Squeeze a word to see its meaning
> extra 7 (beginning)
> extra 8 (end)
...
ZOOM : PRESS CTRL key + MOUSE SCROLL
第1章 大难不死的男孩
Musical introduction ... ( radio show )
家住女贞路4号的德思礼夫妇总是得意地说他们是非常规矩的人家。拜-托，拜托了。他们从来跟神秘古怪的事不沾边，因为他们根本不相信那些邪门歪道。
弗农德思札先生在一家名叫格朗宁的公司做主管，公司生产钻机。他高大魁梧，胖得几乎连脖子都没有I，却蓄着一脸大胡子。德思礼太太是一个瘦削的金发女 人。她的脖子几乎比正常人长一倍。这样每当她花许多时间隔着篱墙引颈而望、窥探左邻右舍时，她的长脖子可就派上了大用场。德思礼夫妇有一个小儿子，名叫达 力。在他们看来，人世间没有比达力更好的孩子了。
德思丰L一家什么都不缺，但他们拥有一个秘密，他们最害怕的就是这秘密会被人发现。他们想， 一旦有人发现波特一家的事，他们会承受不住的。波持太太是德思礼太太的妹妹，不过她们已经有好几年不见面了。实际上，德思礼太太佯装自己根本没有这么个妹 妹，因为她妹妹和她那一无是处的妹夫与德思礼一家的为人处世完全不一样。一想到邻居们会说波特夫妇来到了，德思礼夫妇会吓得胆战心惊。他们知道波特也有个 儿子，只是他们从来没有见过。这孩子也是他们不与波特夫妇来往的一个很好的借口，他们不愿让达力跟这种孩子厮混。
我们的故事开始于一个晦暗、阴沉的星期二，德思礼夫妇一早醒来，窗外浓云低垂的天空并没有丝毫迹象预示这地方即将发生神秘古怪的事情。德思礼先生哼着小曲，挑出一条最不喜欢的领带戴着上班，德思礼太太高高兴兴，一直絮絮叨叨，把唧哇乱叫的达力塞到了儿童椅里。
他们谁也没留意一只黄褐色的猫头鹰丰卜扇着翅膀从窗前飞过。
八点半，德思礼先生拿起公文包，在德思礼太太面颊上亲了一下，正要亲达力，跟这个小家伙道别，可是没有亲成，小家伙正在发脾气，把麦片往墙上摔。"臭小子。"德思礼先生嘟哝了一句，咯咯笑着走出家门，坐进汽车，倒出四号车道。
在街角上，他看到了第一个异常的信号?? 一只猫在看地图。一开始，德思礼先生还没弄明白他看到了什么，于是又回过头去。只见一只花斑猫站在女贞路路口，但是没有看见地图。他到底在想些什么?很可 能是光线使他产生了错觉吧。德思礼先生眨了眨眼，盯着猫着，猫也瞪着他。当德思礼先生拐过街角继续上路的时候，他从后视镜里看看那只猫。猫这时正在读女贞 路的标牌，不，是在看标牌；猫是不会读地图或是读标牌的。德思礼先生定了定神，把猫从脑海里赶走。他开车进城，一路上想的是希望今天他能得到一大批钻机的 定单。
但快进城时，另一件事又把钻机的事从他脑海里赶走了。当他的车汇入清晨拥堵的车流时，他突然看见路边有一群穿着奇装异服的人。他们都披 着斗篷。德思礼先生最看不惯别人穿得怪模怪样，瞧年轻人的那身打扮!他猜想这大概又是一种无聊的新时尚吧。他用手指敲击着方向盘，目光落到了离他最近的一 大群怪物身上。他们正兴致勃勃，交头接耳。德思礼先生很生气，因为他发现他们中间有一对根本不年轻了，那个男的显得比他年龄还大，竟然还披着一件翡翠绿的 斗篷!真不知羞耻!接着，德思礼先生突然想到这些人大概是为什么事募捐吧，不错，就是这么回事。车流移动了，几分钟后德思礼先生来到格朗宁公司的停车场， 他的思绪又回到了钻机上。
德思礼先生在他九楼的办公室里，总是习惯背窗而坐。如果不是这样，他可能会发现这一天早上他更难把思想集中到钻机的 事情上了。他没有看见成群的猫头鹰在光天化日之下从天上飞过，可街上的人群都看到了；他们目瞪口呆，指指点点，盯着猫头鹰一只接一只从头顶上掠过。他们大 多甚至夜里都从未见过猫头鹰。德思礼先生这天早上很正常，没有受到猫头鹰的干扰。他先后对五个人大喊大叫了一遍，又打了几个重要的电话，喊的声音更响。他 的情绪很好，到吃午饭的时候，他想舒展一下筋骨，到马路对角的面包房去买一只小甜圆面包。
若不是他在面包房附近又碰到那群批斗篷的入，他早就 把他们忘了。他经过他们身边时，狠狠地瞪了他们一眼。他说不清这是为什么，只是觉得这些人让他心里别扭。这些人正嘁嘁喳喳，讲得起劲，但他连一只募捐箱也 没有看见。当他拎着装在袋里的一只大油饼往回走，经过他们身边时，他们的话断断续续飘入他的耳鼓："波特夫妇，不错，我正是听说?? "
"?? 没错，他们的儿子，哈利?? "
他突然停下脚步，恐惧万分。他回头朝窃窃私语的人群看了一眼，似乎想听他们说点什么，后来又改变了主意。
他冲到马路对面，回到办公室，厉声吩咐秘书不要打扰他，然后抓起话筒，刚要拨通家里的电话，临时又变了卦。他放下话筒，摸着胡须，琢磨起来..不，他太 愚蠢了。波特并不是一个稀有的姓，肯定有许多人姓波特，而且有儿子叫哈利。想到这里，他甚至连自己的外甥是不是 ° 哈和]都拿不定了。他甚至没见过这孩 子。说不定叫哈维，或者叫哈罗德。没有必要让太太烦心，只要一提起她妹妹，她总是心烦意乱。他并不责怪她?? 要是他自己有一个那样的妹妹呢..可不管怎么说，这群披斗篷的人..那天下午，他发现自己很难专心考虑钻机的事。五点钟他走出办公室大楼，依旧心事重重， 与站在门口的一个人撞了个满怀。
这个小老头打了个趔趄，差点儿摔倒。"对不起。”德思礼先生嘟哝说。过了几秒钟，他才发现这入披了一件紫罗兰 色斗篷。他几乎被撞倒在地，可他似乎一点儿不生气，脸上反而绽出灿烂的笑容。“您不用道歉，尊贵的先生，因为今天没有事会惹我生气!太高兴了，因为‘神秘 人'总算走了!就连像你这种麻瓜，也应该好好庆贺这大喜大庆的日子!"他说话的声音尖细刺耳，令过往的人侧目。
老头说完，搂了搂德思礼先生的腰，就走开了。
德思礼先生站在原地一动不动，仿佛生了根。他刚刚被一个完全陌生的人搂过。他还想到自己被称做“麻瓜”，不知这是什么意思。他心乱如麻，连忙朝自己的汽 车跑过去，开车回家。他希望这一切只是幻象，他从来没有幻想过什么，因为他根本不赞同幻想。当他驶入四号车道时，第一个映入眼帘的就是早上他见过的那只花 斑猫，这并没有使他的心情好转。这时猫正坐在他家花园的院墙上。他肯定这只猫和早上的是同一只：眼睛周围的纹路一模一样。
“去..去!”德思礼先生大喝道。
猫纹丝不动，只是狠狠地瞪了他一眼。这难道是一只正常的猫的行为吗?德思礼先生感到怀疑。他先让自己镇定下来，随后就进屋去了。他仍决定对太太只字不提。
德思礼太太这一天过得很好，一切正常。晚饭桌上，德思礼太太向他讲述了邻居家的母女矛盾，还说达力又学会一个新词(“绝不”)，德思礼先生也尽量表现 -3-得正常。安顿达力睡下之后，他来到起居室，听到晚间新闻的最后一段报道：“最后，据各地鸟类观察者反映，今天全国猫头鹰表现反常。通常情况下，它们 都是在夜间捕食，白天很少露面，可是今天，日出时猫头鹰就四处纷飞。专家们也无法解释猫头鹰为什么改变了它们的睡眠习惯。”新闻播音员说到这里，咧嘴一 笑。"真是太奇妙了。现在我把话筒交给吉姆麦古，问问他天气情况如何。吉姆，今天夜里还会下猫头鹰雨吗?"
