Time slipped silently through the fingers like running water.
By late September, a hint of chill had crept into London's weather.
The plane trees along the streets were beginning to turn golden, and the wind sent fallen leaves spiraling onto the pavements.
People pulled their coats tight and hurried through the thin morning mist.
But for those following Harry Potter, these last few days of waiting felt longer than an entire year.
October 1, early morning.
David Carter was an ordinary office worker, a middle manager at an insurance company.
That morning, he climbed into his Ford as usual, ready to begin another day's dull commute.
He drove out of his residential neighborhood and turned onto the main road, but after about ten minutes, he began to sense that something was wrong.
There were more and more cars on the road, while his own car moved slower and slower.
The stretch ahead normally never saw traffic jams, yet today he could see a line of taillights from far away, like a river that had stopped flowing.
"Damn it, why's traffic so bad today?" David grumbled, slapping the steering wheel in irritation.
He switched on the radio and tuned in to the traffic station, hoping to hear something useful.
"...Reports indicate that large queues have formed in several of London's shopping districts this morning, causing a sharp increase in traffic on surrounding roads. Motorists are advised to take alternative routes..."
David frowned. Large queues? What was going on? Was some celebrity holding a concert?
He inched forward with the traffic, and after another ten minutes or so, he finally reached the shopping district.
Then he saw something he would never forget.
Long queues snaked along the pavements on both sides of the street.
People lined up outside the various bookshops, their queues stretching out of sight, some even turning corners and extending into neighboring streets.
There were even young people wrapped in blankets, sitting in folding chairs, clearly having queued since the middle of the night.
Some middle-aged people held cups of coffee and chatted with those beside them, expectant smiles on their faces.
A few young people in black cloaks were waving things that looked like twigs at one another, shouting words he could not understand.
David blinked at the long queues outside the bookshops, wondering whether he was still dreaming.
He had little interest in literature; the last time he had finished an entire book had been at university.
As a result, he never read books these days, and naturally found this scene baffling.
Still, curiosity drove him to take a few more looks.
His gaze passed over the crowd and settled on a huge poster hanging above a bookshop.
Against a deep blue background, a little boy wearing round glasses stood in the center, facing an enormous door with dazzling light spilling through its crack.
The boy had a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and his eyes held both fear and determination.
Large gold-foil letters at the top of the poster read:
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part Two
On sale at ten this morning!
David paused. Of course he had heard of this book. Lately, it seemed he heard people talking about it everywhere.
But he had never imagined that a book could cause such a stir.
He checked his watch. It was already nine fifty, ten minutes before ten.
He hesitated over whether to join the queue, then shook his head.
Forget it. He wasn't the sort to queue for a book. He pressed the accelerator and drove on.
But deep inside, a small seed of curiosity had quietly begun to sprout.
Just what magic did this book possess?
Inside a chain bookshop in central London, the owner, James, stood behind the counter with his hands trembling slightly.
As a bookshop owner, he had experienced all sorts of new releases, but none had ever made him as nervous as today's.
He glanced at the winding queue outside. There were at least three hundred people.
Wiping a trace of cold sweat from his forehead, he turned to the cashier beside him. "Mary, are you ready?"
Mary was a woman in her twenties who was usually brisk and efficient, but now her hands were trembling slightly too.
She took a deep breath and nodded. "Ready, boss."
"Where's Peter?"
"In the stockroom. He's already brought the first batch to the door," Mary said. "Five hundred copies, a whole trolley full."
James checked the time. It was already nine fifty-five.
"The queue outside is still growing." Mary glanced through the glass door. "I counted just now. There are about three hundred and fifty people."
"Not enough," James said after a moment's thought.
"What?"
"Five hundred copies aren't enough." James rubbed his hands together. "I should have put another five hundred in the shop."
"Boss, our shop's only so big. We can't fit that many..."
"I know, I know," James interrupted. "But look at those people outside. The vast majority are here to snap up Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part Two."
He took a deep breath and made a decision. "Peter! Bring another five hundred copies out of the stockroom!"
A groan came from Peter in the stockroom. "Boss, we really have nowhere to put them!"
"Then stack them in the aisle!" James shouted. "As long as they sell, you can stack them in the toilet!"
Nine fifty-nine.
