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哈利波特英文书（1）

[这个贴子最后由冰晶月在 2002/11/03 03:31pm 编辑]

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
    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!"
    CHAPTER TWO
    THE VANISHING GLASS
    Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to
find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly
changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and
lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept
into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it
had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news
report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really
showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots
of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing
different-colored bonnets -- but Dudley Dursley was no longer a
baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his
first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game
with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room
held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.
    Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not
for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice
that made the first noise of the day.
    "Up! Get up! Now!"
    Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.
    "Up!" she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen
and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He
rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been
having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle
in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.
    His aunt was back outside the door.
    "Are you up yet?" she demanded.
    "Nearly," said Harry.
    "Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And
don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's
birthday."
    Harry groaned.
    "What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.
    "Nothing, nothing..."
    Dudley's birthday -- how could he have forgotten? Harry got
slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair
under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them
on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs
was full of them, and that was where he slept.
    When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The
table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It
looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted,
not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly
why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley
was very fat and hated exercise -- unless of course it involved
punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he
couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was very fast.
    Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard,
but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked
even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to
wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times
bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair,
and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a
lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him
on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance
was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt
of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the
first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was
how he had gotten it.
    "In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And
don't ask questions."
    Don't ask questions -- that was the first rule for a quiet life
with the Dursleys.
    Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over
the bacon.
    "Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.
    About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his
newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have
had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put
    together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that
way -- all over the place.
    Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen
with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a
large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick
blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia
often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel -- Harry often said
that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.
    Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was
difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting
his presents. His face fell.
    "Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and
father. "That's two less than last year."
    "Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see,
it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."
    "All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the
face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began
wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned
the table over.
    Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said
quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out
today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right''
    Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally
he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty ... thirty..."
    "Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.
    "Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest
parcel. "All right then."
    Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth,
just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.
    At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to
answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the
racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen
new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold
wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking
both angry and worried.
    "Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She
can't take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction.
    Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a
leap. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a
friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants,
or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a
mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The
whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at
photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned.
    "Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as
though he'd planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that
Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded
himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles,
Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.
    "We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.
    "Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."
    The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he
wasn't there -- or rather, as though he was something very nasty
that couldn't understand them, like a slug.
    "What about what's-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?"
    "On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.
    "You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be
able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe
even have a go on Dudley's computer).
    Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon.
    "And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.
    "I won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't
listening.
    "I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia
slowly, "... and leave him in the car...."
    "That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone...."
    Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying --
it had been years since he'd really cried -- but he knew that if he
screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything
he wanted.
    "Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your
special day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.
    "I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled
between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp- spoils everything!" He
shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.
    Just then, the doorbell rang -- "Oh, good Lord, they're
here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically -- and a moment later, Dudley's
best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was
a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who
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.
    CHAPTER THREE
    THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE
    The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his
longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his
cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had
already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control
airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old
Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.
    Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping
Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis,
Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was
the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest
of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport:
Harry Hunting.
    This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the
house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays,
where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would
be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his
life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle
Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going
there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High,
the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.
    "They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at
Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"
    "No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything
as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran,
before Dudley could work out what he'd said.
    One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his
Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn
't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping
over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them
as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of
chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.
    That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the
family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon
tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called
boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each
other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be
good training for later life.
    As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon
said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt
Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her
Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't
trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already
have cracked from trying not to laugh.
    There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when
Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large
metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of
what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.
    "What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as
they always did if he dared to ask a question.
    "Your new school uniform," she said.
    Harry looked in the bowl again.
    "Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."
    "DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of
Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone
else's when I've finished."
    Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to
argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how
he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High -- like he
was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.
    Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses
because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened
his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which
he carried everywhere, on the table.
    They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on
the doormat.
    "Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.
    "Make Harry get it."
    "Get the mail, Harry."
    "Make Dudley get it."
    "Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."
    Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three
things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister
Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope
that looked like a bill, and -- a letter for Harry.
    Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a
giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to
him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives -- he didn't
belong to the library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for
books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there
could be no mistake:
    Mr. H. Potter
    The Cupboard under the Stairs
    4 Privet Drive
    Little Whinging
    Surrey
    The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment,
and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.
    Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a
purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger,
and a snake surrounding a large letter H.
    "Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are
you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.
    Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He
handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly
began to open the yellow envelope.
    Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and
flipped over the postcard.
    "Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk. --."
    "Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"
    Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was
written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was
jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.
    "That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.
    "Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the
letter open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from
red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't
stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.
    "P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.
    Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon
held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and
read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might
faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.
    "Vernon! Oh my goodness -- Vernon!"
    They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that
Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to
being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his
Smelting stick.
    "I want to read that letter," he said loudly. want to read it,"
said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."
    "Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the
letter back inside its envelope.
    Harry didn't move.
    I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.
    "Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.
    "OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by
the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the
kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious
but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won,
so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach
to listen at the crack between door and floor.
    "Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look
at the address -- how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You
don't think they're watching the house?"
    "Watching -- spying -- might be following us," muttered Uncle
Vernon wildly.
    "But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them
we don't want --"
    Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and
down the kitchen.
    "No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get
an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....
    "But --"
    "I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when
we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"
    That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did
something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.
    "Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had
squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"
    "No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon
shortly. "I have burned it."
    "It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard
on it."
    "SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell
from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his
face into a smile, which looked quite painful.
    "Er -- yes, Harry -- about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have
been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think
it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.
    "Why?" said Harry.
    "Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff
upstairs, now."
    The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon
and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister,
Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the
toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only
took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the
cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around
him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera
was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over
the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever
television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite
program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had
once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air
rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley
had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only
things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched.
    From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I
don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out...."
    Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have
given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his
cupboard with that letter than up here without it.
    Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was
in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick,
been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise
through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room
back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly
wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt
Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.
    When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to
be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging
things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he
shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom,
4 Privet Drive --'"
    With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and
ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to
wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which
was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon
around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting,
in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon
straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched
in his hand.
    "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at
Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go."
    Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had
moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received
his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time
he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan.
    The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next
morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He
mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on
any of the lights.
    He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet
Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered
as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door --
    Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and
squashy on the doormat -- something alive!
    Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that
the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon
had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag,
clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been
trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then
told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably
off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had
arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three
letters addressed in green ink.
    I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters
into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that
day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.
    "See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails,
"if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."
    "I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."
    "Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're
not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail
with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
    On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As
they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under
the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through
the small window in the downstairs bathroom.
    Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the
letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks
around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed
"Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises.
    On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters
to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside
each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had
handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle
Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the
dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded
the letters in her food processor.
    "Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked
Harry in amazement.
    On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table
looking tired and rather ill, but happy.
    "No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread
marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today --"
    Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and
caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or
forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The
Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.
    "Out! OUT!"
    Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into
the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms
over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could
hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the
walls and floor.
    "That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but
pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you
all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just
pack some clothes. No arguments!"
    He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that
no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way
through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward
the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had
hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack
his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.
    They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask
where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a
sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em
off... shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.
    They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was
howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry,
he'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd
never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.
    Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on
the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with
twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed
awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of
passing cars and wondering....
    They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast
for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner
of the hotel came over to their table.
    "'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an
'undred of these at the front desk."
    She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:
    Mr. H. Potter
    Room 17
    Railview Hotel
    Cokeworth
    Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his
hand out of the way. The woman stared.
    "I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and
following her from the dining room.
    Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia
suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to
hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He
drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around,
shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The
same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across
a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.
    "Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully
late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked
them all inside the car, and disappeared.
    It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud
ley sniveled.
    "It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on
tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. "
    Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday --
and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week,
because of television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh
birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last
year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle
Vernon's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day.
    Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying
a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked
what he'd bought.
    "Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"
    It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing
at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of
the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One
thing was certain, there was no television in there.
    "Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully,
clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed
to lend us his boat!"
    A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with
a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray
water below them.
    "I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so
all aboard!"
    It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down
their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed
like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and
sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.
    The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed,
the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the
fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.
    Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and
four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just
smoked and shriveled up.
    "Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said
cheerfully.
    He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood
a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry
privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.
    As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray
from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce
wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy
blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the
moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed
next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he
could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
    The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went
on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get
comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were
drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The
lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of
the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes'
time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the
Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer
was now.
    Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped
the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if
it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would
be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal
one somehow.
    Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock
like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching
noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?
    One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty
... ten... nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him --
three... two... one...
    BOOM.
    The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring
at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
    CHAPTER FOUR
    THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS
    BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the
cannon?" he said stupidly.
    There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding
into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands -- now they knew
what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them.
    "Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you -- I'm armed!"
    There was a pause. Then --
    SMASH!
    The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its
hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.
    A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was
almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild,
tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black
beetles under all the hair.
    The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his
head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door,
and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm
outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.
    "Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an
easy journey..."
    He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.
    "Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger.
    Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was
crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.
    "An' here's Harry!" said the giant.
    Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw
that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.
    "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh
look a lot like yet dad, but yeh've got yet mom's eyes."
    Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.
    I demand that you leave at once, sit!" he said. "You are breaking
and entering!"
    "Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he
reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle
Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been
made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.
    Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being
trodden on.
    "Anyway -- Harry," said the giant, turning his back on the
Dursleys, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here --
I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."
    From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly
squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a
large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on
it in green icing.
    Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the
words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was,
"Who are you?"
    The giant chuckled.
    "True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of
Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."
    He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.
    "What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands
together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it,
mind."
    His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in
it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see
what he was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was
a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering
light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk
into a hot bath.
    The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his
weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of
his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker,
a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid
that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut
was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a
thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat,
juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a
little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives
you, Dudley."
    The giant chuckled darkly.
    "Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley,
don' worry."
    He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never
tasted anything so wonderful, but he still couldn't take his eyes
off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything,
he said, "I'm sorry, but I still don't really know who you are."
    The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back
of his hand.
    "Call me Hagrid," he said, "everyone does. An' like I told yeh,
I'm Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts -- yeh'll know all about Hogwarts,
o' course.
    "Er -- no," said Harry.
    Hagrid looked shocked.
    "Sorry," Harry said quickly.
    "Sony?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who
shrank back into the shadows. "It' s them as should be sorry! I knew
yeh weren't gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't
even know abou' Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder
where yet parents learned it all?"
    "All what?" asked Harry.
    "ALL WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!"
    He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the
whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.
    "Do you mean ter tell me," he growled at the Dursleys, "that
this boy -- this boy! -- knows nothin' abou' -- about ANYTHING?"
    Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school,
after all, and his marks weren't bad.
    "I know some things," he said. "I can, you know, do math and
stuff." But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, "About our world,
I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents' world."
    "What world?"
    Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.
    "DURSLEY!" he boomed.
    Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that
sounded like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.
    "But yeh must know about yet mom and dad," he said. "I mean,
they're famous. You're famous."
    "What? My -- my mom and dad weren't famous, were they?"
    "Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran his fingers
through his hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.
    "Yeh don' know what yeh are?" he said finally.
    Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.
    "Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sit! I forbid you to
tell the boy anything!"
    A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the
furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every
syllable trembled with rage.
    "You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter
Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it,
Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?"
    "Kept what from me?" said Harry eagerly.
    "STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.
    Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.
    "Ah, go boil yet heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry --
yet a wizard."
    There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling
wind could be heard.
    "-- a what?" gasped Harry.
    "A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the
sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un,
I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad
like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time
yeh read yer letter."
    Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish
envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor,
Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:
    HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
    Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
    (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
    Dear Mr. Potter,
    We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed
a list of all necessary books and equipment.
    Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than
July 31. Yours sincerely,
    Minerva McGonagall,
    Deputy Headmistress
    Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and he
couldn't decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered,
"What does it mean, they await my owl?"
    "Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a
hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse,
and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl --
a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl -- a long quill, and a
roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled
a note that Harry could read upside down:
    Dear Professor Dumbledore,
    Given Harry his letter.
    Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.
    Weather's horrible. Hope you're Well.

哈利波特英文书（1）

？？？
上外语课呀？？？——哈哈！！！

哈利波特英文书（1）

Hagrid
    Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped
it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the
storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal
as talking on the telephone.
    Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.
    "Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon,
still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.
    "He's not going," he said.
    Hagrid grunted.
    "I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said.
    "A what?" said Harry, interested.
