WutYee/HarryPotter_books_1to7 · Datasets at Hugging Face

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wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter
who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew
was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or
Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at
any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that…
but all the same, those people in cloaks.…
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. Dursley 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 made
passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today!
Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself
should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley 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 four, 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 markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat
behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself
into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all
about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley
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 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 a 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. Dursley 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 Potters.…
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 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.
The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr.
Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought
before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no
reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well
what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind....He couldn’t see how he
and Petunia 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. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on
the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a
statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. 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 on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so
suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground.
The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He 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

wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter

who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew

was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or

Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at

any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that…

but all the same, those people in cloaks.…

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. Dursley 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 made

passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today!

Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself

should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”

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

Mr. Dursley 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 four, 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 markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat

behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself

into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all

about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had

learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley

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 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 a 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. Dursley 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 Potters.…

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 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.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr.

Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought

before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no

reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well

what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind....He couldn’t see how he

and Petunia 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. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on

the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a

statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. 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 on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so

suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground.

The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He 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