"One minute left." Mary's voice was a little strained.
James returned behind the counter and straightened his shirt collar, his palms slick with sweat.
"Get ready to open," he said.
"Boss, are we really opening the doors?" Mary looked at the surging crowd outside, a little frightened. "Won't they rush in and tear our shop apart?"
"They won't," James said, although he was not entirely sure himself. "They're here to buy books, not fight."
Ten o'clock sharp.
James took a deep breath and nodded to Peter.
With the look of a man marching to his death, Peter opened the doors.
A wave of people swept in, swallowing Peter in the blink of an eye.
"Oh no, Peter!" Mary cried.
But the uproar inside the bookshop drowned her out. Footsteps, shouts, and the sounds of jostling mingled as the entire shop filled in an instant.
"One copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part Two!"
"I was here first! I should get mine first!"
"Stop pushing! Stop pushing! You're going to knock me over!"
"Here! Over here! I want two!"
The densely packed crowd held up banknotes and reached toward the counter, like a forest made of pounds.
James was startled by the scene, but quickly recovered.
"One at a time!" he shouted. "Don't push! There's enough for everyone!"
But his voice could not carry at all. The crowd kept surging forward, and three or four rows of people instantly surrounded the counter.
Mary scrambled to take payments and give change, beads of sweat already forming on her forehead.
Having climbed up from the floor, Peter busied himself restocking on the other side, moving piles of books from the trolley to the counter, but each pile was snatched up the moment he set it down.
"Boss, we can't keep this up!" Mary shouted. "There are too many people!"
James gritted his teeth, rolled up his sleeves, and joined his staff.
"I'll take the money. You hand out the books!" he told Mary.
He took banknote after banknote, swiftly gave change, and thrust books into customers' hands.
He worked faster and faster, yet the queue did not seem to grow any shorter.
"I want three!"
"Two! Give me two!"
"Me too! Don't forget me!"
The clamor never ceased. The whole bookshop was like a boiling furnace.
James had never been so tired, but he had never been so excited either.
He glanced outside. The queue was still long, and it kept growing.
Suffering and delighted in equal measure, he pushed his sleeves higher and bent back to selling books.
Scenes like this played out all across Great Britain.
At Simon Bookstore in Manchester, the owner, Simon, stood at the entrance, personally maintaining order.
He had hired four temporary workers, but was still run off his feet.
He had to bring out all the stock in his stockroom, and even put his own treasured sample copy up for sale.
"Boss, didn't you say you wanted to keep this one for your collection?" an employee asked.
"Collection, my arse!" Simon waved a hand. "Sell it first! There'll be plenty of chances to collect it later!"
At a chain bookshop in Liverpool, regional manager William pitched in himself, carrying books alongside the staff.
Even though a button had been torn off his suit jacket at some point, he paid it no mind.
"Another five hundred!" he shouted into his walkie-talkie. "How many are left in the stockroom?"
"Eight hundred!"
"Bring them all out!"
At an independent bookshop in Edinburgh, the owner, Duncan, stared at the empty shelves, his expression a mixture of excitement and despair.
"Sold out?" he asked an employee.
"Sold out, boss." The employee panted. "A thousand copies, two hours, all gone."
"But there are still at least two hundred people queuing outside."
Duncan felt as though he could see piles of banknotes slipping away before his eyes. He hurriedly picked up the telephone and dialed the publisher.
"Hello? This is Duncan in Edinburgh! I want to increase my order!"
"Mr. Duncan, the reprinted copies won't arrive until tomorrow..."
"Tomorrow?!" Duncan was practically roaring. "You want those two hundred people outside my door to wait until tomorrow?!"
"I'm very sorry, but production is already running at full capacity..."
Duncan hung up and looked at the expectant eyes outside, his feelings a tangled mix.
He walked to the door and called to the crowd, "Everyone, I'm very sorry, but today's books have sold out. New stock will arrive tomorrow morning. Please come back tomorrow!"
A wave of disappointed sighs rose from the crowd.
"What time tomorrow?"
"Eight in the morning!"
"Then I'll come queue at six tomorrow!"
Duncan shook his head with a rueful smile and turned back into the shop.
Looking at the empty shelves, he had only one thought-
If only I'd ordered more!
