Time passed by, slipping silently.
By late September, London had already taken on a slight chill.
The plane trees along the streets were beginning to turn golden, and fallen leaves were lifted by the wind, spinning as they drifted down onto the pavements.
People wrapped their coats tighter around themselves 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.
1 October, morning.
David Carter was an ordinary office worker, a middle manager at an insurance company.
That morning, as usual, he got into his Ford and prepared to begin another dull commute.
The car left his residential area and turned onto the main road.
But after driving for about ten minutes, he began to sense that something was wrong.
There were more and more cars on the road, and his speed became slower and slower.
Ahead was a stretch that was never usually congested, yet today, from a distance, he could already see a long line of tail-lights, like a frozen river.
“Damn it, why is it so jammed today?” David slapped the steering wheel and muttered unhappily.
He turned on the radio and switched to the traffic channel, hoping to hear something useful.
“…According to reports, large-scale queues have appeared in several commercial districts across London this morning, causing a sudden increase in traffic pressure on nearby roads.
Citizens are advised to take alternative routes…”
David frowned.
Large-scale queues?
What’s going on?
Had some celebrity come to hold a concert?
He followed the flow of traffic, inching forward bit by bit.
After more than ten minutes, he finally reached the shopping district.
Then he saw a scene he would remember for the rest of his life.
On the pavements on both sides of the street, long queues wound like snakes.
People were lining up outside every bookshop.
The queues were so long he couldn’t see the end of them.
Some even turned around street corners and extended into neighbouring roads.
There were young people wrapped in blankets, sitting on folding chairs, clearly having started queuing in the middle of the night.
Some middle-aged people held coffee cups and chatted with those beside them, expectant smiles on their faces.
There were even several young people in black cloaks, holding things that looked like twigs, waving them at each other while shouting words he couldn’t understand.
David blinked as he stared at the long lines outside the major bookshops, almost thinking he was still dreaming.
He had little interest in literature.
The last time he had read a book from beginning to end was back at university.
Because of that, he never usually read books, and naturally found this sight baffling.
Still, curiosity made him take a few more looks.
His gaze passed over the crowd and landed on the enormous poster hanging above the bookshop.
It had a deep blue background.
At the centre stood a little boy wearing round glasses, standing before a huge door.
Dazzling light spilled through the crack.
There was a lightning-shaped scar on the boy’s forehead, and in his eyes were both fear and determination.
At the top of the poster, large gilded letters read:
[Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part Two]
[Officially on sale at 10 a.m.!]
David froze for a moment.
Of course he had heard of this book.
Recently, it seemed as though people were talking about it everywhere.
But he had never imagined that a book could cause such a scene.
He looked at his watch.
It was already 9:50, ten minutes before ten.
For a moment, he hesitated over whether he should join the queue.
Then he shook his head.
Forget it.
He was not the sort of person who queued for a book.
He pressed the accelerator and continued driving forward.
But deep in his heart, a tiny seed of curiosity had quietly begun to sprout.
What sort of magic did this book have?
Inside a chain bookshop in central London, the owner, James, stood behind the counter, his hands trembling slightly.
As the owner of a bookshop, he had experienced all kinds of new-release scenes, but never once had he been as nervous as he was today.
He looked at the long, winding queue outside the door.
There were at least three hundred people.
He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and turned to the cashier beside him.
“Mary, are we ready?”
Mary was a woman in her twenties and usually very efficient, but at that moment, even her hands were trembling slightly.
She took a deep breath and nodded.
“We’re ready, boss.”
“What about Peter?”
“He’s in the stockroom.
He’s already moved the first batch to the entrance,” Mary said.
“Five hundred copies in total.
A whole trolley full.”
James looked at the time.
It was already 9:55.
“The queue outside is still getting longer,” Mary said after glancing through the glass door.
“I counted just now.
There are about three hundred and fifty people.”
“Not enough,” James said after a moment of thought.
“What?”
“Five hundred copies won’t be enough.” James rubbed his hands together.
“I should have put another five hundred in the shop.”
“Boss, our shop is only so big.
We can’t fit that many…”
“I know, I know.” James interrupted her.
“But look at those people outside.
Most of them are here for [Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part Two].”
He took a deep breath and made a decision.
“Peter!
Go back to the stockroom and bring out another five hundred copies!”
A wail came from the stockroom.
“Boss, we really have nowhere to put them!”
“As long as they sell, I don’t care if we stack them in the toilet!”
[9:59.]