    "A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like
thern. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest
Muggles I ever laid eyes on."
    "We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish,"
said Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!"
    "You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a -- a wizard?"
    "Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course we
knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh,
she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that
school-and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog
spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her
for what she was -- a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no,
it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch
in the family!"
    She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It
seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.
    "Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married
and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just
as strange, just as -- as -- abnormal -- and then, if you please,
she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"
    Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said,
"Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!"
    "CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the
Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill
Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter
not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his
name!" "But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently.
    The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious.
    "I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I
had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin'
hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know
if I'm the right person ter tell yeh -- but someone 3 s gotta --
yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'."
    He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.
    "Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh -- mind,
I can't tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it...."
    He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then
said, "It begins, I suppose, with -- with a person called -- but it's
incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows --"
    "Who? "
    "Well -- I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No
one does."
    "Why not?"
    "Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey,
this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As
bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..."
    Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.
    "Could you write it down?" Harry suggested.
    "Nah -can't spell it. All right -- Voldemort. " Hagrid
shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this -- this wizard,
about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em,
too -- some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause
he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't
know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or
witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course,
some stood up to him -- an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the
only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only
one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school,
not jus' then, anyway.
    "Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I
ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose
the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side
before... probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want
anythin' ter do with the Dark Side.
    "Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted
'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village
where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just
a year old. He came ter yer house an' -- an' --"
    Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief
and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.
    "Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad -- knew yer mum an' dad,
an' nicer people yeh couldn't find -- anyway..."
    "You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then -- an' this is the real
myst'ry of the thing -- he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter
make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin'
by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that
mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get
when a Powerful, evil curse touches yeh -- took care of yer mum an'
dad an' yer house, even -- but it didn't work on you, an' that's why
yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em,
no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an'
wizards of the age -- the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts --
an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."
    Something very painful was going on in Harry's mind. As Hagrid's
story came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green
light, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before -- and he
remembered something else, for the first time in his life: a high,
cold, cruel laugh.
    Hagrid was watching him sadly.
    "Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's
orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."
    "Load of old tosh," said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had
almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly
seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and
his fists were clenched.
    "Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's
something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating
wouldn't have cured -- and as for all this about your parents,
well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off
without them in my opinion -- asked for all they got, getting mixed
up with these wizarding types -- just what I expected, always knew
they'd come to a sticky end --"
    But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a
battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle
Vernon like a sword, he said, "I'm warning you, Dursley -I'm warning
you -- one more word... "
    In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a
bearded giant, Uncle Vernon's courage failed again; he flattened
himself against the wall and fell silent.
    "That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back
down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.
    Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.
    "But what happened to Vol--, sorry -- I mean, You-Know-Who?"
    "Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he
tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest
myst'ry, see... he was gettin' more an' more powerful -- why'd he go?
    "Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had
enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there,
bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his
side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don~
reckon they could've done if he was comin' back.
    "Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his
powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished
him, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't
counted on -- I dunno what it was, no one does -- but somethin'
about you stumped him, all right."
    Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in
his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt
quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How
could he possibly be? He'd spent his life being clouted by Dudley,
and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a
wizard, why hadn't they been turned into warty toads every time
they'd tried to lock him in his cupboard? If he'd once defeated
the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had always been
able to kick him around like a football?
    "Hagrid," he said quietly, "I think you must have made a
mistake. I don't think I can be a wizard."
    To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.
    "Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared
or angry?"
    Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about
it... every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle
furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or
angry... chased by Dudley's gang, he had somehow found himself out
of their reach... dreading going to school with that ridiculous
haircut, he'd managed to make it grow back... and the very last
time Dudley had hit him, hadn't he got his revenge, without even
realizing he was doing it? Hadn't he set a boa constrictor on him?
    Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was
positively beaming at him.
    "See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a wizard -- you wait,
you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."
    But Uncle Vernon wasn't going to give in without a fight.
    "Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to
Stonewall High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters
and he needs all sorts of rubbish -- spell books and wands and --"
    "If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop
him," growled Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter' s son goin'
ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was
born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in
the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be
with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under
the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had Albus Dumbled--"
    "I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL To TEACH HIM MAGIC
TRICKS!" yelled Uncle Vernon.
