The team rose, shouldered their brooms and marched in single file out of the changing room and
into the dazzling sunlight. A roar of sound greeted them in which Harry could still hear singing,
though it was muffled by the cheers and whistles.
The Slytherin team was standing waiting for them. They, too, were wearing those silver crownshaped badges. The new Captain, Montague, was built along the same lines as Dudley Dursley, with massive forearms like hairy hams. Behind him lurked Crabbe and Goyle, almost as large, blinking stupidly in the sunlight, swinging their new Beaters’ bats. Malfoy stood to one side, the sunlight gleaming on his white-blond head. He caught Harry’s eye and smirked, tapping the crown-shaped badge on his chest.
“Captains, shake hands,” ordered the referee Madam Hooch, as Angelina and Montague reached
each other. Harry could tell that Montague was trying to crush Angelina’s fingers, though she did
not wince. “Mount your brooms…”
Madam Hooch placed her whistle in her mouth and blew.
The balls were released and the fourteen players shot upwards. Out of the corner of his eye Harry
saw Ron streak off towards the goal hoops. Harry zoomed higher, dodging a Bludger, and set off
on a wide lap of the pitch, gazing around for a glint of gold; on the other side of the stadium,
Draco Malfoy was doing exactly the same.
“And it’s Johnson - Johnson with the Quaffle, what a player that girl is, I’ve been saying it for
years but she still won’t go out with me -”
“JORDAN!” yelled Professor McGonagall.
Showing posts with label Harry Potter 5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Harry Potter 5. Show all posts
August 21, 2010
Harry Potter 5(1) Full Novel
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
By J.K. Rowling
CHAPTER ONE
Dudley Demented
The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives
and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had
been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the
inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown
wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a
teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.
He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of
someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt
baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter’s
appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought
scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea
bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted
was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and
looked straight down into the flowerbed below.
On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not,
perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring
at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions
at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch
television with his aunt and uncle.
Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s
uncle, suddenly spoke.
“Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. “Not in the house.”
Uncle Vernon grunted.
“Watching the news…” he said scathingly. “I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a
normal boy cares what’s on the news - Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on; doubt he knows
who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news–”
“Vernon, shh!” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s open!”
“Oh - yes - sorry, dear.”
The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ‘n’ Bran breakfast cereal while he
watched Mrs. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past.
She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the
bush, as Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the
street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated
out of the window again.
“Dudders out for tea?”
“At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular.”
Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. 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; he had spent most of the holidays
wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.
The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and
his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight - after a month of waiting - would be the night.
“Record numbers of stranded holiday makers fill air ports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week –”
By J.K. Rowling
CHAPTER ONE
Dudley Demented
The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives
and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had
been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the
inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown
wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a
teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.
He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of
someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt
baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter’s
appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought
scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea
bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted
was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and
looked straight down into the flowerbed below.
On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not,
perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring
at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions
at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch
television with his aunt and uncle.
Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s
uncle, suddenly spoke.
“Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. “Not in the house.”
Uncle Vernon grunted.
“Watching the news…” he said scathingly. “I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a
normal boy cares what’s on the news - Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on; doubt he knows
who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news–”
“Vernon, shh!” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s open!”
“Oh - yes - sorry, dear.”
The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ‘n’ Bran breakfast cereal while he
watched Mrs. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past.
She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the
bush, as Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the
street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated
out of the window again.
“Dudders out for tea?”
“At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular.”
Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. 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; he had spent most of the holidays
wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.
The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and
his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight - after a month of waiting - would be the night.
“Record numbers of stranded holiday makers fill air ports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week –”
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