Oliver Night and the Philosopher Stone

The Boy who Lived Part 2

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"The Nights, that's right, that's what I heard---"

"--- yes, their son, Oliver ---"

Mr. Adams stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his chin, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Night wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Night who had a son called Oliver. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Oliver. He's never even seem the boy. It might have been Owen. Or Noah. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Adams; She always got so upset at the mention of her brother. He didn't blame her --- if he'd had a brother like that . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . . 

END OF REVIEW

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He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door. 

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Adams realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that make a passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Adams around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Adams stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination. 

As he pulled into the driveway of number twelve, the first thing he saw --- and it didn't improve his mood --- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same marking around its eyes. 

"Shoo!" said Mr. Adams loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Adams wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Adams had a nice, normal day. She told him over diner all about  Mrs. NextDoor's problems with her daughter and how Brain had learned a new word ("Won't"). Mr. Adams tried to act normally. When Brain had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in the daylight there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself to grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early --- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Adams 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 Nights ...

Mrs. Adams come 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 --- Ruby, dear ---- you haven't heard from your brother lately, have you?" 

As he had expected, Mrs. Adams looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a brother.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Adams mumbled. "Owls . . . shooting starts . . . and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . ."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Adams.

"Well, I just thought . . . maybe . . . it was something to do with . . . you know . . . his crowd." 

Mrs. Adams sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr Adams wondered whether he dared tell her he'd head the name "Night." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,

"Their son --- he'd be about Brians age now , wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Adams stiffly.

"What's his name again? Owen, isn't it?"

"Oliver. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Adams, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went to upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Adams was in the bathroom, Mr. Adams crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The car was still there. It was staring down Private Road as though it was waiting for something.

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

The Adams got into bed. Mrs. Adams fell asleep quickly but Mr. Adams lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Nights were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Adams. The Nights knew very well what he and Ruby thought about them and their kind . . . He couldn't see how he and Ruby could get mixed up in anything that might be going on --- he yawned and turned over --- it couldn't affect them. . . .

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Adams might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no signs of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes unblinkingly on the far corner of Private Road. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. 

A man appeared with a woman and a man on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought they popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and it eyes narrowed. 

Nothing like these people have ever been seen on Private Road. The woman who appeared on the side of the street was a beautiful woman with thick, dark red hair that fell to her shoulders, and almond-shaped, bright green eyes.She was carrying a small baby with black hair. She was wearing a red cloak over her green shirt and brown pants. This woman's name was Lily Potter and her son Harry Potter. The man who appeared with the woman was a  tall, thin man with hazel eyes with glasses and untidy black hair that stuck up at the back. He was wearing a black cloak over his black shirts and black pants. The mans name was James Potter. The older looking man was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were 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-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

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Done hope you guys like this. If not please tell me I will try and change it.

WORDS - 1454

DATE - 12/23/20