Deneme




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 Dursley s 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 

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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 
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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 
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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 ... 



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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 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 

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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 . . . 



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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 

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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 

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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.” 



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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 

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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 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.” 

Page | 12 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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. 

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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 

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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’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?” 



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“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.” 



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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. “Hell 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 
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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 

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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!” 



Page | 19 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 






THE VANASHIG 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 



Page | 20 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 
Page | 21 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

Page | 22 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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?” 



Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 

Page | 24 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 Tibbies, 
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 cars new, he’s not sitting in it alone. ...” 



Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 mothers 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 



Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 
Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 DONT 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 

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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. 

Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 WONT 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. 



Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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 burning 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 
Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




3 




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 
Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 



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 



Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs 
might already have cracked from trying not to laugh. 



k k k 



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.” 

“Don’t 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. 

Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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. 



Page | 37 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

“I 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?” 

Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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. 



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“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. 

Page | 41 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 

Page | 42 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 — 

“AAAAARRRGH ! ” 

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 didn’t 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 peoples minds work in strange ways, 
Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle 

Page | 43 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone -J.K. Rowling 




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. 



•k k k 



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 — ” 



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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. 



Page | 45 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 1 7 

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. 

•k k k 

Page | 46 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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. Dudley 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 of 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!” 



Page | 47 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

Page | 48 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

Page | 49 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, 
staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking 
to come in. 



Page | 50 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 






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 

Page | 51 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 



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 yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer 
mom’s eyes.” 

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise. 

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” 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. 

Page | 52 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 53 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

“Yer 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. 

“Sorry?” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the 
Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s 

Page | 54 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 yer 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. 



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“But yeh must know about yer 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, sir! 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 yer heads, both of yeh,” said Hagrid. 
“Harry — yer a wizard.” 

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and 
the whistling wind could be heard. 



Page | 56 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“I’m 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 
o/WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY 

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sore., 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 



Page | 57 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

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. 

Page | 58 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“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 them. 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!” 



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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’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?” 

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“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. 

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“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 

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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 



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ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’ 
reckon they could’ve done if he was cornin’ 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 — 
/ 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, 



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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 

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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.” 

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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.” 



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DIAGON ALLY 

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 



Page | 68 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 



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 



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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. 

“Urn — 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. 



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“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 

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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 high-security 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, o’ 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?” 

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“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. 



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“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 
o/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 Emeric 
Switch 

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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 



1 wand 

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) 

1 set glass or crystal phials 
1 telescope 
1 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. 

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“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 
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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.” 

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“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. 



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“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. 

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“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, sixteen 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. 



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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 
Page | 81 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




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 goblins 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 You-Know-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 biscuits back inside his pockets, 
he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the 
doors leading off the hall. 



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“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred 
and thirteen?” Harry asked. 

“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very 
secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. 
More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.” 

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who 
had expected more marble, was surprised. They were 
in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming 
torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were 
little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled 
and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward 
them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some difficulty 
— and were off. 

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting 
passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, 
left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The 
rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because 
Griphook wasn’t steering. 

Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, 
but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw 
a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted 
around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they 
plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake 
where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the 
ceiling and floor. 

“I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise 
of the cart, “what’s the difference between a 
stalagmite and a stalactite?” 

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’ 
ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be 
sick.” 



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He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at 
last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid 
got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his 
knees from trembling. 

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke 
came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. 
Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. 
Heaps of little bronze Knuts. 

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid. 

All Harry’s — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t 
have known about this or they’d have had it from him 
faster than blinking. How often had they complained 
how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time 
there had been a small fortune belonging to him, 
buried deep under London. 

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag. 

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. 

“Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine 
Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should 
be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest 
safe for yeh.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven 
hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go 
more slowly?” 

“One speed only,” said Griphook. 

They were going even deeper now and gathering 
speed. The air became colder and colder as they 
hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over 
an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the 
side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, 
but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff 
of his neck. 



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Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole. 

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked 
the door gently with one of his long fingers and it 
simply melted away. 

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be 
sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said 
Griphook. 

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” 
Harry asked. 

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a 
rather nasty grin. 

