WutYee/HarryPotter_books_1to7 · Datasets at Hugging Face

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the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a
swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy
under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to
happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One
small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was
special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few
hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the
milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and
pinched by his cousin Dudley....He couldn’t know that at this very moment,
people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and
saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!”


HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone
CHAPTER TWO

THE VANISHING GLASS

N early ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their
nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun
rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the
Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly
the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news
report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed
how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of
what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets —
but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a
large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a
computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The
room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.
Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long.
His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise
of the day.
“Up! Get up! Now!”
Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.
“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and
then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back
and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one.
There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the
same dream before.
His aunt was back outside the door.
“Are you up yet?” she demanded.
“Nearly,” said Harry.
“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you
dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”
Harry groaned.
“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the door.
“Nothing, nothing…”
Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out
of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after
pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because
the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.
When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table
was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though
Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second
television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a
mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise — unless of course
it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry, but
he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very fast.
Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry
had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and
skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of
Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin
face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses
held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had
punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance
was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He
had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever
remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.
“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask
questions.”
Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a quiet life with the
Dursleys.
Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.
“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting.
About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper
and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than
the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair
simply grew that way — all over the place.
Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his
mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not
much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on
his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel
— Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.
Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as
there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His
face fell.
“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two
less than last year.”
“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here
under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”
“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry,
who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon
as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.
Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly,
“And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that,
popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right”

the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a

swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy

under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to

happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One

small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was

special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few

hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the

milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and

pinched by his cousin Dudley....He couldn’t know that at this very moment,

people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and

saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!”

HP 1 - Harry Potter and the

Sorcerer's Stone

CHAPTER TWO

THE VANISHING GLASS

N early ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their

nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun

rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the

Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living room, which was almost exactly

the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news

report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really showed

how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of

what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets —

but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a

large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a

computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The

room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long.

His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise

of the day.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and

then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back

and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one.

There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the

same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

“Are you up yet?” she demanded.

“Nearly,” said Harry.

“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you

dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”

Harry groaned.

“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the door.

“Nothing, nothing…”

Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out

of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after

pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders, because

the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table

was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though

Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second

television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a

mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise — unless of course

it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was Harry, but

he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry

had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and

skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of

Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a thin

face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses

held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had

punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance

was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He

had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever

remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask

questions.”

Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a quiet life with the

Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper

and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than

the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair

simply grew that way — all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his

mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not

much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on

his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel

— Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as

there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His

face fell.

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two

less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here

under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry,

who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon

as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly,

“And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that,

popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right”