WutYee/HarryPotter_books_1to7 · Datasets at Hugging Face

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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 some reason, the sight of the
cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a
silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The
nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next
lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the
only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which
were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window
now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that
was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back
inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat
down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he
spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at
a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the
shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a
cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked
distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said
Professor McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a
dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, I’ve celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think
they’d be a bit more careful, but no —even the Muggles have noticed
something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the
Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls…shooting
stars…Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice
something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He
never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious
little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason
to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in
broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though
hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine
thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared
at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone,
Dumbledore?”
“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful
for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”
“A what?”
“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”
“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t
think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who
has gone —”
“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by
his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been
trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor
McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops,
seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-
Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s
name.”
“I know you haven’t, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half
exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the
only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”
“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will
never have.”
“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them.”
“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey
told me she liked my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said “The
owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what
they’re saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most
anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all
day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a
piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying,
she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true.
Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort
turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily
and James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.”
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
“Lily and James…I can’t believe it…I didn’t want to believe it…Oh,
Albus…”
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know…I
know…” he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all.
They’re saying he tried to kill the Potter’s son, Harry. But he couldn’t. He
couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that
when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and
that’s why he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done…
all the people he’s killed…he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding…of
all the things to stop him…but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess.” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her
eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden

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 some reason, the sight of the

cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a

silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The

nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next

lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the

only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which

were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window

now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that

was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back

inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat

down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he

spoke to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at

a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the

shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a

cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked

distinctly ruffled.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said

Professor McGonagall.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a

dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

“Oh yes, I’ve celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think

they’d be a bit more careful, but no —even the Muggles have noticed

something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the

Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls…shooting

stars…Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice

something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He

never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious

little to celebrate for eleven years.”

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason

to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in

broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though

hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine

thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared

at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone,

Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful

for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t

think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who

has gone —”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by

his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have been

trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor

McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops,

seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-

Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s

name.”

“I know you haven’t, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half

exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the

only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will

never have.”

“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them.”

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey

told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said “The

owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what

they’re saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most

anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all

day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a

piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying,

she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true.

Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort

turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily

and James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.”

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Lily and James…I can’t believe it…I didn’t want to believe it…Oh,

Albus…”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know…I

know…” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all.

They’re saying he tried to kill the Potter’s son, Harry. But he couldn’t. He

couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that

when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and

that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done…

all the people he’s killed…he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding…of

all the things to stop him…but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?”

“We can only guess.” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her

eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden