HP Approaches the Magical World

In fact, Harry hadn't packed his bags at all.

Being rescued after just two weeks at the Dursleys was too good to be true.

So he couldn't shake his doubts that something might have gone wrong—his reply to Dumbledore had gone elsewhere, Dumbledore had been delayed from coming to fetch him, or the letter Not from Dumbledore at all, but a joke, a prank or a trap.

Harry would not be able to bear the joy of packing his luggage, only to be disappointed and have to take things out of the boxes one by one.

The only thing he does for the possible travel is to keep his snow-white owl, Hedwig, in a cage.

The minute hand of the alarm clock pointed to twelve, and almost at the same time, the street lights outside the window suddenly went out.

The sudden darkness woke Harry up like an alarm.

He quickly straightened his glasses, moved his cheek from the glass, and pressed his nose to the window, squinting at the sidewalk below.

A tall figure in a long cloak was walking down the garden path.

Harry jumped up as if electrocuted, flipping his chair over.

He began to randomly grab everything within reach on the floor and throw it into the box.

He had just thrown a suit of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of shortbread across the room when the doorbell rang.

From the living room downstairs came Uncle Vernon's voice: "Damn it, who's calling the door so late?"

Harry froze, brass binoculars in one hand and sneakers in the other.

He completely forgot to tell the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming, and now he felt nervous and amused, and hurried over the box and unscrewed the bedroom door just in time to hear a muffled voice say, "Good evening, I suppose. You are Mr. Dursley.

I'm sure Harry must have told you I was coming for him, didn't he? "

Harry rushed down the stairs two steps at a time, and stopped suddenly when he was a few steps away from the bottom. Long-term experience told him that he should try to keep a distance from his uncle at all times, and don't let his uncle's arm reach him. .

Standing at the door was a tall, thin man with silver-white hair and beard hanging down to his waist.

He wore half-moon spectacles on his hooked nose, and wore a black traveling cloak and peaked hat.

Vernon Dursley, with a beard almost as bushy as Dumbledore's, but black, was staring blankly at the visitor in a purple-brown dressing gown, as if he couldn't believe his little eyes. Everything the eye sees.

"From the look of surprise and disbelief on your face, Harry didn't tell you I was coming."

Dumbledore said genially, "Let us assume, however, that you have warmly invited me into your house.

In these turbulent times, it is not wise to linger too long at the door. "

He stepped nimbly across the threshold and closed the door behind him.

"It's been a long time since I was last here."

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Dumbledore looked at Uncle Vernon from his hooked nose, "I must admit that your agapanthus blooms very well."

Mr. Dursley didn't say a word, but Harry was sure he'd be able to catch up soon enough—the veins in his temples were throbbing like they were bursting, after all.

But there was something about Dumbledore that seemed to take his breath away for a moment, maybe it was Dumbledore's striking wizarding air, maybe it was just that even Uncle Vernon could sense it, he was having a hard time Show off your might in front of this man.

"Ah, good evening, Harry,"

Dumbledore looked at Harry from behind the lenses of his half-moon glasses, with a very satisfied expression on his face, "Great, great."

Those words seemed to wake up Uncle Vernon, and it was clear to him that he would never be able to agree with anyone who could look at Harry and say "Great."

"I didn't mean to be rude—"

He said,

Every syllable in the words was rude.

"—However, we still often encounter accidental faux pas."

Dumbledore took over from him,

"Better not say anything, dear fellow, ah, this must be Petunia."

The kitchen door opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a dressing gown over a dressing gown, apparently in the process of wiping down the entire surface of the kitchen as usual before going to bed.

Now, her long horse face is full of horror.

"Albus Dumbledore."

Seeing that Vernon hadn't introduced him, Dumbledore said, "Of course, we're by letter."

Harry thought it was kind of funny to remind Petunia that Dumbledore had sent her a Howler letter in that way, but Aunt Petunia didn't dispute the idea.

"This must be your son Dudley?"

Dudley poked his head out from the living room door now, his big head of yellow hair sticking out of the collar of his striped pajamas, as if it didn't grow on his body.

His mouth was opened wide in surprise and fear.

Dumbledore waited a moment, as if to hear what the Dursleys had to say, and smiled at their continued silence.

"May we assume that you have invited me into your living room?"

Dudley stepped aside hastily as Dumbledore passed.

Harry jumped down the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore into the drawing room, still clutching his binoculars and sneakers.

Dumbledore sat down in the armchair closest to the fireplace and surveyed the room with good-natured interest, though he looked utterly out of place with his surroundings.

"Shall we go, sir?" Harry asked anxiously.

"Go, of course I have to go, but there are a few things that need to be discussed first."

Dumbledore said, "I think we'd better not talk about these things outside, so we'll have to bother your aunt and uncle a little longer."

"What, you?"

Uncle Vernon came into the living room too, Petunia standing beside him, and Dudley hiding behind them both timidly.

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"Yes," said Dumbledore curtly, "it is."

He drew his wand suddenly, so quickly that Harry didn't see it.

With a flick of the wand, the sofa whizzed past, hitting the laps of the three Dursleys.

They couldn't stand still for a while, and they all fell on the sofa and rolled into a ball.

With another flick of the wand, the sofa swished back to its original place.

"We can be more comfortable, too," said Dumbledore cheerfully.

He put the wand back in his pocket when Harry saw that his hand was dry and charred, as if the flesh had been burned dry.

"Sir—what's the matter?"