Verbs 1

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 in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t with such nonsense.
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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 moustache. 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 over garden fences, on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
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The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would it. They didn’t think they could 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 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 to think what the neighbours 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 with a child like that.
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When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley away happily as she a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
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None of them a large, tawny owl past the window.
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At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but , because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and 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 what he had seen — then he 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 and at the cat. It back. As Mr. Dursley 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 toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
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But on the edge of town, drills were out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t 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 this was some stupid new fashion. He his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were 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 Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously 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.
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Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and open-mouthed as owl after owl overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He 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 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 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, a large doughnut in a bag, that he a few words of what they were saying.
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“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard yes, their son, Harry”
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Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
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He back across the road, hurried up to his office, at his secretary not to him, his telephone, and had almost finished his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and his moustache, 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 Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t her — if he’d had a sister like that… but all the same, those people in cloaks…
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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.
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“Sorry,” he , as the tiny old man and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost to the ground. On the contrary, his face 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!”
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And the old man Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
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Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been 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.
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As he into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d 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.