. It was now studying the sign that said Privet power — no, looking on the sign; cats could not learn maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a bit of shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward city he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was once hoping to get that day.
But on the brink of city, drills have been pushed out of his mind with the aid of something else. As he sat in the common morning site visitors jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there appeared to be quite a lot of unusually dressed persons about. Men and women in cloaks. Mr. Dursley could not endure folks who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young persons! He supposed this was some silly new trend. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of those weirdos standing rather close by way of. They have been whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley used to be enraged to look that a few them weren’t young in any respect; why, that man had to be older than he was, and sporting an emerald-inexperienced cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was once on the whole some foolish stunt — these humans were without doubt collecting for anything…
Yes, that might be it. The site visitors moved on and some minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley perpetually sat together with his again to the window in his place of work on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he would have found it tougher to pay attention to drills that morning. He failed to see the owls swoop ing previous in extensive daylight, though persons down in the avenue did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had by no means visible an owl even at middle of the night. Mr. Dursley, nevertheless, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five distinct men and women. He made a few predominant telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He used to be in a very good temper until lunchtime, when he idea he’d stretch his legs and walk throughout the avenue to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all in regards to the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He did not recognize why, however they made him uneasy. This bunch had been whispering excitedly, too, and he could not see a single gathering tin. It was once on his manner again past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a number of phrases of what they had been saying.
“The Potters, that’s proper, that’s what I heard sure, their son, Harry”
Mr. Dursley stopped useless. Worry flooded him. He appeared again on the whisperers as if he wanted to claim something to them, but concept better of it.