Prática de Shadowing: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone Chapter 1 Read Aloud - Aprenda a falar inglês com vídeo
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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
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Chapter 1.
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The boy who lived, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of No. 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal.
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Thank you very much.
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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.
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Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.
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He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache.
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Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck,
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which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours.
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The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley, and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.
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The Dursleys had everything they wanted but they also had a secret and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it.
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They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.
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Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister but they hadn't met for several years.
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In fact Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister
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because her sister and her good -for -nothing husband were as un -Dursley -ish as it was possible to be.
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The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Potters arrived in the street.
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The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son too, but they had never even seen him.
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This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away.
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They didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
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When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest
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that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country.
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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.
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None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
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At half -past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed,
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because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
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Little tyke, chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house.
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He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
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It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar, a cat reading a map.
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For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen, then he jerked his head around to look again.
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There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight.
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What could he have been thinking of?
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It must have been a trick of the light.
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Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat.
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It stared back.
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As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror.
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It was now reading the sign that said, Privet Drive, No, looking at the sign.
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Cats couldn't read maps or signs.
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Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind.
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As he drove toward town, he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
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But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else.
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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.
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People in cloaks.
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Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes the get -ups you saw on young people.
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He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
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He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by.
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They were whispering excitedly together.
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Mr. Dursley was enraged to see
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that a couple of them weren't young at all why
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that man had to be older than he was and wearing an emerald green cloak, the nerve of him.
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But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt these people were obviously collecting for something.
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Yes, that would be it.
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The traffic moved on and a few minutes later Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
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Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor.
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If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning.
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He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did.
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They pointed and gazed open -mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.
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Most of them had never seen an owl even at night time.
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Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl -free morning.
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He yelled at five different people.
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He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more.
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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.
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He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the bakers.
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He eyed them angrily as he passed.
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He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy.
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This bunch were whispering excitedly too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin.
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It was on his way back past them, clutching a large donut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
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The Potters, that's right.
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That's what I heard, yes.
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Their son, Harry.
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Mr. Dursley stopped dead.
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Fear flooded him.
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He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
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He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him,
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seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind.
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He put the receiver back down and stroked his moustache, thinking, no, he was being stupid.
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Potter wasn't such an unusual name.
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He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.
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Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry.
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He'd never even seen the boy.
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It might have been Harvey. Or Harold.
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There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley.
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She always got so upset at any mention of her sister.
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He didn't blame her if he'd had a sister like that.
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But all the same, those peopling cloaks.
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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
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so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
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Sorry, he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell.
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It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak.
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He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground.
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On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile, and he said in a squeaky voice that made passers -by stare, Don't be sorry, my dear sir,
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for nothing could upset me today.
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Rejoice, for you know who has gone at last.
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Even muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day.
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And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
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Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot.
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He had been hugged by a complete stranger.
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He also thought he had been called a muggle, whatever that was.
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He was rattled.
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He hurried to his car and set off for home hoping he was imagining things
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which he had never hoped before because he didn't approve of imagination.
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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.
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It was now sitting on his garden wall.
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He was sure it was the same one.
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It had the same markings around its eyes.
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Shoo!
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said Mr. Dursley loudly.
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The cat didn't move.
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It just gave him a stern look.
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Was this normal cat behavior?
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Mr. Dursley wondered.
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trying to pull himself together he let himself into the house
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he was still determined not to mention anything to his wife
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mrs dursley had had a nice normal day she told him
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over dinner all about mrs next door's problems with her daughter and how dudley had learned a new word won't
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mr dursley tried to act normally
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when dudley had been put to bed he went into the
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living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news.
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And finally, bird watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today.
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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.
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Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.
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The newscaster allowed himself a grin.
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Most mysterious.
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And now over to Jim McGuffin with the weather.
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Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?
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Well, Ted, said the weatherman, I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today.
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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.
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Perhaps people have been celebrating bonfire night early it's not until next week, folks, but I can promise a wet night tonight.
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Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair, shooting stars all over Britain,
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owls flying by daylight, mysterious people in cloaks all over the place, and a whisper, a whisper about the potters.
