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.