为了以后教孩子英语，先解析几篇容易阅读的世界名作，本文会常态更新

HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER’S STONE BY J. K. ROWLING SINCE 06.1997

CHAPTER 1
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.

住在槐树路4号的德思礼先生和德思礼夫人非常骄傲地说，他们非常感谢你，他们完全是正常人。
单词解释：
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley：德思礼先生和德思礼夫人。这里的“Mr.”和“Mrs.”是尊称，分别用于称呼已婚的男性和女性。
of number four, Privet Drive：住在槐树路4号。这里的“of”表示“...的”，“number four”指4号，“Privet Drive”是街名，直译为“槐树路”。
were proud to say：非常骄傲地说。这里的“proud”表示“骄傲的”，“to say”表示这个动作的目的是为了说。
that they were perfectly normal：他们完全是正常人。这里的“perfectly”表示“完全地，完全地”，“normal”表示“正常的”。
thank you very much：非常感谢你。这是一种礼貌的表达方式，表示感激。
整句话表达了德思礼夫妇对自己完全正常的自我认知，并对此感到非常骄傲。这也是《哈利·波特》系列小说中对德思礼夫妇的性格特点的初步描绘，即他们非常注重正常和平凡，与哈利的魔法世界形成了鲜明对比。

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.
他们是那种你绝对不会想到会卷入任何奇怪或神秘事情的人，因为他们根本就不相信这种无稽之谈。
单词解释：
They：他们，指代德思礼夫妇。
were：是，表示德思礼夫妇的状态或特征。
the last people：最后的人，这里的意思是“最不可能会”或“最不可能的人”。
you’d expect：你会期待或期望。这里的“you’d”是“you would”的缩写。
to be involved in：参与或卷入。这里表示成为某种活动或事件的参与者。
anything strange or mysterious：任何奇怪或神秘的事物。这里的“anything”表示“任何事物”，“strange”表示“奇怪的”，“mysterious”表示“神秘的”。
because：因为，表示原因。
they just didn’t hold with such nonsense：他们根本就不相信这种无稽之谈。这里的“hold with”是一个固定搭配，表示“同意或支持”，“such nonsense”则表示“这种无稽之谈”。
整句话表达的是德思礼夫妇在大多数人眼中是普通且正常的，因此人们不会期待他们与任何奇怪或神秘的事物有关。同时，这也暗示了他们对神秘或奇怪事物的怀疑和不信任

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 swooping 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. Itmight 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, norwhen 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 PutOuter, 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 exactlythe 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 You-Know-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 YouKnow-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 its 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 Potters’ 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 himkicking 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! Can’t 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, sir,” 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, its 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’d best get this bike
away. 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 astonishingthings 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!”