“One minute left.” Mary’s voice was tight.
James returned behind the counter and straightened the collar of his shirt.
His palms were covered in sweat.
“Get ready to open,” he said.
“Boss, are we really opening the doors?” Mary looked at the surging crowd outside and felt a little frightened.
“They won’t rush in and tear the shop apart, will they?”
“They won’t,” James said, though he wasn’t entirely certain himself.
“They’re here to buy books, not fight.”
Ten o’clock sharp.
James took a deep breath and nodded to Peter.
With the expression of a man marching to his death, Peter opened the front door.
In an instant, a human tide swept in, swallowing Peter in the blink of an eye.
“Oh no, Peter!” Mary cried out.
But the noise inside the bookshop immediately drowned out her voice.
Footsteps, shouting, and shoving mixed together, and the entire shop was instantly packed full.
“One copy of [Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part Two]!”
“I was here first!
I should get mine first!”
“Don’t push!
Don’t push!
I’m about to fall!”
“Here!
Over here!
I want two copies!”
A dense crowd of people raised banknotes and stretched them toward the counter, like a forest made of pounds.
James was startled by the sight, but he quickly reacted.
“One at a time!” he shouted.
“Don’t push!
There’s enough for everyone!”
But his voice could not get through at all.
The crowd continued surging forward, and three or four layers of people immediately gathered in front of the counter.
Mary frantically took payments and gave change, beads of sweat already appearing on her forehead.
Peter, who had climbed back up from the floor, was busy restocking on the other side, moving stacks of books from the trolley to the counter.
But every time he placed a pile down, it was snatched clean.
“Boss, we can’t hold on!” Mary shouted.
“There are too many people!”
James gritted his teeth, rolled up his sleeves, and joined the staff directly.
“I’ll take the money.
You hand out the books!” he said to Mary.
He took note after note, gave change at top speed, and shoved books into customers’ hands.
His movements became faster and faster, but the queue seemed not to shorten at all.
“I want three copies!”
“Two!
Give me two!”
“And me!
Don’t forget me!”
The noise never stopped.
The entire bookshop was like a boiling furnace.
James had never been so exhausted.
But he had also never been so excited.
He glanced outside the door.
The queue was still long, and it was still growing.
Suffering and delighted all at once, he rolled his sleeves higher and continued throwing himself into the work of selling books.
Scenes like this played out all across Great Britain.
Inside Simon’s Bookshop in Manchester, Boss Simon stood at the door, personally maintaining order.
He had hired four temporary workers, but he was still so busy his feet barely touched the ground.
He had no choice but to move out every copy from the stockroom, even selling the sample copy he had been keeping for his own collection.
“Boss, didn’t you say you were keeping this one?” the clerk asked.
“Keeping, my arse!” Simon waved a large hand.
“Sell it first!
There’ll be plenty of chances to collect one later!”
In a chain bookshop in Liverpool, regional manager William personally joined the staff in moving books.
Even though a button had been pulled off his suit jacket at some point, he didn’t care at all.
“Another five hundred copies!” he shouted into the walkie-talkie.
“How many are left in the warehouse?”
“Eight hundred!”
“Bring them all out!”
In an independent bookshop in Edinburgh, owner Duncan stared at the empty shelves, his expression both excited and despairing.
“Sold out?” he asked the clerk.
“Sold out, boss,” the clerk said, panting.
“One thousand copies.
Two hours.
All gone.”
“But there are still at least two hundred people queuing outside.”
Duncan seemed to see piles of banknotes flowing away before his eyes.
He hurriedly picked up the telephone and dialled the publisher’s number.
“Hello?
This is Duncan from Edinburgh!
I need to add to my order!”
“Mr.
Duncan, the additional stock won’t arrive until tomorrow…”
“Tomorrow?!” Duncan’s voice was practically a roar.
“You want me to make two hundred people outside my shop wait until tomorrow?!”
“I’m very sorry, but production capacity is already at its maximum…”
Duncan hung up and looked at the expectant eyes outside, his emotions complicated.
He walked to the door and shouted to the crowd,
“Everyone, I’m terribly sorry, but today’s copies are sold out.
Fresh stock will arrive tomorrow morning. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Please come back tomorrow!”
A wave of disappointed sighs broke out from the crowd.
“What time tomorrow?”
“Eight in the morning!”
“Then I’ll come queue at six!”
Duncan shook his head with a bitter smile and turned back into the shop.
Looking at the empty shelves, he had only one thought in mind.
