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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
CHAPTER ONE
THE BOY WHO LIVED
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud
to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They
were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange
or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which
made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although
he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde
and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very
useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences,
spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley
and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a
secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover
it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about
the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't
met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't
have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband
were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered
to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too,
but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason
for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with
a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday
our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to
suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening
all over 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 noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked
Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but
missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his
cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left
the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first
sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second,
Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his
head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the
corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What
could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of
the light. 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 mirror. It was now reading the sign that
said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read
maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the
cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing
except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind
by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he
couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely
dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear
people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young
people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his
fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these
weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them
weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was,
and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these
people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would
be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley
arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office
on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to
concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing
past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they
pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most
of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley,
however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at
five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime,
when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to
buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed
a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he
passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were
whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting
tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut
in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their
son, Harry"
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back
at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but
thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office,
snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone,
and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed
his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,
thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual
name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a
son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew
was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been
Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley;
she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't
blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same,
those people in cloaks...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon
and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so
worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost
fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man
was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being
almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into
a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby
stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me
today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles
like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and
walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by
a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle,
whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set
off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never
hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing
he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd
spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was
sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just
gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley
wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the
house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over
dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and
how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried
to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the
living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the
nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although
owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight,
there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every
direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls
have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed
himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin
with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but
it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers
as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to
tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had
a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating
Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can
promise a wet night tonight."
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