Harry Potter And the Sorcerer’s Stone-（7） something, she, expected, carrying, into

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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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