    But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and
whirled it over his head, "NEVER," he thundered, "- INSULT- ALBUS-
DUMBLEDORE- IN- FRONT- OF- ME!"
    He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point
at Dudley -- there was a flash of violet light, a sound like
a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was
dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom,
howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly
pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers.
    Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the
other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed
the door behind them.
    Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.
    "Shouldn'ta lost me temper," he said ruefully, "but it didn't
work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was
so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do."
    He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.
    "Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at
Hogwarts," he said. "I'm -- er -- not supposed ter do magic,
strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an'
get yer letters to yeh an' stuff -- one o' the reasons I was so
keen ter take on the job
    "Why aren't you supposed to do magic?" asked Harry.
    "Oh, well -- I was at Hogwarts meself but I -- er -- got
expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped
me wand in half an' everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as
gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore." "Why were you expelled?"
    "It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," said
Hagrid loudly. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that."
    He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.
    "You can kip under that," he said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a
bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."
    CHAPTER FIVE
    DIAGON ALLEY
    Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it
was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.
    "It was a dream, he told himself firmly. "I dreamed a
giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for
wizards. When I open my eyes I'll be at home in my cupboard."
    There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.
    And there's Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought,
his heart sinking. But he still didn't open his eyes. It had been
such a good dream.
    Tap. Tap. Tap.
    "All right," Harry mumbled, "I'm getting up."
    He sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full
of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the
collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window,
a newspaper held in its beak.
    Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large
balloon was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window
and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper
on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto
the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat.
    "Don't do that."
    Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its
beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.
    "Hagrid!" said Harry loudly. "There's an owl
    "Pay him," Hagrid grunted into the sofa.
    "What?"
    "He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the
pockets." Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets --
bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs,
teabags... finally, Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking
coins.
    "Give him five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily.
    "Knuts?"
    "The little bronze ones."
    Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held
out his leg so Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch
tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.
    Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.
    "Best be Off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London
an' buy all yer stuff fer school."
    Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He
had just thought of something that made him feel as though the
happy balloon inside him had got a puncture.
    "Um -- Hagrid?"
    "Mm?" said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.
    "I haven't got any money -- and you heard Uncle Vernon last
night ... he won't pay for me to go and learn magic."
    "Don't worry about that," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching
his head. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"
    "But if their house was destroyed --"
    "They didn' keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop
fer us is Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Have a sausage, they're not
bad cold -- an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake,
neither."
    "Wizards have banks?"
    "Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins."
    Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.
    "Goblins?"
    "Yeah -- so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh
that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place
in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe -- 'cept maybe
Hogwarts. As a matter o' fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer
Dumbledore. Hogwarts business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "He
usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin' you gettin'
things from Gringotts -- knows he can trust me, see.
    "Got everythin'? Come on, then."
    Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite
clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon
had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after
the storm.
    "How did you get here?" Harry asked, looking around for another
boat. "Flew," said Hagrid.
    "Flew?"
    "Yeah -- but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic
now I've got yeh."
    They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid,
trying to imagine him flying.
    "Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Harry
another of his sideways looks. "If I was ter -- er -- speed things
up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"
    "Of course not," said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid
pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of
the boat, and they sped off toward land.
    "Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?" Harry asked.
    "Spells -- enchantments," said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper
as he spoke. "They say there's dragons guardin' the highsecurity
vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way -- Gringotts is hundreds
of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh'd die
of hunger tryin' ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer
hands on summat."
    Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his
newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon
that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was
very difficult, he'd never had so many questions in his life.
    "Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered,
turning the page.
    "There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked, before he could
stop himself.
    "'Course," said Hagrid. "They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister,
0 ' course, but he'd never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge
got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore
with owls every morning, askin' fer advice."
    "But what does a Ministry of Magic do?"
    "Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that
there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country."
    "Why?"
    "Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to
their problems. Nah, we're best left alone."
    At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor
wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the
stone steps onto the street.
    Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the
little town to the station. Harry couldn't blame them. Not only was
Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly
ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that,
Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?"
    "Hagrid," said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up,
"did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?"
    "Well, so they say," said Hagrid. "Crikey, I'd like a dragon."
    "You'd like one?"
    "Wanted one ever since I was a kid -- here we go."