"噢，泰德，"气象播音员说，"这 我可不知道，今天不仅猫头鹰表现反常。全国各地远至肯特郡、约克郡、丹地 1/ 等地的目击者都纷纷打来电话说，我们原来预报昨天有雨，结果下的不是雨丽是流 星!也许人们把本该一星期后举行的庆祝篝火之夜 2/ 晚会提前举行了，朋友们!不过我向你们保证，今晚一定有雨。”
德思礼先生坐在扶手椅里惊呆 了。英国普遍下流星雨?猫头鹰光天化日之下四处纷飞?到处都是披着斗篷的怪人?还有一些传闻，关于波特一家的传闻..德思辛L太太端着两杯茶来到起居室。 情况不妙。他应该向她透露一些。他心神不定，清了清嗓子。“唔?? 佩妮，亲爱的?? 最近有你妹妹的消息吗?”
不出所料，德思礼太太大为吃惊，也很生气。不管怎么说，他们通常都说自己没有这么个妹妹。
“没有，”她厉声说，“怎么了?”
“今天的新闻有点奇怪，”德思礼先生咕哝说，“成群的猫头鹰..流星雨..今天城里又有那么多怪模怪榉的人..”
“那又怎么样?'’德思礼太太急赤白脸地说。
“哦，我是想..说不定..这跟..你知道..她那一群人有关系..”
德思礼太太嘬起嘴唇呷了一口茶。德思礼先生不知道自己是不是该大胆地把听到“哈利”名字的事告诉她。他决定还是不要太冒失。于是他尽量漫不经心地改口说：“他们的儿子?? 他现在该有达力这么大了吧?”
“我想是吧。”德思礼太太子巴巴地说。．_“他叫什么来着?是叫霍华德吧?”“叫哈利，要我说，这是一个不讨人喜欢的普通名字。” “哦，是的。”德思礼先生说着，感到心里突然往下一沉。“不错，我也这么想。”他们上楼睡觉时，他就再也没有提到这个话题了。德思礼太太进浴室以后。德思 礼先生就轻手轻脚来到卧室窗前，看看前面的花园。那只猫还在原地，正目1/ 肯特郡在英格兰南部。约克郡在英格兰北部。丹地是英格兰北部海港。
2/ 指每年11月5日在英国举行的庆祝篝火之夜活动。
不转睛地盯着女贞路路口，好像在等待什么。
他是在想入非非吗?这一切会与波特一家有关吗?如果真有关系?? 如果最后真跟他们夫妇有关?? 那么，他认为他是承受不住的。
德思礼夫妇睡下了。德思礼太太很快就睡着了，德思礼先生却思绪万千，怎么也睡不着觉。不过在他入睡前，最后一个想法使他感到安慰：即使波特一家真的被卷 了进去，也没有理由牵连他和他太太。波特夫妇很清楚德思札夫妇对他们和他们那群人的看法。他打了个哈欠，翻过身去。不会影响他们的..他可是大错特错了。
德思礼先生迷迷糊糊，本来可能胡乱睡上一觉，可花园墙头上那只猫却没有丝毫睡意。它卧在墙头上，宛如一座雕像，纹丝不动，目不转睛地盯着女贞路远处的街 角。邻街的一辆汽车砰的一声关上车门，两只猫头鹰扑扇着从头顶上飞过，它也一动不动。实际上，快到午夜时，它才开始动了动。
猫一直眺望着的那个街角出现了一个男人，他来得那样突然，悄无声息，简直像是从地里冒出来的。猫尾巴抖动了一下，眼睛眯成了一条缝。
女贞路上从来没有见过这个男人。他个子瘦高，银发和银须长到都能够塞到腰带里了，凭这一点就可以断定他年纪已经很大了。他穿一件长袍，披一件掩到地的紫 色斗篷，登一双带搭扣的高跟靴子。半月形的眼镜后边二对湛蓝湛蓝的明亮眼睛闪闪放光。他的鼻子很长，但是扭歪了，看来至少断过两次。他的名字叫阿不思邓布 利多。
阿不思邓布利多似乎并没有意识到从他的名字到他的靴子，在他来到的这条街上都不受欢迎。他忙着在斗篷口袋里翻寻，好像找什么东西。他也 没有发现有人监视他，因为他突然抬头看见一直在街那头注视着他的那只猫，出于某种原因，他觉得这只猫的样子很好笑。他咯咯笑着，嘟哝说：“我早就该想到 了。”
他在里边衣袋里找出了他要找的东西，看起来像一只银制打火机。他把它轻轻弹开，高举起来，咔哒一声，离得最近的一盏路灯噗的一声熄灭 了。他又打了一下?? 第二盏灯也熄灭了。他用熄灯器打了十二次，整条街上只剩下远处两个小小的光点，那就是监视他的那只猫的两只眼睛。如果这时有人向窗外看，即使是眼尖的德思 礼太太，也不会看到马路上发生的一切。邓布利多把熄灯器放回斗篷里边的口袋里，之后就顺着街道向四号走去。他在墙头猫的身边坐下来。他没有看它，但过了一 会儿便跟它说起话来。
“真没想到会在这里见到您，麦格教授。”
他回头朝花斑猫微微一笑。花斑猫不见了，换成一个神情严肃的女人，戴一副方形眼镜，看起来跟猫眼睛周围的纹路一模一样。她也披了一件翠绿色斗篷，乌黑的头发挽成一个很紧的发髻。她显得非常激动。
“您怎么认出那是我?”她问。
-5-“我亲爱的教授，我从来没有见过一只猫像这样僵硬地待着。”
“您要是在砖墙上坐一整天，您也会变僵的。”麦格教授说。
