December had brought London into the coldest months of the year.
A thin mist had begun to fill the air, shrouding the old city in mystery.
Dudley tugged at his hood, his breath billowing white in front of him. Ever since drinking that bottle of Holy Medicine, he had found that his body temperature was far higher than an ordinary person's-an astonishing forty-two degrees Celsius. Even his breath showed more clearly in the cold than other people's.
He glanced back at the quiet little house at Number Four, Privet Drive, then strode into the darkness.
The streets were deserted, so quiet that everyone seemed to have fallen into sweet dreams. Only the crisp tap-tap-tap of his boots striking the ground broke the silence.
Occasionally, a car sped past with a late-night radio program playing inside. Suggestive sounds slipped through the gaps in its windows. Just a few disjointed words were enough to make Dudley frown.
The fog grew thicker. Dudley glanced up at the moon. He could not make it out clearly, but it was already high overhead.
A few drunks staggered into view. Through bleary eyes, they spotted Dudley in his unusual clothes and broke into strange grins, heading toward him with their arms slung over one another's shoulders.
Dudley's brows, which had only just relaxed, knitted again. It was hard to imagine that Britain, so full of well-dressed gentlemen by day, was actually one of the world's most prolific producers of drunks.
There was certainly no shortage of people who got plastered at night. In the past, Vernon had never let Dudley go out this late.
Dudley paused, intending to skirt around these people who had already lost their senses, but they persistently closed in on him.
Tsk. Looks like I'll be a little late.
Dudley quietly clenched