said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read
maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the
cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing
except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
　　But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind
by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he
couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely
dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear
people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young
people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his
fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these
weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly
together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them
weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was,
and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these
people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would
be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley
arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
　　Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office
on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to
concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing
past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they
pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most
of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley,
however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at
five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime,
when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to
buy himself a bun from the bakery.
　　He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed
a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he
passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were
whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting
tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut
in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
　　"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their
son, Harry"
　　Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back
at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but
thought better of it.
　　He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office,
snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone,
and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed
his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,
thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual


　　"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but
it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers
as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to
tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had
a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating
Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can
promise a wet night tonight."
　　Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over
Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all
over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...
　　Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of
tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared
his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard
from your sister lately, have you?"
　　As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After
all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
　　"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
　　"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting
stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town
today..."
　　"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.
　　"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do
with... you know... her crowd."
　　Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley
wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He
decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,
"Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
　　"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
　　"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"
　　"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."
　　"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes,
I quite agree."
　　He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs
to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept
to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The
cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it
were waiting for something.
　　Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with
the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to
a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.
　　The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly
but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His
last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the
Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him
and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia
thought about them and their kind.... He couldn't see how he and
Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on --
he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them....
　　How very wrong he was.
　　Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but


　　"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have
passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
　　Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
　　"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said
impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but
no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It
was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys'
dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting
stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to
notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was
Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
　　"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had
precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
　　"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's
no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless,
out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle
clothes, swapping rumors."
　　She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though
hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she
went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who
seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us
all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
　　"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be
thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
　　"A what?"
　　"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"
　　"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though
she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say,
even if You-Know-Who has gone -"
　　"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can
call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven
years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper
name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore,
who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all
gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never
seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.
　　"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding
half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone
knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort,
was frightened of."
　　"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers
I will never have."
　　"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."
　　"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam
Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
　　Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said,
"The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You
know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what
finally stopped him?"
　　It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she


down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all
this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be
famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known
as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written
about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"
　　"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the
top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's
head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he
won't even remember! CarA you see how much better off he'll be,
growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"
　　Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind,
swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But
how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly
as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
　　"Hagrid's bringing him."
　　"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as
important as this?"
　　I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
　　"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said
Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not
careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"
　　A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew
steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign
of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the
sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the
road in front of them.
　　If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting
astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at
least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed,
and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of
his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in
their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular
arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
　　"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And
where did you get that motorcycle?"
　　"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant,
climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius
Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."
　　"No problems, were there?"
　　"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all
right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep
as we was flyin' over Bristol."
　　Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle
of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under
a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously
shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
　　"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
　　"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
　　"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"


辛苦。

我也有1哎。。

哇~

held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley
stopped pretending to cry at once.
　　Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was
sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley,
on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and
uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him,
but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.
　　"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face
right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy -- any funny
business, anything at all -- and you'll be in that cupboard from
now until Christmas."
　　"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly..
　　But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.
　　The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and
it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen.
　　Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers
looking as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen
scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for
his bangs, which she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had
laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining
school the next day, where he was already laughed at for his baggy
clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had gotten
up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had
sheared it off He had been given a week in his cupboard for this,
even though he had tried to explain that he couldn't explain how
it had grown back so quickly.
　　Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a
revolting old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls) --
The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed
to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but
certainly wouldn't fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have
shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn't punished.
　　On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being
found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been
chasing him as usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone
else's, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had
received a very angry letter from Harry's headmistress telling them
Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he'd tried to
do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his
cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen
doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-
jump.
　　But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being
with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't
school, his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room.
　　While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked


to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry,
the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This
morning, it was motorcycles.
　　"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said,
as a motorcycle overtook them.
　　I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering
suddenly. "It was flying."
　　Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned
right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a
gigantic beet with a mustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"
　　Dudley and Piers sniggered.
　　I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream."
　　But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing
the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was
his talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter
if it was in a dream or even a cartoon -- they seemed to think he
might get dangerous ideas.
　　It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with
families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate
ice creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in
the van had asked Harry what he wanted before they could hurry him
away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either,
Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its
head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn't blond.
　　Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was
careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that
Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals
by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting
him. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum
because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top,
Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish
the first.
　　Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all
too good to last.
　　After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark
in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all
sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits
of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous
cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the
largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice
around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can -- but at
the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.
　　Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring
at the glistening brown coils.
　　"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped
on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.
　　"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass
smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.
　　"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.


　　Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the
snake. He wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom
itself -- no company except stupid people drumming their fingers
on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than
having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt
Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least he got to
visit the rest of the house.
　　The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly,
it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.
　　It winked.
　　Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was
watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.
　　The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then
raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said
quite plainly:
　　"I get that all the time.
　　"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't
sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."
　　The snake nodded vigorously.
　　"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.
　　The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the
glass. Harry peered at it.
　　Boa Constrictor, Brazil.
　　"Was it nice there?"
　　The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and
Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see --
so you've never been to Brazil?"
　　As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry
made both of them jump.
　　"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T
BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"
　　Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.
　　"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the
ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What
came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second,
Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next,
they had leapt back with howls of horror.
　　Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's
tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly,
slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house
screamed and started running for the exits.
　　As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low,
hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come.... Thanksss, amigo."
　　The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.
　　"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"
　　The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong,
sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and
Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake
hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it
passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car,
Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while


Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst
of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say,
"Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"
　　Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house
before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He
managed to say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he
collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a
large brandy.
　　Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a
watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the
Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking
to the kitchen for some food.
　　He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable
years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby
and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember
being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he
strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up
with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burn-
ing pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though
he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn't
remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about
them, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were
no photographs of them in the house.
　　When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some
unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened;
the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe
hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange
strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed
to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After
asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed
them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old
woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A
bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in
the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The
weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to
vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.
　　At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang
hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken
glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.


我们家好像也有英文原著…

从学校图书馆借来的。。能看懂一些。。

简爱好难读。。我只读过中文版和英语减缩版。。