Mr. and Mrs. Dursley who lived at number 4, Privet Drive, were delighted to announce that they were extraordinarily normal if you pleased. They were at the bottom of the list of people that you'd expect to be up to something dodgy or mysterious because they didn't promote such nonsense.
Mr. Vernon Dursley was the leader of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a large, beefy man with basically no neck and a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was the complete opposite of Mr. Dursley. She was thin and blonde and had almost twice the normal amount of neck, which was very useful because she spent countless hours of her day craning over garden fences, peeking on the neighbors. The Dursleys has a small son named Dudley, who, in their opinion, was the finest boy ever.
The Dursley family had everything they had ever wanted and more but also carried a secret. Their biggest concern was somebody finding out what the secret was. They didn't think they could take the pressure of someone finding out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't talked or even met face-to-face for a few years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her absolutely horrible husband were as unDursleyish As it was possible to be. The nurses shook to think what the neighbors would say if the Potter family appeared on the street. The nurses knew that the Potters had a small son and daughter, too, but they had never seen them. These twins were another brilliant reason for keeping the part of the way; they don't want Dudley
With children like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke on the boring, grey Tuesday the story begins, there is nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that abnormal and mysterious things are soon to be arising all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed a gentle tune as he picked out his most basic tie for work and Mrs. Dursley chatted away nonchalantly as she wrestled a very loudly Dudley into a highchair. None of them happened to notice the large tawny owl that floated past the window.
At 8:30, Mr. Dursley grabbed his briefcase, gave Mrs. Dursley a quick kiss on the cheek, and tried to give his son a kiss goodbye but missed, because Dudley was not having a tantrum and throwing cereal at the walls.
"Little tyke," Mr. Dursley chuckled as he left the house. He sat in the driver's seat of his car and backed out of number four's driveway.
It was at the corner of the street that Mr. Dursley got a hint of the oddness - a tabby cat reading a map. For a second Mr. Dursley hadn't processed what he had seen - then he quickly spun his head around to look back at the cat again. There was the same tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a sign of a map anywhere around it. What could Mr. Dursley have seen? It must've been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked a few times and stared at the cat. It stared back. Mr. Dursley took the corner and drove up the road, watching the cat in his mirror. The cat was now sitting, reading the Privet Drive sign - no gazing at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs.
Mr. Dursley shook himself and threw the cat out of his mind. He drove towards town thinking of absolutely nothing but the large order of drills he was wishing to receive today.
But once he arrived at the edge of town, something else came across his mind, knocking drills out of it. As he was waiting in the normal morning traffic jam, he noticed that there were a bunch of strangely dressed people around. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't stand people who dressed in funny clothes - The trends you saw on young people! He guessed that this was some new ridiculous fashion. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as I spell on a group of his weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering fast and excitedly Together. Mr. Dursley was furious to see that a couple of more young at all; why, that man had to be ordered and he was and is flaunting an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But a thought struck Mr. Dursley that this was most likely an abnormal stunt - these people were certainly collecting for something ... of course, that was it. The traffic continues and a few moments later, Mr. Dursley reaches the Grunnings parking lot, drills back in his mind now.
Mr. Dursley's back always faces the window in his office on his ninth floor. If it hadn't, he would've probably found it harder to concentrate on drills again. He didn't notice the owls that swooped past in the daylight even though most people in the street below did; open-mouthed, they gazed and pointed as owls sped above. Many of them never even saw an owl even at night. Mr. Dursley, on the other hand, had quite a normal, owlless morning. He screamed at five different people, made several relevant phone calls, and yelled quite a bit more. He was in an amazing mood up until lunch when he figured he would stretch his legs and go across the road to buy a bun from the bakery.
With his mind focused on the work, he had forgotten completely about all the groups of people in cloaks until he passed one specific group that was standing near the bakery. He looked at them with an angry expression as he walked past them. He hadn't a clue why but they didn't sit well with him.
This bunch was excitedly chattering between themselves as well, and no collecting tin was in sight. It was on his way back to his office, clutching his large donut in a bakery bag, that he heard a few words that the group was muttering.
"The Potters, yes, that's what I heard -"
" - yes, their twins, Harry and Emmalina -"
Mr. Dursley's feet stopped working and he stopped dead in his tracks. Fear came across his face. He glanced over at the huddled group as if he was about to say something but thought of a better idea.