“一整天?您本来应当参加庆祝会的呀?我一路来到这里，至少遇上了十二场欢快的聚会和庆祝活动。”
麦格教授气呼呼地哼了一声。
“哦，不错，人人都在庆贺，很好!”她恼火地说。“您以为他们会更小心谨慎，其实不然，连麻瓜们都注意到有什么事情发生了，都上了他们的电视新闻。”她 猛地把头转向德思礼家漆黑的起居室窗口。“我都听见了。成群的猫头鹰..流星雨..好了，他们也不是十足的傻瓜。有些事也会弓I起他们的注意。肯特郡下的 那场流星雨?? 我敢说准是迪歌干的。他本来就没多少头脑。”
“您不能责怪他们，”邓布利多心平气和地说，“十一年来值得我们庆贺的事太少了。”
“这我知道，”麦格教授气呼呼地说，“但这些不是冒险胡来的理由。他们也太不小心了，大白天跑到街上，也不穿上麻瓜们的衣服，还在那里传递消息。”
说到这里，她机敏地朝邓布利多斜瞟了一眼，似乎希望他能告诉她些什么，但邓布利多没有吱声，于是她接着说：“神秘人终于不见了，如果正好在他失踪的那一天，麻瓜们发现了我们的一切，那可真太奇妙了。我想他真的走了吧，邓布利多?”
“好像是这样，”邓布利多说，“我们应该感到欣慰。您来一块柠檬雪糕好吗?”
“一块什么?”“一块柠檬雪糕。这是麻瓜们的一种甜点。我很喜欢。” “不了，谢谢。”麦格教授冷冷地说，看来她认为现在不是吃柠檬雪糕的时候。“像我说的，即使‘神秘人’真的走了?? ”
“我亲爱的教授，像您这样的明白人，总该可以直呼他的大名吧?什么神秘人不神秘人的，全都是瞎扯淡?? 十一年了，我一直想方设法说服大家，直呼他本人的名字：伏地魔，”麦格教授打了个寒噤，可邓布利多在掰两块粘在一起的雪糕，似乎没有留意。“要是我们还继 续HLf神秘入神秘人的，一切就都乱套了。我看直呼伏地魔的大名也没有任何理由害怕。”
“我知道您不害怕，”麦格教授半是恼怒，半是夸赞地 说。“尽人皆知，您与众不同。神秘人?? 哦，好吧，伏地魔?? 惟一害怕的就是您。” “您太抬举我了。”邓布利多平静地说，“伏地魔拥有我永远也不会有的功力。”“那是因为您太?? 哦?? 太高尚了，不愿意运用它。” “幸亏这里很黑，庞弗雷夫人说她喜欢我的新耳套以后，我还没有像现在这样脸红过呢。”
麦格教授狠狠地瞪了邓布利多一眼，说：“猫头鹰和沸沸扬扬的谣言毫不相干。您知道大伙都在说什么吗?说他为什么失踪?说最终是什么制止了他?”
这一来，麦格教授似乎点到了她急于想讨论的问题核心，这也正是她在冰冷的砖墙上守候了一整天的原因。不管她是一只猫，或是一个女人，她从来都不曾用现在 这样锐利的眼光看邓布利多。显然，不管大家怎么说，只有从邓布利多口中得到证实，她才会相信。邓布利多却挑了另一块柠檬雪糕，没有答话。
“他们说，”她不依不饶地说，“昨天夜里伏地魔绕到高锥克山谷。他们是去找波特夫妇的，谣传莉莉和詹姆波特都?? 都?? 他们都已经?? 死了。”
邓布利多低下头。麦格教授倒抽了一口气。
“这?? 这是真的吗?莉莉和詹姆..我不相信..我也不愿相信..哦，阿不思..”
邓布利多伸手拍了拍她的肩膀。“我知道..我知道..”他心情沉重地说。
麦格教授接着往下说，她的声音颤抖了。“还不止这些。他们说，他还想杀波特夫妇的儿子哈利，可是没有成功。他杀不死那个孩子。没有人知道为什么，也没有人知道怎么会杀不死。不过他们说，当伏地魔杀不死哈利的时候，他的功法就不知怎的失灵了?? 所以他才走掉了。”
邓布利多愁眉不展地点了点头。
“这?? 这是真的吗?”麦格教授用颤巍巍的声音说。“他做了这么多坏事..杀了这么多人..可竟然杀不了一个孩子?这简直令人震惊..我们想了那么多办法去阻止他..可苍天在上，哈利究竟是怎么幸免于难的呢?”
“我们只能猜测，”邓布利多说，“我们可能永远也不会知道。”
麦格教授掏出一块花边手帕轻轻拭了拭镜片后边的眼睛。邓布利多深深吸了一口气，从衣袋里掏出一块金表，认真看起来。那只表样子很奇怪，有十二根指针，却 没有数字，还有一些小星沿着表盘边缘转动。邓布利多显然看明白了，他把表放回衣袋，说：“海格肯定迟到了。顺便问一句，我想，大概是他告诉您我要到这里来 的吧?”
“是的，”麦格教授说，“可去的地方多了，您为什么偏偏要到这里来呢?我想，您大概不会告诉我吧?’'“我是来接哈利，把他送到他姨妈姨父家的。现在他们是他惟一的亲人了。”
“您不会是指?? 您不可能是指住在这里的那家人吧?”她噌地跳起来，指着四号那一家。“邓布利多?? 您可不能这么做。我观察他们一整天了。您找不到比他们更不像你我这样的人了。他们还有一个儿子?? 我看见他在大街上一路用脚踢他母亲， 吵着要糖吃。要哈利波特住在这里?!”