    They had reached the station. There was a train to London in
five minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand "Muggle money," as
he called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.
    People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two
seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.
    "Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as he counted
stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.
    "Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything
yeh need."
    Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the
night before, and read:
    HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
    UNIFORM
    First-year students will require:
    1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
    2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
    3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
    4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
    Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags
    COURSE BOOKS
    All students should have a copy of each of the following:
    The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
    A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
    Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
    A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch
    One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
    Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
    Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
    The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
    OTHER EQUIPMENT
    wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set
    glass or crystal phials
    telescope set
    brass scales
    Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
    PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR
OWN BROOMSTICKS
    "Can we buy all this in London?" Harry wondered aloud.
    "If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.
    Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed
to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting
there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the
Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small
and the trains too slow.
    "I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," he said
as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling
road lined with shops.
    Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Harry had
to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music
stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked
as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary
street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of
wizard gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops
that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some
huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn't known
that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he might have thought so;
yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told him so far was
unbelievable, Harry couldn't help trusting him.
    "This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky
Cauldron. It's a famous place."
    It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it
out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying
by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on
one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the
Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling
that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this,
Hagrid had steered him inside.
    For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women
were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One
of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was
talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a
toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked
in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him,
and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"
    "Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping
his great hand on Harry's shoulder and making Harry's knees buckle.
    "Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this --
can this be --?"
    The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.
    "Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry
Potter... what an honor."
    He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and
seized his hand, tears in his eyes.
    "Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."
    Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The
old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had
gone out. Hagrid was beaming.
    Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment,
Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky
Cauldron.
    "Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you
at last."
    "So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."
    "Always wanted to shake your hand -- I'm all of a flutter."
    "Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name,
Dedalus Diggle."
    "I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle's top
hat fell off in his excitement. "You bowed to me once in a shop."
    "He remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at
everyone. "Did you hear that? He remembers me!" Harry shook hands
again and again -- Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.
    A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of
his eyes was twitching.
    "Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell
will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."
    "P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's
hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you."
    "What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"
    "D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor
Quirrell, as though he'd rather not think about it. "N-not that
you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously. "You'll be
g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up
a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the
very thought.
    But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to
himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At
last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.
    "Must get on -- lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."
    Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Hagrid
led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard,
where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.
    Hagrid grinned at Harry.
    "Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor
Quirrell was tremblin' ter meet yeh -- mind you, he's usually
tremblin'."
    "Is he always that nervous?"
    "Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was
    studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some
firsthand experience.... They say he met vampires in the Black
Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag -- never
been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own
subject now, where's me umbrella?"
    Vampires? Hags? Harry's head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile,
was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.
    "Three up... two across he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry."
    He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.
    The brick he had touched quivered -- it wriggled -- in the
middle, a small hole appeared -- it grew wider and wider -- a second
later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an
archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.
    "Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley."
    He grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the
archway. Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway
shrink instantly back into solid wall.
    The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the
nearest shop. Cauldrons -- All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver
-- Self-Stirring -- Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
    "Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get
yer money first."
    Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head
in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at
everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people
doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was
shaking her head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen
Sickles an ounce, they're mad...."
    A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign
saying Eeylops Owl Emporium -- Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and
Snowy. Several boys of about Harry's age had their noses pressed
against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard
one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand -- fastest ever --"
There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange
silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with
barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell
books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of
the moon....
    "Gringotts," said Hagrid.
    They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the
other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors,
wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was -
    "Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked
up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head
shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard
and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they
walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver
this time, with words engraved upon them:
    Enter, stranger, but take heed
    Of what awaits the sin of greed,
    For those who take, but do not earn,
    Must pay most dearly in their turn.
    So if you seek beneath our floors
    A treasure that was never yours,
    Thief, you have been warned, beware
    Of finding more than treasure there.
    "Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.
    A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they
were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting
on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers,
weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through
eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall,
and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid
and Harry made for the counter.
    "Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take
some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."
    "You have his key, Sir?"
    "Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying
his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog
biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled
his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile
of rubies as big as glowing coals.
    "Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.
    The goblin looked at it closely.
    "That seems to be in order."
    "An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,"
said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the
YouKnow-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."
    The goblin read the letter carefully.
    "Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have
Someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"
    Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all
the dog