An anonymous reader writes: It is generally agreed by the inhabitants of Little Whinging that the Dursleys were, at the time of the events described here, a normal family. The assertion is repeated in municipal records, in the diaries of three neighbours, and, with suspicious unanimity, in the testimony of Vernon Dursley himself. I have been unable to establish whether these documents describe the family or merely the idea that the family had formed of itself.
Vernon Dursley was a large man. His moustache, whose exact dimensions have been variously recorded, was said by one neighbour to resemble a walrus and by another to resemble a small and badly educated animal. These descriptions are probably inaccurate. What matters is that the moustache existed and that Vernon was proud of it.
He worked for a firm that manufactured drills.
The reader may reasonably ask why a history concerned with magic should begin with drills. I can only answer that the universe has never demonstrated any preference for beginning with the significant.
Vernon's wife, Petunia, was thin, blonde and possessed of an extraordinary ability to recognise anything that might disturb the hierarchy of the ordinary. Their son Dudley was large, blond and, according to the family's own account, remarkable. The nature of this remark need not concern us.
There was also Harry.
The Dursleys maintained that Harry was not a Dursley. This was technically true, although it had the disadvantage of making the Dursleys responsible for him.
Harry's parents had died.
This fact, which occupies only a few words in most accounts of the matter, has produced an immense literature. Some historians maintain that their deaths were the essential event; others that they were merely the consequence of an older conflict; a third school, now largely discredited, maintains that the deaths were invented after the fact to provide Harry with a suitable childhood.
All three schools are wrong.
The truth, which I shall not reveal here, is considerably stranger.
For many years the Dursleys succeeded in preserving the belief that the world consisted of the things they had already seen. This is a common error. There are men who believe that because they have never encountered a unicorn, unicorns do not exist. There are others who, having encountered one, immediately cease to believe in it. The Dursleys belonged to the first category and would have considered the second insane.
One morning, however, owls began appearing.
This detail has been exaggerated by subsequent historians. There were not thousands of owls. There were merely enough to make the ordinary explanation inconvenient.
At the time, Vernon Dursley was on his way to work.
He noticed a man wearing a violet cloak.
He did not notice the cloak.
He noticed a cat.
He noticed the cat because cats belong to the category of things that can be noticed without endangering one's conception of reality.
The cat was sitting on a wall and reading the street.
I use the verb *reading* deliberately. The cat was not looking at the street. It was reading it in the manner of a scholar confronted with a text whose final page has been removed.
The cat was called Minerva McGonagall.
This name presents a minor difficulty. There are several Minerva McGonagalls in the archives, and one of them was almost certainly a woman. Another was a cat. A third may have existed only in a manuscript subsequently destroyed. The question has never been satisfactorily resolved.
At four minutes past eight, the cat ceased to be a cat.
It became a woman.
Or, more precisely, it revealed that it had been a woman.
The distinction is not pedantic. In magic, as in metaphysics, identity is often a matter of chronology.
Professor McGonagall had been waiting for a man named Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore had been waiting for the fall of a child.
The child had been waiting for neither.
His name was Harry Potter.
He was sleeping in a cupboard.
Years later, Harry would learn that this was considered an unusual place for a child to begin a history of magic. He would also learn that histories are written by the survivors, that prophecies are usually misquoted, and that the distinction between a cupboard and a tomb is sometimes merely a matter of duration.
But on that particular night he knew none of these things.
He was eleven years old.
The universe had already taken an interest in him.
The universe, characteristically, had neglected to inform him.