-7-“这对他是最合适的地方了。”邓布利多坚定地说，“等他长大一些，他的姨妈姨父会向他说明一切。我给他们写了一封信。”
“一封信?”麦格教授有气无力地重复说，又坐回到墙头上。“邓布利多，您当真认为用一封信您就能把一切都解释清楚吗?这些人永远也不会理解他的!他会成 名的?? 一个传奇人物?? 如果将来有一天把今天定为哈利波特日，我一点儿也不会觉得奇怪?? 会有许多写哈利的书?? 我们世界里的每一个孩子都会知道他的名字!”
“说得对极了，”邓布利多说，他那半月形眼镜上方的目光显得非常严肃，“这足以使任何一个孩子冲昏头脑。不会走路、不会说话的时候就一举成名!甚至为他根本不记得的事情而成名!让他在远离过去的地方成长，直到他能接受这一切，再让他知道，不是更好吗?”
麦格教授张开嘴，改变了看法。她咽了口唾沫，接着说：“是啊?? 是啊，当然您是对的。可怎么把孩子弄到这里来呢，邓布利多?”她突然朝他的斗篷看了一眼，好像他会把哈利藏在斗篷里。
“海格会把他带到这里来。”，“把这么重要的事情托付给海格去办?? 您觉得?? 明智吗?，，“我可以把我的身家性命托付给他。”邓布利多说。
“我不是说他心术不正，”麦格教授不以为然地说，“可是您不能不看到他很粗心。他总是?? 那是什么声音?”
一阵低沉的隆隆声划破了周围的寂静。当他们来回搜索街道上是否有汽车前灯的灯光时，响声越来越大，最后变成一阵吼叫。他们抬眼望着天空，只见一辆巨型摩托自天丽降，停在他们面前的街道上。
如果说摩托是一辆巨型摩托，那么骑车人就更不在话下了。那人比普通人高一倍，宽度至少有五倍，似乎显得出奇地高大，而且粗野?? 纠结在一起的乱蓬蓬的黑色长发和胡须几乎遮住了大部分脸庞，那双手有垃圾桶盖那么大，一双穿着皮靴的脚像两只小海豚。他那肌肉发达的粗壮双臂抱着一卷毛 毯。
“海格，”邓布利多说，听起来像松了一口气，“你总算来了。这辆摩托车你是从哪里弄来的?”
“借来的，邓布利多教授，”巨人一边小心翼翼地跨下摩托车，一边说，“是小天狼星布莱克借给我的。我把他带来了，先生。”
“没有遇到麻烦吧?”
“没有，先生?? 房子几乎全毁了。我们赶在麻瓜们从四面八方汇拢来之前把他抱了出来。当我们飞越布里斯托尔 1/ 上空的时候，他睡着了..”
1/ 布里斯托尔，英格兰西南部港甜城市．艾文郡首府．临布里斯托尔海峡。
邓布利多和麦格教授朝那卷毛毯俯下身去。他们看见毛毯里裹着一个男婴，睡得正香。孩子前额上一绺乌黑的头发下边有一处刀伤，伤口形状很奇怪，像一道闪电。
“这地方就是?? ”麦格教授低声说。
“是的，”邓布利多说，“他一辈子都要带着这道伤疤了。”
“你不能想想办法吗?邓布利多?”
“即使有办法，我也不会去做。伤疤今后可能会有用处。我左边膝盖上就有一个疤，是一幅完整的伦敦地铁图。好了?? 把他给我吧，海格?? 咱们最好还是把事情办妥。”
邓布利多把哈利拖在怀里，朝德思礼家走去。
“我能?? 我能跟他告别一下吗?先生?”海格问。
他把毛发蓬乱的大头凑到哈利脸上，给了他一个胡子拉碴、痒乎乎的吻。接着海格突然像一只受伤的狗号叫了一声。
“嘘!”麦格教授嘘了他一声，“你会把麻瓜们吵醒的!”
“对一对一对不起，”海格抽抽搭搭地说，掏出一块污渍斑斑的大手帕，把脸埋在手帕里，“我一我实在受一受不了?? 莉莉和詹姆死了?? 可怜的小哈利又要住在麻瓜们家里?? ”
“是啊，是啊，是令人难过，可你得把握住自己，不然我们会被发现的。”麦格教授小声说，轻轻拍了一下海格的臂膀。这时邓布利多正跨过花园低矮的院墙，朝 大门走去。他轻轻把哈利放到大门口的台阶上，从斗篷里掏出一封信，塞到哈利的毛毯里，然后回到另外两个人身边。他们三人站在那里对小小的毯子注视了足有一 分钟。海格的肩膀在抖动，麦格教授拼命眨眼，邓布利多一向闪光的眼睛也暗淡无光了。
“好了，”邓布利多终于说，“到此结束了。我们没有必要继续待在这里。咱们还是去参加庆祝会吧。”
“是啊，”海格咕哝说，“我得去把车还给小天狼星。晚安，麦格教授?? 晚安，邓布利多教授。”
海格用外衣衣袖揩了揩流泪的眼睛，跨上摩托，踩着了发动机，随着一声吼叫，摩托车腾空而起，消失在夜色里。
“希望很快和您见面，麦格教授。”邓布利多朝麦格教授点头说。她擤了擤鼻子作为回答。
邓布利多转身来到街上。他在街角上掏出银制熄灯器，咔哒弹了一下，只见十二个火球又回到各自的路灯上，女贞路顿时映照出一片橙黄，他看见一只花斑猫正悄悄从街那头的拐角溜掉了。他恰好可以看见4号台阶上放着的那个用毯子裹着的小包。
-9-“祝你好运，哈利。”他喃喃地说，噔地厢脚跟一转身，只听斗篷飕的一声，他已经消失得无影无踪了。
微风拂动着女贞路两旁整洁的树篱，街道在漆黑的天空下寂静无声，一尘不染，谁也不会想到这里会发生骇人听闻的事情。哈利波特在毯子包里翻了个身，但他并 没有醒。他的一只小手正好放在那封信旁边。他还继续沉睡，一点不知道他很特殊，不知道他名气很大，不知道再过几小时，等德思礼太太开大门放奶瓶时，他会被 她的尖叫声吵醒；更不会知道，在未来的几个星期，他表哥达力会对他连捅带戳，连掐带拧..他也不可能知道，就在此刻，全国人都在秘密聚会。人们高举酒杯悄 声说：“祝福大难不死的孩子?? 哈利．波特!”