If I’d known, I’d have ordered more!
…
In a quiet terraced house in North London, a middle-aged man was sitting on the sofa in his living room.
His name was Philip Pullman, one of Britain’s most famous fantasy authors.
His representative work, His Dark Materials, had won countless accolades around the world, and because of it, he was 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 door radiating light.
The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was especially striking amid the play of light and shadow.
[Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part Two]
It had been a long time since Philip had looked forward to a new book this much.
Three weeks ago, when he first read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part One, he had been immediately drawn in.
That clean, crisp language, that imaginative world-building, those vivid and lively character portrayals… everything had amazed him.
Even so, he had maintained a cautious attitude toward the book.
The first half was certainly brilliant, but with only the first half, one could not fully judge the merits of a work.
Many novels were dazzling in their first half, only for the second half to end weakly and finally sink into mediocrity.
He needed to finish the second half before making his final judgment.
Today, he had finally waited long enough.
He took a deep breath and slowly turned the page.
[Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Part Two]
[Chapter Nine: The Midnight Duel]
[Harry had never believed he would ever meet a boy he hated more than Dudley.
It was only after meeting Draco Malfoy that he believed it…]
The corner of Philip’s mouth lifted slightly.
This opening was interesting.
It used a seemingly contradictory statement to seize the reader’s attention at once.
Moreover, the sentence cleverly echoed the conflict between Harry and Malfoy in the first half.
He continued reading.
Harry being chosen for the Quidditch team, Malfoy standing him up for the midnight duel, the trio putting aside their small conflicts to face the troll together, the Mirror of Erised that revealed the deepest desire of one’s heart…
Before he knew it, the vibrant, colourful world of Hogwarts revealed an irresistible charm, drawing him deep into it.
Finally, Harry, Ron, and Hermione went together to face the trials in order to protect the Philosopher’s Stone: the enormous three-headed dog, the deadly Devil’s Snare, the flying keys, the giant chessboard…
Every trial was cleverly designed and full of danger.
Every breakthrough made the reader hold their breath.
Philip turned the pages more and more slowly, his gaze growing increasingly focused.
Until he saw the true face of the seemingly harmless Professor Quirrell, and the terrifying face hidden behind the turban.
This is…
Philip’s pupils suddenly contracted.
In almost an instant, he guessed who it was.
Voldemort!
The Dark wizard whose very name made the wizarding world pale!
And Harry did not give in to fear.
Instead, he bravely resisted, holding on until Dumbledore arrived.
Philip subconsciously let out a breath of relief.
He had not even realised that he had become completely immersed in the story.
At the end, Gryffindor won the House Cup at the end-of-year feast.
Harry finally completed his first year of magical life and returned to the Muggle world.
The afterglow of the setting sun shone through the window, dyeing the entire living room a warm orange-gold.
Philip finally finished the last sentence.
He leaned back against the sofa, a faintly wistful expression on his face.
It was a strange feeling.
The story had clearly reached a satisfying conclusion, yet he still felt a sense of loss.
It was as though he had just completed a long journey and had no choice but to say goodbye to the friends he had only just met.
He lowered his head and looked at the book in his hands.
For a while, he could not bear to close it.
If the first half alone could be called a “fine work,” then together with the second half, this book was nothing short of a masterpiece of fantasy.
The first half built an astonishing world, while the second half told a complete and moving story within that world.
Every piece of foreshadowing planted in the first half received a perfect echo in the second.
Those seemingly insignificant details all became crucial clues by the end.
That narrative technique, that control over structure, that precise grasp of the reader’s mind—
Philip had to admit that this author named Allen Wayne possessed an exceptionally unique and brilliant 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 accomplished many things he himself could not.
Or perhaps, doesn’t yet.
He was just about to get up and pour himself a cup of tea when the telephone suddenly rang.
He picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello, may I ask if this is Mr.
Philip Pullman?” A young woman’s voice came from the other end.
“I’m a reporter from Literary Review Weekly.
My name is Catherine.”
“Yes, this is he.”
“Mr.
Pullman, I’m very sorry to disturb you.
I imagine you’ve heard of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.
I wanted to ask whether you’d be interested in doing an interview about this book?”
Philip froze for a moment.
Before his eyes, the scenes of Hogwarts seemed to appear once more:
that ancient castle, the shimmering Black Lake, and the boy with round glasses and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead…
He steadied himself.
When he spoke, his tone carried a rare trace of respect.
“The honour is mine.”
~
[Erase the Parentheses]