THE BOY WHO LIVED
Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived
in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwel-
come. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for some-
thing. 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 dark-
ness. 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.”
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was
smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square
glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its
eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair
was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
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