In a quiet terraced house in north London, a middle-aged man sat on the living room sofa.
His name was Philip Pullman, and he was one of Great Britain's most famous fantasy writers.
His signature work, His Dark Materials, had won countless accolades worldwide, and he was consequently regarded as one of the leading figures in contemporary fantasy literature.
At that moment, he held a brand-new book in his hands.
On the cover, a little boy wearing round glasses stood before a glowing doorway, the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead particularly striking amid the light and shadows.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part Two.
It had been a long time since Philip had felt such anticipation for a new book.
Three weeks earlier, when he first read Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part One, the book had captivated him.
The clean, crisp language, the imaginative worldbuilding, the vivid characterization... everything had amazed him.
Yet he had remained cautious about the book.
Wonderful as the first half was, the first half alone was not enough to fully judge a work's merits.
Many novels began brilliantly, only to fizzle out in the second half and ultimately become mediocre works.
He needed to finish the second half before making his final judgment.
Today, that moment had finally arrived.
He took a deep breath and slowly opened the book:
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Part Two
Chapter 9: The midnight duel
[Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley, until he met Draco Malfoy...]
The corners of Philip's mouth lifted slightly.
This opening was interesting. Its seemingly contradictory approach immediately caught the reader's attention.
Moreover, the sentence cleverly echoed the conflict between Harry and Malfoy in the first half.
He read on.
Harry was selected for the Quidditch team, Malfoy stood him up for their midnight duel, the trio fought a troll together after a minor disagreement, and there was a magical mirror that showed one's deepest desires...
The rich variety of Hogwarts gradually revealed its powerful appeal, drawing the reader helplessly into its world.
Finally, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set out to overcome a series of obstacles to protect the Philosopher's Stone: an enormous three-headed dog, deadly Devil's Snare, flying keys, a giant chessboard...
Every obstacle was ingeniously designed and fraught with danger, and every breakthrough made the reader hold his breath.
Philip turned the pages more and more slowly, his gaze growing increasingly intent.
Until he saw the true nature of the seemingly harmless Professor Quirrell, and the terrifying face hidden behind his turban.
This was... Philip's pupils suddenly contracted. Almost instantly, he guessed who it was.
Voldemort! You-Know-Who, whose very mention made the wizarding world pale with fear!
Yet Harry had shown no fear. Instead, he had bravely fought back, holding out until Dumbledore arrived.
Philip unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief. He had not even realized how completely immersed he had become.
In the end, Gryffindor won the House Cup at the End-of-Year Feast, and Harry finally finished his first year of magical life and returned to the Muggle world.
The last rays of the setting sun shone through the window, bathing the entire living room in a warm orange glow.
Philip finally finished the last sentence. He leaned back against the sofa, a look of wistful loss on his face.
It was a strange feeling. The story had clearly reached a happy ending, yet he felt a little empty.
It was as though he had just finished a long journey and had to say goodbye to the good friends he had only just met.
He looked down at the book in his hands, unable to bring himself to close it just yet.
If the first half alone was merely "excellent," then with the second half included, this work was nothing short of a "god-tier masterpiece" of fantasy fiction.
The first half built an astonishing world, while the second told a complete and moving story within it.
Every seed of foreshadowing planted in the first half paid off perfectly in the second.
Those seemingly insignificant details all became crucial clues in the end.
Such narrative skill, such control over structure, such a precise grasp of the reader's mind-
Philip had to admit that this author named Allen Vane possessed an extraordinarily distinctive and outstanding talent.
As a writer who had spent decades working in fantasy literature, he rarely felt admiration for his peers.
But at this moment, he had to admit that this book had indeed accomplished many things he could not.
He was about to get up and pour himself a cup of tea when the telephone suddenly rang.
He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Philip Pullman?" A young woman's voice came from the other end of the line. "I'm a reporter with the weekly Literary Review. My name is Catherine."
"Yes, speaking."
"Mr. Pullman, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you. I imagine you've heard of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. May I ask whether you would be interested in giving an interview about the book?"
Philip paused, and the scenes of Hogwarts seemed to appear before his eyes once more:
That ancient castle, the shimmering Black Lake, and that boy with round glasses and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead...
He collected himself, a rare note of respect in his voice:
"It would be my great honor."