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this 
top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned 
forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at 
the very least — but at first he thought it was empty. 
Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up 
in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up 
and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to 
know what it was, but knew better than to ask. 

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to 
me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth 
shut,” said Hagrid. 



One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the 
sunlight outside Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where 
to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He 
didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to 
a pound to know that he was holding more money 
than he’d had in his whole life — more money than 
even Dudley had ever had. 



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“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding 
toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. 
“Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a 
pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them 
Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Harry 
entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous. 

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all 
in mauve. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to 
speak. “Got the lot here — another young man being 
fitted up just now, in fact.” 

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed 
face was standing on a footstool while a second witch 
pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood 
Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over 
his head, and began to pin it to the right length. 

“Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s 
up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had 
a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them 
off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years 
can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into 
getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.” 

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley. 

“Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on. 

“No,” said Harry. 

“Play Quidditch at all?” 



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“No,” Harry said again, wondering what on earth 
Quidditch could be. 

“ I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to 
play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know 
what House you 11 be in yet?” 

“No,” said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute. 

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do 
they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family 
have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d 
leave, wouldn’t you?” 

“Mmm,” said Harry, wishing he could say something a 
bit more interesting. 

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, 
nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was 
standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two 
large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in. 

“That’s Hagrid,” said Harry, pleased to know 
something the boy didn’t. “He works at Hogwarts.” 

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of 
servant, isn’t he?” 

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry. He was liking the 
boy less and less every second. 

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a 
hut on the school grounds and every now and then he 
gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire 
to his bed.” 

“I think he’s brilliant,” said Harry coldly. 



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“Do you?” said the boy, with a slight sneer. “Why is he 
with you? Where are your parents?” 

“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel 
much like going into the matter with this boy. 

“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all. 
“But they were our kind, weren’t they?” 

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you 
mean.” 

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, 
do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been 
brought up to know our ways. Some of them have 
never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, 
imagine. I think they should keep it in the old 
wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?” 

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, 
“That’s you done, my dear,” and Harry, not sorry for 
an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down 
from the footstool. 

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the 
drawling boy. 

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid 
had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with 
chopped nuts). 

“What’s up?” said Hagrid. 

“Nothing,” Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment 
and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a 
bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When 
they had left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s 
Quidditch?” 



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“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know — 
not knowin’ about Quidditch!” 

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Harry. He told 
Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s. 

“ — and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t 
even be allowed in — ” 

“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh 
were — he’s grown up knowin’ yer name if his 
parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what everyone in 
the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. 
Anyway, what does he know about it, some o’ the best 
I ever saw were the only ones with magic in ’em in a 
long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what 
she had fer a sister!” 

“So what is Quidditch?” 

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in 
the Muggle world — everyone follows Quidditch — 
played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four 
balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.” 

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?” 

“School Houses. There’s four. Everyone says 
Hufflepuff are a lot o’ duffers, but — ” 

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Harry gloomily. 

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. 
“There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad 
who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.” 

“Vol-, sorry — You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?” 

“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid. 

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They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called 
Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to 
the ceiling with books as large as paving stones 
bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in 
covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a 
few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, 
who never read anything, would have been wild to get 
his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to 
drag Harry away from Curses and Counter-curses 
(Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies 
with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, 
Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor 
Vindictus Viridian. 

“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley.” 

“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter 
use magic in the Muggle world except in very special 
circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’ anyway, yeh 
couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot 
more study before yeh get ter that level.” 

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, 
either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice 
set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a 
collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the 
Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make 
up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and 
rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the 
floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders 
lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, 
and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While 
Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a 
supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, 
Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at 
twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery- 
black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop). 



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Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list 
again. 

“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got 
yeh a birthday present.” 

Harry felt himself go red. 

“You don’t have to — ” 

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer 
animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years 
ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they 
make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want 
owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ 
everythin’.” 

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl 
Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling 
and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a 
large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep 
with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop 
stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor 
Quirrell. 

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect 
you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just 
Ollivanders left now — only place fer wands, 
Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.” 

A magic wand . . . this was what Harry had been really 
looking forward to. 

