Гарри Поттер. Том 2

Right . . . get inside and stay there,” she said as they reached number four. “I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.”

“So,” Harry panted, “Dumbledore’s . . . been having . . . me followed?”

Well, it’s no good crying over spilled potion, I suppose . . .

“I’ll take you to the door,” said Mrs. Figg,

“Oh my dear, I wish it were so but I’m afraid —

but Dudley seemed to have lost all desire for independent movement. <…>, his large feet dragging along the ground.

The revelation that his batty old cat-obsessed neighbor knew what dementors were was almost as big a shock to Harry as meeting two of them down the alleyway. “You’re — you’re a witch?”

But we haven’t got time to stand around!

The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging;

Harry had been waiting for this signal, he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were unsheathing a sword.