初中1年级 - 小说 阅读指导

　　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."