ZOOM : PRESS CTRL key + MOUSE SCROLL
第1章 大难不死的男孩
Musical introduction ... ( radio show )
家住女贞路4号的德思礼夫妇总是得意地说他们是非常规矩的人家。拜-托，拜托了。他们从来跟神秘古怪的事不沾边，因为他们根本不相信那些邪门歪道。
弗农德思札先生在一家名叫格朗宁的公司做主管，公司生产钻机。他高大魁梧，胖得几乎连脖子都没有I，却蓄着一脸大胡子。德思礼太太是一个瘦削的金发女 人。她的脖子几乎比正常人长一倍。这样每当她花许多时间隔着篱墙引颈而望、窥探左邻右舍时，她的长脖子可就派上了大用场。德思礼夫妇有一个小儿子，名叫达 力。在他们看来，人世间没有比达力更好的孩子了。
德思丰L一家什么都不缺，但他们拥有一个秘密，他们最害怕的就是这秘密会被人发现。他们想， 一旦有人发现波特一家的事，他们会承受不住的。波持太太是德思礼太太的妹妹，不过她们已经有好几年不见面了。实际上，德思礼太太佯装自己根本没有这么个妹 妹，因为她妹妹和她那一无是处的妹夫与德思礼一家的为人处世完全不一样。一想到邻居们会说波特夫妇来到了，德思礼夫妇会吓得胆战心惊。他们知道波特也有个 儿子，只是他们从来没有见过。这孩子也是他们不与波特夫妇来往的一个很好的借口，他们不愿让达力跟这种孩子厮混。
我们的故事开始于一个晦暗、阴沉的星期二，德思礼夫妇一早醒来，窗外浓云低垂的天空并没有丝毫迹象预示这地方即将发生神秘古怪的事情。德思礼先生哼着小曲，挑出一条最不喜欢的领带戴着上班，德思礼太太高高兴兴，一直絮絮叨叨，把唧哇乱叫的达力塞到了儿童椅里。
他们谁也没留意一只黄褐色的猫头鹰丰卜扇着翅膀从窗前飞过。
八点半，德思礼先生拿起公文包，在德思礼太太面颊上亲了一下，正要亲达力，跟这个小家伙道别，可是没有亲成，小家伙正在发脾气，把麦片往墙上摔。"臭小子。"德思礼先生嘟哝了一句，咯咯笑着走出家门，坐进汽车，倒出四号车道。
在街角上，他看到了第一个异常的信号?? 一只猫在看地图。一开始，德思礼先生还没弄明白他看到了什么，于是又回过头去。只见一只花斑猫站在女贞路路口，但是没有看见地图。他到底在想些什么?很可 能是光线使他产生了错觉吧。德思礼先生眨了眨眼，盯着猫着，猫也瞪着他。当德思礼先生拐过街角继续上路的时候，他从后视镜里看看那只猫。猫这时正在读女贞 路的标牌，不，是在看标牌；猫是不会读地图或是读标牌的。德思礼先生定了定神，把猫从脑海里赶走。他开车进城，一路上想的是希望今天他能得到一大批钻机的 定单。
但快进城时，另一件事又把钻机的事从他脑海里赶走了。当他的车汇入清晨拥堵的车流时，他突然看见路边有一群穿着奇装异服的人。他们都披 着斗篷。德思礼先生最看不惯别人穿得怪模怪样，瞧年轻人的那身打扮!他猜想这大概又是一种无聊的新时尚吧。他用手指敲击着方向盘，目光落到了离他最近的一 大群怪物身上。他们正兴致勃勃，交头接耳。德思礼先生很生气，因为他发现他们中间有一对根本不年轻了，那个男的显得比他年龄还大，竟然还披着一件翡翠绿的 斗篷!真不知羞耻!接着，德思礼先生突然想到这些人大概是为什么事募捐吧，不错，就是这么回事。车流移动了，几分钟后德思礼先生来到格朗宁公司的停车场， 他的思绪又回到了钻机上。
德思礼先生在他九楼的办公室里，总是习惯背窗而坐。如果不是这样，他可能会发现这一天早上他更难把思想集中到钻机的 事情上了。他没有看见成群的猫头鹰在光天化日之下从天上飞过，可街上的人群都看到了；他们目瞪口呆，指指点点，盯着猫头鹰一只接一只从头顶上掠过。他们大 多甚至夜里都从未见过猫头鹰。德思礼先生这天早上很正常，没有受到猫头鹰的干扰。他先后对五个人大喊大叫了一遍，又打了几个重要的电话，喊的声音更响。他 的情绪很好，到吃午饭的时候，他想舒展一下筋骨，到马路对角的面包房去买一只小甜圆面包。
若不是他在面包房附近又碰到那群批斗篷的入，他早就 把他们忘了。他经过他们身边时，狠狠地瞪了他们一眼。他说不清这是为什么，只是觉得这些人让他心里别扭。这些人正嘁嘁喳喳，讲得起劲，但他连一只募捐箱也 没有看见。当他拎着装在袋里的一只大油饼往回走，经过他们身边时，他们的话断断续续飘入他的耳鼓："波特夫妇，不错，我正是听说?? "
"?? 没错，他们的儿子，哈利?? "
他突然停下脚步，恐惧万分。他回头朝窃窃私语的人群看了一眼，似乎想听他们说点什么，后来又改变了主意。
他冲到马路对面，回到办公室，厉声吩咐秘书不要打扰他，然后抓起话筒，刚要拨通家里的电话，临时又变了卦。他放下话筒，摸着胡须，琢磨起来..不，他太 愚蠢了。波特并不是一个稀有的姓，肯定有许多人姓波特，而且有儿子叫哈利。想到这里，他甚至连自己的外甥是不是 ° 哈和]都拿不定了。他甚至没见过这孩 子。说不定叫哈维，或者叫哈罗德。没有必要让太太烦心，只要一提起她妹妹，她总是心烦意乱。他并不责怪她?? 要是他自己有一个那样的妹妹呢..可不管怎么说，这群披斗篷的人..那天下午，他发现自己很难专心考虑钻机的事。五点钟他走出办公室大楼，依旧心事重重， 与站在门口的一个人撞了个满怀。
这个小老头打了个趔趄，差点儿摔倒。"对不起。”德思礼先生嘟哝说。过了几秒钟，他才发现这入披了一件紫罗兰 色斗篷。他几乎被撞倒在地，可他似乎一点儿不生气，脸上反而绽出灿烂的笑容。“您不用道歉，尊贵的先生，因为今天没有事会惹我生气!太高兴了，因为‘神秘 人'总算走了!就连像你这种麻瓜，也应该好好庆贺这大喜大庆的日子!"他说话的声音尖细刺耳，令过往的人侧目。
老头说完，搂了搂德思礼先生的腰，就走开了。
德思礼先生站在原地一动不动，仿佛生了根。他刚刚被一个完全陌生的人搂过。他还想到自己被称做“麻瓜”，不知这是什么意思。他心乱如麻，连忙朝自己的汽 车跑过去，开车回家。他希望这一切只是幻象，他从来没有幻想过什么，因为他根本不赞同幻想。当他驶入四号车道时，第一个映入眼帘的就是早上他见过的那只花 斑猫，这并没有使他的心情好转。这时猫正坐在他家花园的院墙上。他肯定这只猫和早上的是同一只：眼睛周围的纹路一模一样。
“去..去!”德思礼先生大喝道。
猫纹丝不动，只是狠狠地瞪了他一眼。这难道是一只正常的猫的行为吗?德思礼先生感到怀疑。他先让自己镇定下来，随后就进屋去了。他仍决定对太太只字不提。
德思礼太太这一天过得很好，一切正常。晚饭桌上，德思礼太太向他讲述了邻居家的母女矛盾，还说达力又学会一个新词(“绝不”)，德思礼先生也尽量表现 -3-得正常。安顿达力睡下之后，他来到起居室，听到晚间新闻的最后一段报道：“最后，据各地鸟类观察者反映，今天全国猫头鹰表现反常。通常情况下，它们 都是在夜间捕食，白天很少露面，可是今天，日出时猫头鹰就四处纷飞。专家们也无法解释猫头鹰为什么改变了它们的睡眠习惯。”新闻播音员说到这里，咧嘴一 笑。"真是太奇妙了。现在我把话筒交给吉姆麦古，问问他天气情况如何。吉姆，今天夜里还会下猫头鹰雨吗?"
