KAWALECZEK Z 1 CZESCI SYNECZKU :
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 mapsor 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 swooping 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, owlfree
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 for gotten 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 nephewwas 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 — ifhe’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.”
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by
daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about
the Potters.…
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good.
He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear
— you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally
pretended she didn’t have a sister.
“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”
“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls…shooting stars…and there
were a lot of funny-looking people in town today.…”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.
“Well, I just thought…maybe…it was something to do with…you know…hercrowd.”
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he
dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as
casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”
“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs.
Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered
down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as
though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it
did...if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t think he could bear
it.
The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay
awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep
was that even if the Potterswere involved, there was no reason for them to come near him
and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them
and their kind....He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that
might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affectthem .…
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall
outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed
unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car
door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was
nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and
silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched
and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very
old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into
his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and highheeled,
buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon
spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least
twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where
everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his
cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because
he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the
street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and
muttered, “I should have known.”
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver
cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street
lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into
darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole
street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching
him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they
wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore
slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number
four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a
moment he spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”