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Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea.
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It was no good.
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He'd have to say something to her.
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He cleared his throat nervously.
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Er, Petunia, dear, you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?
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As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry.
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After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
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No, she said sharply.
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Why?
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Funny stuff on the news, Mr. Dursley mumbled.
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Owls, shooting stars, and there were a lot of funny -looking people in town today.
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So, snapped Mrs. Dursley.
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Well, I just thought, maybe, it was something to do with, you know, her crowd.
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Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips.
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Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name Potter.
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He decided he didn't dare.
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Instead, he said, as casually as he could, their son he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?
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I suppose so, said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
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What's his name again?
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Howard, isn't it?
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Harry.
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Nasty, common name, if you ask me.
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Oh, yes, said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly.
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Yes, I quite agree.
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He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.
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While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden.
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The cat was still there.
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It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. Was he imagining things?
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Could all this have anything to do with the potters.
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If it did, if it got out that they were related to a pair of well, he didn't think he could bear it.
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The Dursleys got into bed.
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Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind.
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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.
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The potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind.
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He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on.
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He yawned, and turned over it couldn't affect them.
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How very wrong he was.
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Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness.
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It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive.
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It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead.
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In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
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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.
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The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
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Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive.
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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.
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He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high -heeled, buckled boots.
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His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half -moon spectacles, and his nose was very long and crooked,
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as though it had been broken at least twice.
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This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
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Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize
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that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome.
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He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something, but he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat,
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which was still staring at him from the other end of the street.
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For some reason the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him.
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He chuckled and muttered, I should have known.
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He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket.
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It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter.
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He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it.
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The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop.
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He clicked it again.
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The next lamp flickered into darkness.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
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Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.
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He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone.
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Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe -looking woman who
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was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes.
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She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one.
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Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun.
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She looked distinctly ruffled.
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How did you know it was me? she asked.
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My dear professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly.
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You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day, said Professor McGonagall.
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All day?
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When you could have been celebrating.
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I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.
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Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
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Oh yes, everyone's celebrating all right, she said impatiently.
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You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no even the muggles have noticed something's going on.
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It was on their news.
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She jerked her head back at the Dursley's dark living room window.
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I heard it.
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Flocks of owls.
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Shooting stars.
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Well, they're not completely stupid.
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They were bound to notice something.
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Shooting stars down in Kent, I'll bet that was Daedalus Diggle.
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He never had much sense.
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You can't blame them, said Dumbledore gently.
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We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.
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I know that, said Professor McGonagall irritably.
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But that's no reason to lose our heads.
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People are being downright careless out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in muggle clothes, swapping rumours.
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She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something.
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But he didn't, so she went on.
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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.
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I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore.
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It certainly seems so, said Dumbledore.
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We have much to be thankful for.
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Would you care for a lemon drop?
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A what?
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A lemon drop.
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They're a kind of muggle sweet I'm rather fond of.
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No, thank you, said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops.
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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.
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All this you -know -who nonsense for 11 years I've been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name.
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Voldemort.
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Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice.
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It all gets so confusing if we keep saying you -know -who.
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I've never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.
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I know you have an.. said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring.
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But you're different.
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Everyone knows you're the only one.
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You know, oh, all right, Voldemort was frightened of.
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You flatter me, said Dumbledore calmly.
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Voldemort had powers I will never have.
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Only because you're too well noble to use them.
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"'It's lucky it's dark.
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I haven't blushed
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so much since Madame Pumphrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.' Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said,
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"'The owls are nothing next to the rumours that are flying around.
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You know what everyone's saying?
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About why he's disappeared?
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About what finally stopped him?' It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, us.
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The real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day,
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for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now.
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It was plain that whatever everyone was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true.
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Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
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What they're saying, she pressed on, is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow.
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He went to find the Potters.
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The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are, are that they're dead.
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Dumbledore bowed his head.
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Professor McGonagall gasped.
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Lily and James.
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I can't believe it.
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I didn't want to believe it.
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Oh, Albus.
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Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.
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I know.
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I know, he said heavily.
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Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on.
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That's not all.