"噢，泰德，"气象播音员说，"这 我可不知道，今天不仅猫头鹰表现反常。全国各地远至肯特郡、约克郡、丹地 1/ 等地的目击者都纷纷打来电话说，我们原来预报昨天有雨，结果下的不是雨丽是流 星!也许人们把本该一星期后举行的庆祝篝火之夜 2/ 晚会提前举行了，朋友们!不过我向你们保证，今晚一定有雨。”
德思礼先生坐在扶手椅里惊呆 了。英国普遍下流星雨?猫头鹰光天化日之下四处纷飞?到处都是披着斗篷的怪人?还有一些传闻，关于波特一家的传闻..德思辛L太太端着两杯茶来到起居室。 情况不妙。他应该向她透露一些。他心神不定，清了清嗓子。“唔?? 佩妮，亲爱的?? 最近有你妹妹的消息吗?”
不出所料，德思礼太太大为吃惊，也很生气。不管怎么说，他们通常都说自己没有这么个妹妹。
“没有，”她厉声说，“怎么了?”
“今天的新闻有点奇怪，”德思礼先生咕哝说，“成群的猫头鹰..流星雨..今天城里又有那么多怪模怪榉的人..”
“那又怎么样?'’德思礼太太急赤白脸地说。
“哦，我是想..说不定..这跟..你知道..她那一群人有关系..”
德思礼太太嘬起嘴唇呷了一口茶。德思礼先生不知道自己是不是该大胆地把听到“哈利”名字的事告诉她。他决定还是不要太冒失。于是他尽量漫不经心地改口说：“他们的儿子?? 他现在该有达力这么大了吧?”
“我想是吧。”德思礼太太子巴巴地说。．_“他叫什么来着?是叫霍华德吧?”“叫哈利，要我说，这是一个不讨人喜欢的普通名字。” “哦，是的。”德思礼先生说着，感到心里突然往下一沉。“不错，我也这么想。”他们上楼睡觉时，他就再也没有提到这个话题了。德思礼太太进浴室以后。德思 礼先生就轻手轻脚来到卧室窗前，看看前面的花园。那只猫还在原地，正目1/ 肯特郡在英格兰南部。约克郡在英格兰北部。丹地是英格兰北部海港。
2/ 指每年11月5日在英国举行的庆祝篝火之夜活动。
不转睛地盯着女贞路路口，好像在等待什么。
他是在想入非非吗?这一切会与波特一家有关吗?如果真有关系?? 如果最后真跟他们夫妇有关?? 那么，他认为他是承受不住的。
德思礼夫妇睡下了。德思礼太太很快就睡着了，德思礼先生却思绪万千，怎么也睡不着觉。不过在他入睡前，最后一个想法使他感到安慰：即使波特一家真的被卷 了进去，也没有理由牵连他和他太太。波特夫妇很清楚德思札夫妇对他们和他们那群人的看法。他打了个哈欠，翻过身去。不会影响他们的..他可是大错特错了。
德思礼先生迷迷糊糊，本来可能胡乱睡上一觉，可花园墙头上那只猫却没有丝毫睡意。它卧在墙头上，宛如一座雕像，纹丝不动，目不转睛地盯着女贞路远处的街 角。邻街的一辆汽车砰的一声关上车门，两只猫头鹰扑扇着从头顶上飞过，它也一动不动。实际上，快到午夜时，它才开始动了动。
猫一直眺望着的那个街角出现了一个男人，他来得那样突然，悄无声息，简直像是从地里冒出来的。猫尾巴抖动了一下，眼睛眯成了一条缝。
女贞路上从来没有见过这个男人。他个子瘦高，银发和银须长到都能够塞到腰带里了，凭这一点就可以断定他年纪已经很大了。他穿一件长袍，披一件掩到地的紫 色斗篷，登一双带搭扣的高跟靴子。半月形的眼镜后边二对湛蓝湛蓝的明亮眼睛闪闪放光。他的鼻子很长，但是扭歪了，看来至少断过两次。他的名字叫阿不思邓布 利多。
阿不思邓布利多似乎并没有意识到从他的名字到他的靴子，在他来到的这条街上都不受欢迎。他忙着在斗篷口袋里翻寻，好像找什么东西。他也 没有发现有人监视他，因为他突然抬头看见一直在街那头注视着他的那只猫，出于某种原因，他觉得这只猫的样子很好笑。他咯咯笑着，嘟哝说：“我早就该想到 了。”
他在里边衣袋里找出了他要找的东西，看起来像一只银制打火机。他把它轻轻弹开，高举起来，咔哒一声，离得最近的一盏路灯噗的一声熄灭 了。他又打了一下?? 第二盏灯也熄灭了。他用熄灯器打了十二次，整条街上只剩下远处两个小小的光点，那就是监视他的那只猫的两只眼睛。如果这时有人向窗外看，即使是眼尖的德思 礼太太，也不会看到马路上发生的一切。邓布利多把熄灯器放回斗篷里边的口袋里，之后就顺着街道向四号走去。他在墙头猫的身边坐下来。他没有看它，但过了一 会儿便跟它说起话来。
“真没想到会在这里见到您，麦格教授。”
他回头朝花斑猫微微一笑。花斑猫不见了，换成一个神情严肃的女人，戴一副方形眼镜，看起来跟猫眼睛周围的纹路一模一样。她也披了一件翠绿色斗篷，乌黑的头发挽成一个很紧的发髻。她显得非常激动。
“您怎么认出那是我?”她问。
-5-“我亲爱的教授，我从来没有见过一只猫像这样僵硬地待着。”
“您要是在砖墙上坐一整天，您也会变僵的。”麦格教授说。
“一整天?您本来应当参加庆祝会的呀?我一路来到这里，至少遇上了十二场欢快的聚会和庆祝活动。”
麦格教授气呼呼地哼了一声。
“哦，不错，人人都在庆贺，很好!”她恼火地说。“您以为他们会更小心谨慎，其实不然，连麻瓜们都注意到有什么事情发生了，都上了他们的电视新闻。”她 猛地把头转向德思礼家漆黑的起居室窗口。“我都听见了。成群的猫头鹰..流星雨..好了，他们也不是十足的傻瓜。有些事也会弓I起他们的注意。肯特郡下的 那场流星雨?? 我敢说准是迪歌干的。他本来就没多少头脑。”
“您不能责怪他们，”邓布利多心平气和地说，“十一年来值得我们庆贺的事太少了。”
“这我知道，”麦格教授气呼呼地说，“但这些不是冒险胡来的理由。他们也太不小心了，大白天跑到街上，也不穿上麻瓜们的衣服，还在那里传递消息。”
说到这里，她机敏地朝邓布利多斜瞟了一眼，似乎希望他能告诉她些什么，但邓布利多没有吱声，于是她接着说：“神秘人终于不见了，如果正好在他失踪的那一天，麻瓜们发现了我们的一切，那可真太奇妙了。我想他真的走了吧，邓布利多?”
