Samee-ur/hp_example_data_new · Datasets at Hugging Face

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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 and crooked, as though it had been
broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a
street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was
busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to
realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat,
which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For

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 and crooked, as though it had been

broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a

street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was

busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to

realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat,

which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For