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Harry Potter And the Sorcerer’s Stone-(7)
 
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Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of 
tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared 
his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from 
your sister lately, 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 . . . 
shooting stars . . . 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 . . . you know . . . her crowd.” 
 
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley 
wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” 
 
He decided he didn’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 
quite agree.” 
 
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 bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. 
 
The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as 
though it were waiting for something. 
 
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do |   
 
 
                    
                     
 
 
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