“好像是这样，”邓布利多说，“我们应该感到欣慰。您来一块柠檬雪糕好吗?”
“一块什么?”“一块柠檬雪糕。这是麻瓜们的一种甜点。我很喜欢。” “不了，谢谢。”麦格教授冷冷地说，看来她认为现在不是吃柠檬雪糕的时候。“像我说的，即使‘神秘人’真的走了?? ”
“我亲爱的教授，像您这样的明白人，总该可以直呼他的大名吧?什么神秘人不神秘人的，全都是瞎扯淡?? 十一年了，我一直想方设法说服大家，直呼他本人的名字：伏地魔，”麦格教授打了个寒噤，可邓布利多在掰两块粘在一起的雪糕，似乎没有留意。“要是我们还继 续HLf神秘入神秘人的，一切就都乱套了。我看直呼伏地魔的大名也没有任何理由害怕。”
“我知道您不害怕，”麦格教授半是恼怒，半是夸赞地 说。“尽人皆知，您与众不同。神秘人?? 哦，好吧，伏地魔?? 惟一害怕的就是您。” “您太抬举我了。”邓布利多平静地说，“伏地魔拥有我永远也不会有的功力。”“那是因为您太?? 哦?? 太高尚了，不愿意运用它。” “幸亏这里很黑，庞弗雷夫人说她喜欢我的新耳套以后，我还没有像现在这样脸红过呢。”
麦格教授狠狠地瞪了邓布利多一眼，说：“猫头鹰和沸沸扬扬的谣言毫不相干。您知道大伙都在说什么吗?说他为什么失踪?说最终是什么制止了他?”
这一来，麦格教授似乎点到了她急于想讨论的问题核心，这也正是她在冰冷的砖墙上守候了一整天的原因。不管她是一只猫，或是一个女人，她从来都不曾用现在 这样锐利的眼光看邓布利多。显然，不管大家怎么说，只有从邓布利多口中得到证实，她才会相信。邓布利多却挑了另一块柠檬雪糕，没有答话。
“他们说，”她不依不饶地说，“昨天夜里伏地魔绕到高锥克山谷。他们是去找波特夫妇的，谣传莉莉和詹姆波特都?? 都?? 他们都已经?? 死了。”
邓布利多低下头。麦格教授倒抽了一口气。
“这?? 这是真的吗?莉莉和詹姆..我不相信..我也不愿相信..哦，阿不思..”
邓布利多伸手拍了拍她的肩膀。“我知道..我知道..”他心情沉重地说。
麦格教授接着往下说，她的声音颤抖了。“还不止这些。他们说，他还想杀波特夫妇的儿子哈利，可是没有成功。他杀不死那个孩子。没有人知道为什么，也没有人知道怎么会杀不死。不过他们说，当伏地魔杀不死哈利的时候，他的功法就不知怎的失灵了?? 所以他才走掉了。”
邓布利多愁眉不展地点了点头。
“这?? 这是真的吗?”麦格教授用颤巍巍的声音说。“他做了这么多坏事..杀了这么多人..可竟然杀不了一个孩子?这简直令人震惊..我们想了那么多办法去阻止他..可苍天在上，哈利究竟是怎么幸免于难的呢?”
“我们只能猜测，”邓布利多说，“我们可能永远也不会知道。”
麦格教授掏出一块花边手帕轻轻拭了拭镜片后边的眼睛。邓布利多深深吸了一口气，从衣袋里掏出一块金表，认真看起来。那只表样子很奇怪，有十二根指针，却 没有数字，还有一些小星沿着表盘边缘转动。邓布利多显然看明白了，他把表放回衣袋，说：“海格肯定迟到了。顺便问一句，我想，大概是他告诉您我要到这里来 的吧?”
“是的，”麦格教授说，“可去的地方多了，您为什么偏偏要到这里来呢?我想，您大概不会告诉我吧?’'“我是来接哈利，把他送到他姨妈姨父家的。现在他们是他惟一的亲人了。”
“您不会是指?? 您不可能是指住在这里的那家人吧?”她噌地跳起来，指着四号那一家。“邓布利多?? 您可不能这么做。我观察他们一整天了。您找不到比他们更不像你我这样的人了。他们还有一个儿子?? 我看见他在大街上一路用脚踢他母亲， 吵着要糖吃。要哈利波特住在这里?!”
-7-“这对他是最合适的地方了。”邓布利多坚定地说，“等他长大一些，他的姨妈姨父会向他说明一切。我给他们写了一封信。”
“一封信?”麦格教授有气无力地重复说，又坐回到墙头上。“邓布利多，您当真认为用一封信您就能把一切都解释清楚吗?这些人永远也不会理解他的!他会成 名的?? 一个传奇人物?? 如果将来有一天把今天定为哈利波特日，我一点儿也不会觉得奇怪?? 会有许多写哈利的书?? 我们世界里的每一个孩子都会知道他的名字!”
