1 THE BOY WHO LIVED

that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the lastpeople you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which madedrills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he didhave a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and hadnearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as shespent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on theneighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in theiropinion there was no finer boy anywhere.The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, andtheir greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn'tthink they could bear 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 pretended she didn't have a sister, because hersister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it waspossible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors wouldsay if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that thePotters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boywas another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't wantDudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our storystarts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest thatstrange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over thecountry. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie forwork, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed,because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at thewalls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He gotinto his car and backed out of number four's drive.It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign ofsomething peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursleydidn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around tolook again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of PrivetDrive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinkingof? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked andstared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around thecorner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was nowreading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; catscouldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake andput the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought ofnothing 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 somethingelse. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't helpnoticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed peopleabout. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed infunny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed thiswas some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steeringwheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quiteclose by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley wasenraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that manhad to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! Thenerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably somesilly 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 theninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrateon drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing past in broaddaylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazedopen- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had neverseen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectlynormal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He madeseveral important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in avery good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legsand 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 ofthem next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn'tknow why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whisperingexcitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was onhis way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that hecaught 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 thewhisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought betterof it.He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at hissecretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almostfinished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put thereceiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he wasbeing stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there werelots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to thinkof it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never evenseen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no pointin worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of hersister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but allthe same, those people in cloaks...He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon andwhen he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried thathe walked straight into someone just outside the door."Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. Itwas a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing aviolet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to theground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said ina 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 atlast! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy,happy day!"And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a completestranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever thatwas. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hopinghe was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because hedidn't approve of imagination.As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw --and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted thatmorning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was thesame one; it had the same markings around its eyes."Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him astern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Tryingto pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was stilldetermined not to mention anything to his wife.Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner allabout Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley hadlearned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. WhenDudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time tocatch the last report on the evening news:"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation'sowls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normallyhunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have beenhundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction sincesunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenlychanged their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin."Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Goingto be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?""Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's notonly the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart asKent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that insteadof the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shootingstars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it'snot until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain?Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place?And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It wasno good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throatnervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sisterlately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all,they normally pretended she didn't have a sister."No," she said sharply. "Why?""Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shootingstars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today...""So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley."Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... youknow... her crowd."Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wonderedwhether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided hedidn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son --he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?""I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly."What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?""Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.""Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quiteagree."He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroomwindow and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there.It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting forsomething.Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with thePotters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of-- well, he didn't think he could bear it.The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr.Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comfortingthought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters wereinvolved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs.Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind.... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could getmixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over-- it couldn't affect them....How very wrong he was.Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the caton the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting asstill as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner ofPrivet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on thenext street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearlymidnight before the cat moved at all.A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared sosuddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of theground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall,thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, whichwere both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes,a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots.His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moonspectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had beenbroken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in astreet where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He wasbusy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem torealize 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. Forsome reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled andmuttered, "I should have known."He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be asilver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, andclicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. Heclicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve timeshe clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole streetwere two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the catwatching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyedMrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happeningdown on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside hiscloak 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 hespoke to it."Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smilingat a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactlythe shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, waswearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tightbun. 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.""You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," saidProfessor McGonagall."All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed adozen feasts and parties on my way here."Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily."Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently."You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggleshave noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked herhead back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocksof owls... shooting stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid. Theywere bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll betthat was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.""You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had preciouslittle to celebrate for eleven years.""I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's noreason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out onthe streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes,swapping rumors."She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hopinghe was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "Afine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to havedisappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?""It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankfulfor. Would you care for a lemon drop?""A what?""A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of""No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn'tthink this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even ifYou-Know-Who has gone -""My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call himby his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years Ihave been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name:Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who wasunsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets soconfusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reasonto be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding halfexasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you'rethe only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.""You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I willnever have.""Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them.""It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfreytold me she liked my new earmuffs."Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owlsare nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know whateveryone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finallystopped him?"It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was mostanxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hardwall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixedDumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain thatwhatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosinganother lemon drop and did not answer."What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemortturned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor isthat Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped."Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it...Oh, Albus..."Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... Iknow..." he said heavily.Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all.They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But -- hecouldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how,but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort'spower somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.Dumbledore nodded glumly."It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he'sdone... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy?It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in thename of heaven did Harry survive?""We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at hereyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took agolden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch.It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were movingaround the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, becausehe put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it washe who told you I'd be here, by the way?""Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going totell me why you're here, of all places?""I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live here?" criedProfessor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four."Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn'tfind two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I sawhim kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets.Harry Potter come and live here!""It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt anduncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I'vewritten them a letter.""A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down onthe wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in aletter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- alegend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter dayin the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every childin our world will know his name!""Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of hishalf-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famousbefore he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't evenremember! CarA you see how much better off he'll be, growing up awayfrom all that until he's ready to take it?"Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, andthen said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boygetting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though shethought he might be hiding Harry underneath it."Hagrid's bringing him.""You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important asthis?"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore."I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said ProfessorMcGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He doestend to -- what was that?"A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grewsteadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front ofthem.If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astrideit. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five timesas wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - longtangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had handsthe size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots werelike baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundleof blankets."Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where didyou get that motorcycle?""Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant, climbingcarefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it tome. I've got him, sir.""No problems, were there?""No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all rightbefore the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we wasflyin' over Bristol."Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle ofblankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under atuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiouslyshaped cut, like a bolt of lightning."Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall."Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever.""Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?""Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myselfabove my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well-- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house."Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a veryscratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like awounded dog."Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!""S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief andburying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead-- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -""Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, orwe'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerlyon the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked tothe front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter outof his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back tothe other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked atthe little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagallblinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone fromDumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out."Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business stayinghere. We may as well go and join the celebrations.""Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius hisbike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himselfonto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it roseinto the air and off into the night."I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore,nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner hestopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, andtwelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that PrivetDrive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinkingaround the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see thebundle of blankets on the step of number four."Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swishof his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent andtidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expectastonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside hisblankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter besidehim and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he wasfamous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs.Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milkbottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded andpinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this verymoment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding uptheir glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boywho lived!"