He hurried across the street and up to his office as fast as legs could carry him, snapped at his secretary to leave him alone, grabbed his telephone, and was almost done dialing his house number when he thought twice. He set the receiver back down and smoothed his mustache, pondering ... no, he was being ridiculous.
Potter wasn't such an uncommon name. He was positive there were lots of people with the last name of Potter that had twins named Harry and Emmalina. Thinking back on it, he wasn't even sure his nephew and niece were called Harry and Emmalina. He'd never met the twins. It might have been Harvey and Emily. Or Harold and Esmeralda. There was no point in making Mrs. Dursley fret; she always got so disturbed at every thought of her sister. He would never blame her - if he had a sister like that ... but nonetheless, those people in cloaks ...
He found it stressful to focus on drills that afternoon and when he exited the building at exactly 5 o'clock, he was still so perturbed that he walked right into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," He granted, as the tiny old man stumbled and barely managed to stay on his feet. It was a few moments before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was fashioning a violet cloak. He didn't seem one bit frustrated at being almost knocked to the floor. Surprisingly, his face broke into a wide smile, and said in a squeaky voice that made passerbyers stare, " don't be sorry, my dear sir, for little could frustrate me today! Celebrate, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggle like you should be happy, this merry, merry day!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around his waist and walked away.
Mr. Dursley stood frozen to the spot. Even hugged by an absolute stranger. He also remembered being called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was shocked. He raced to his car and sped off for home, hoping he was seeing things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination
As he pulled into number four's driveway, the first thing to catch his eye - and it didn't help his mood - was the same tabby cat from the morning. It was not resting on his garden wall. He was positive it was the same one; it had the exact same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn't budge. All I did was give him a stern look. Was it just typical cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to compose himself, he let himself in the house. He was set on not mentioning anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had a pleasant, typical day. She told him as they ate dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and I would only have figured out a new word ("Shan't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normal. When Dudley was finally in bed, he went into the sitting room in time to hear the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, birdwatchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very abnormally today. Although owls usually hunt at night and are hardly ever visible in daylight, there are hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since dawn. Specialists are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster flashes a grin. "Most strange. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's just the owls that have been acting peculiar recently. Viewers as far away as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been calling in to inform me that instead of the rain I predicted yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Maybe people have been commemorating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, ladies and gentlemen! But I can promise a wet night tonight."
Mr. Dursley sat like a statue in his chair. Shooting stars across Britain? Owls in the daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks in town? And a whisper, a slight one, about the Potters ...
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying cups of tea for both her and Mr. Dursley. It was no good. He has to say something to his wife. He nervously cleared his throat.
"Er - Petunia - dear - you haven't heard from your sister recently, have you?"
Just as predicted, Mrs. Dursley looked surprised and frustrated. After all, they usually pretended she didn't have a sister.
"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley said barely above a whisper. "Owls ... shooting stars ... and there were many funny-dressed people in town today ..."
"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.
"Well, I was thinking ... possibly ... it was something to do with - her crowd."
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through tightly sealed lips. Mr. Dursley pondered telling her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he wouldn't but instead said, "Their twins - they'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't they?"
"I believe so," said Mrs. Dursley tightly.
"What's their names again? Harold and Emily?"
"Harry and Emmalina. Disgusting, neutral names, if asked."
"Oh, quite," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking terribly. "Yes, I do agree."
He didn't utter a single word on the matter as they walked upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was cleaning up in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley slowly tip-toed to the bedroom window and glanced down to the front garden. The cat was still there. Its eyes were fixed down the street as though waiting for something.
Was he seeing things? Could this all be related to the Potters? If it did ... if it was released that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could handle it.
The Dursleys climbed into bed. Mrs. Dursley quickly fell into a deep slumber but Mr. Dursley laid wide awake, turning everything over in his head. His last, relaxing thought was even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come and find him and Petunia. The Potters knew quite well what the Dursleys thought about them and their group. ... He couldn't see how he and his wife could get caught up in anything that might be going on - Mr. Dursley yawned and rolled over - it couldn't affect them. ...
How very wrong he was.
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