“说得对极了，”邓布利多说，他那半月形眼镜上方的目光显得非常严肃，“这足以使任何一个孩子冲昏头脑。不会走路、不会说话的时候就一举成名!甚至为他根本不记得的事情而成名!让他在远离过去的地方成长，直到他能接受这一切，再让他知道，不是更好吗?”
麦格教授张开嘴，改变了看法。她咽了口唾沫，接着说：“是啊?? 是啊，当然您是对的。可怎么把孩子弄到这里来呢，邓布利多?”她突然朝他的斗篷看了一眼，好像他会把哈利藏在斗篷里。
“海格会把他带到这里来。”，“把这么重要的事情托付给海格去办?? 您觉得?? 明智吗?，，“我可以把我的身家性命托付给他。”邓布利多说。
“我不是说他心术不正，”麦格教授不以为然地说，“可是您不能不看到他很粗心。他总是?? 那是什么声音?”
一阵低沉的隆隆声划破了周围的寂静。当他们来回搜索街道上是否有汽车前灯的灯光时，响声越来越大，最后变成一阵吼叫。他们抬眼望着天空，只见一辆巨型摩托自天丽降，停在他们面前的街道上。
如果说摩托是一辆巨型摩托，那么骑车人就更不在话下了。那人比普通人高一倍，宽度至少有五倍，似乎显得出奇地高大，而且粗野?? 纠结在一起的乱蓬蓬的黑色长发和胡须几乎遮住了大部分脸庞，那双手有垃圾桶盖那么大，一双穿着皮靴的脚像两只小海豚。他那肌肉发达的粗壮双臂抱着一卷毛 毯。
“海格，”邓布利多说，听起来像松了一口气，“你总算来了。这辆摩托车你是从哪里弄来的?”
“借来的，邓布利多教授，”巨人一边小心翼翼地跨下摩托车，一边说，“是小天狼星布莱克借给我的。我把他带来了，先生。”
“没有遇到麻烦吧?”
“没有，先生?? 房子几乎全毁了。我们赶在麻瓜们从四面八方汇拢来之前把他抱了出来。当我们飞越布里斯托尔 1/ 上空的时候，他睡着了..”
1/ 布里斯托尔，英格兰西南部港甜城市．艾文郡首府．临布里斯托尔海峡。
邓布利多和麦格教授朝那卷毛毯俯下身去。他们看见毛毯里裹着一个男婴，睡得正香。孩子前额上一绺乌黑的头发下边有一处刀伤，伤口形状很奇怪，像一道闪电。
“这地方就是?? ”麦格教授低声说。
“是的，”邓布利多说，“他一辈子都要带着这道伤疤了。”
“你不能想想办法吗?邓布利多?”
“即使有办法，我也不会去做。伤疤今后可能会有用处。我左边膝盖上就有一个疤，是一幅完整的伦敦地铁图。好了?? 把他给我吧，海格?? 咱们最好还是把事情办妥。”
邓布利多把哈利拖在怀里，朝德思礼家走去。
“我能?? 我能跟他告别一下吗?先生?”海格问。
他把毛发蓬乱的大头凑到哈利脸上，给了他一个胡子拉碴、痒乎乎的吻。接着海格突然像一只受伤的狗号叫了一声。
“嘘!”麦格教授嘘了他一声，“你会把麻瓜们吵醒的!”
“对一对一对不起，”海格抽抽搭搭地说，掏出一块污渍斑斑的大手帕，把脸埋在手帕里，“我一我实在受一受不了?? 莉莉和詹姆死了?? 可怜的小哈利又要住在麻瓜们家里?? ”
“是啊，是啊，是令人难过，可你得把握住自己，不然我们会被发现的。”麦格教授小声说，轻轻拍了一下海格的臂膀。这时邓布利多正跨过花园低矮的院墙，朝 大门走去。他轻轻把哈利放到大门口的台阶上，从斗篷里掏出一封信，塞到哈利的毛毯里，然后回到另外两个人身边。他们三人站在那里对小小的毯子注视了足有一 分钟。海格的肩膀在抖动，麦格教授拼命眨眼，邓布利多一向闪光的眼睛也暗淡无光了。
“好了，”邓布利多终于说，“到此结束了。我们没有必要继续待在这里。咱们还是去参加庆祝会吧。”
“是啊，”海格咕哝说，“我得去把车还给小天狼星。晚安，麦格教授?? 晚安，邓布利多教授。”
海格用外衣衣袖揩了揩流泪的眼睛，跨上摩托，踩着了发动机，随着一声吼叫，摩托车腾空而起，消失在夜色里。
“希望很快和您见面，麦格教授。”邓布利多朝麦格教授点头说。她擤了擤鼻子作为回答。
邓布利多转身来到街上。他在街角上掏出银制熄灯器，咔哒弹了一下，只见十二个火球又回到各自的路灯上，女贞路顿时映照出一片橙黄，他看见一只花斑猫正悄悄从街那头的拐角溜掉了。他恰好可以看见4号台阶上放着的那个用毯子裹着的小包。
-9-“祝你好运，哈利。”他喃喃地说，噔地厢脚跟一转身，只听斗篷飕的一声，他已经消失得无影无踪了。
微风拂动着女贞路两旁整洁的树篱，街道在漆黑的天空下寂静无声，一尘不染，谁也不会想到这里会发生骇人听闻的事情。哈利波特在毯子包里翻了个身，但他并 没有醒。他的一只小手正好放在那封信旁边。他还继续沉睡，一点不知道他很特殊，不知道他名气很大，不知道再过几小时，等德思礼太太开大门放奶瓶时，他会被 她的尖叫声吵醒；更不会知道，在未来的几个星期，他表哥达力会对他连捅带戳，连掐带拧..他也不可能知道，就在此刻，全国人都在秘密聚会。人们高举酒杯悄 声说：“祝福大难不死的孩子?? 哈利．波特!”
...
ZOOM : PRESS CTRL key + MOUSE SCROLL
CHAPTER ONE
The Boy Who Lived
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that 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 name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"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 the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.
"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 was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But -- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
"It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back 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?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"
ZOOM : PRESS CTRL key + MOUSE SCROLL
CHAPTER ONE
The Boy Who Lived
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that 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 name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"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 the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.
"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 was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But -- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
"It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back 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?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"
sketchpad :
iOS => Safari
Android => Chrome
1 comment:
Pop-up Chinese dictionaries : get a browser extension (add-on)
• Zhongwen pop-up
• Perapera-kun Chinese
Post a Comment
Moderated, peaceful and not commercial exchange between visitors here.