THE BOY WHO LIVED
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. Durs-
ley 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 whis-
pering 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 some-
thing . . . 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-
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