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They're saying he tried to kill the potter's son, Harry.
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But he couldn't.
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He 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.
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Dumbledore nodded glumly.
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It's, it's true, faltered Professor McGonagall.
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After all he's done, all the people he's killed, he couldn't kill a little boy.
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It's just astounding, of all the things to stop him but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?
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We can only guess, said Dumbledore, we may never know.
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Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles.
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Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it.
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It was a very odd watch.
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It had twelve hands, but no numbers.
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Instead, little planets were moving around the edge.
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It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, Hagrid's late.
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I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?
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Yes, said Professor McGonagall.
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And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places.
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I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle.
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They're the only family he has left now.
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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.
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Dumbledore, you can't.
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I've been watching them all day.
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You couldn't find two people who are less like us.
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And they've got this son.
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I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets.
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Harry Potter, come and live here.
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It's the best place for him, said Dumbledore firmly.
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His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older.
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I've written them a letter.
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A letter, repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall.
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Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter.
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These people will never understand him.
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He'll be famous, a legend.
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I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day.
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In the future, there will be books written about Harry.
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Every child in our world will know his name.
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Exactly, said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half -moon glasses.
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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.
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Kara, you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it.
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Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, Yes, yes, you're right, of course.
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But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?
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She eyed his cloak suddenly, as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
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Hagrid's bringing him.
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You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this.
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I would trust Hagrid with my life, said Dumbledore.
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I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, said Professor McGonagall grudgingly.
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But you can't pretend he's not careless.
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He does tend to.. what was that?
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A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them.
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It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight.
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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.
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If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it.
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He was almost twice as tall as a normal man, and at least five times as wide.
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He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild, long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face.
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He had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins.
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In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
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Hagrid, said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. At last.
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And where did you get that motorcycle?
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Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore.
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Sit, said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke.
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Young Sirius Black lent it to me.
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I've got him, sir.
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No problems, were there?
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No. Sir House was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the muggle started swarming around.
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He fell asleep as we was flying over Bristol.
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Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets.
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Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep.
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Under a tuft of jet -black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut like a bolt of lightning.
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Is that where, whispered Professor McGonagall.
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Yes, said Dumbledore.
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He'll have that scar forever sir.
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Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?
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Even if I could, I wouldn't.
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Scars can come in handy.
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I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground.
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Or give him here, Hagrid.
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We'd better get this over with.
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Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursley's house.
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Could I say goodbye to him, sir?
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asked Hagrid.
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He bent his great shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss.
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Then suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
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Shhh, hissed Professor McGonagall.
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You'll wake the muggles.
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Sorry, sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it.
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But I can't stand it, Lily and James dead, and poor little Harry off to live with muggles.
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Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found, Professor McGonagall whispered,
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patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.
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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.
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For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle.
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Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
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Well, said Dumbledore finally, that's that.
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We've no business staying here.
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We may as well go and join the celebrations.
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Yeah, said Hagrid in a very muffled voice.
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I'll be taking Sirius's bike back.
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Good night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir.
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Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life.
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With a roar, it rose into the air and off into the night.
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I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall.
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said Dumbledore, nodding to her.
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Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
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Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street.
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On the corner, he stopped and took out the silver put -outer.
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He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their streetlamps, so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange,
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and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street.
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He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
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Good luck, Harry, he murmured.
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He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone.
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A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky,
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the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen.
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Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up.
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One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous,
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not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time
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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.
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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,
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To Harry Potter, the boy who lived.
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Sobre esta lição
Você está praticando inglês com "Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone Chapter 1 Read Aloud" usando a técnica de Shadowing.
O que é a Técnica de Shadowing?
Shadowing é uma técnica de aprendizado de idiomas com base científica, originalmente desenvolvida para o treinamento de intérpretes profissionais. O método é simples, mas poderoso: você ouve áudio em inglês nativo e repete imediatamente em voz alta — como uma sombra seguindo o falante com 1-2 segundos de atraso. Pesquisas mostram melhora significativa na precisão da pronúncia, entonação, ritmo, sons conectados, compreensão auditiva e fluência na fala.