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‘So?’ snapped Mrs Dursley.

‘Well, I just thought … maybe … it was something to do with … you know … her lot.’

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 was waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did … if it got out that they were related to a pair of – well, he didn’t think he could bear it.