Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free 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 forgotten 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 nephew was

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 -- if he'd had a sister like