哈利波特Chapter One(4)

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“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! Can 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, 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!”
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