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold 
letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine 
Wands since 382b. c. A single wand lay on a faded 
purple cushion in the dusty window. 



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A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the 
shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, 
empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid 
sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had 
entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new 
questions that had just occurred to him and looked 
instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly 
right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of 
his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here 
seemed to tingle with some secret magic. 

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped. 
Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a 
loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the 
spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale 
eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the 
shop. 

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly. 

“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be 
seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. 
“You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday 
she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten 
and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. 
Nice wand for charm work.” 

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished 
he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. 

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany 
wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and 
excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father 
favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the 
wizard, of course.” 



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Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry 
were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself 
reflected in those misty eyes. 

“And that’s where ...” 

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s 
forehead with a long, white finger. 

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said 
softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful 
wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands ... well, 
if I’d known what that wand was going out into the 
world to do. ...” 

He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted 
Hagrid. 

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again. 

... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?” 

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid. 

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it 
in half when you got expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander, 
suddenly stern. 

“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his 
feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added 
brightly. 

“But you don’t use them?” said Mr. Ollivander 
sharply. 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he 
gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke. 

“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a 
piercing look. “Well, now — Mr. Potter. Let me see.” 

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He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings 
out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?” 

“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry. 

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry 
from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder 
to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he 
measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core 
of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use 
unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the 
heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are 
the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or 
phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will 
never get such good results with another wizard’s 
wand.” 

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which 
was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this 
on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the 
shelves, taking down boxes. 

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure 
crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. 
Potter. Try this one. Beech-wood and dragon 
heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take 
it and give it a wave.” 

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it 
around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his 
hand almost at once. 

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite 
whippy. Try — ” 

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand 
when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander. 



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“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a 
half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.” 

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. 
Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands 
was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, 
but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the 
shelves, the happier he seemed to become. 

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, well find the 
perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — 
yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and 
phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.” 

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his 
fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it 
swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of 
red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, 
throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid 
whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, 
bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well ... 
how curious ... how very curious ...” 

He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it 
in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious . . . curious 



“Sorry,” said Harry, “but what’s curious?” 

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare. 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. 
Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix 
whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another 
feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed 
that you should be destined for this wand when its 
brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.” 



Harry swallowed. 

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“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed 
how these things happen. The wand chooses the 
wizard, remember. ... I think we must expect great 
things from you, Mr. Potter. ... After all, He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, 
but great.” 

Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr. 

Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for 
his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his 
shop. 

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry 
and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, 
back through the wall, back through the Leaky 
Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t speak at all as 
they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how 
much people were gawking at them on the 
Underground, laden as they were with all their funny- 
shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its 
cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into 
Paddington station; Harry only realized where they 
were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he 
said. 

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on 
plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. 
Everything looked so strange, somehow. 

“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid. 

Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the 
best birthday of his life — and yet — he chewed his 
hamburger, trying to find the words. 

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All 
those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor 

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Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander ... but I don’t know anything 
about magic at all. How can they expect great things? 
I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m 
famous for. I don’t know what happened when Vol-, 
sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.” 

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard 
and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile. 

“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough. 
Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll 
be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve 
been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll 
have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do, 
’smatter of fact.” 

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take 
him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an 
envelope. 

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September 
— King’s Cross — it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems 
with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll 
know where to find me. ... See yeh soon, Harry.” 

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to 
watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his 
seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he 
blinked and Hagrid had gone. 



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THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM 
NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS 

Harry’s last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun. 
True, Dudley was now so scared of Harry he wouldn’t 
stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia and Uncle 
Vernon didn’t shut Harry in his cupboard, force him 
to do anything, or shout at him — in fact, they didn’t 
speak to him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they 
acted as though any chair with Harry in it were 
empty. Although this was an improvement in many 
ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while. 

Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for 
company. He had decided to call her Hedwig, a name 
he had found in A History of Magic. His school books 
were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late 
into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the 
open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt 
Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because 
Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night 
before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another day 



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on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, 
counting down to September the first. 

On the last day of August he thought he’d better 
speak to his aunt and uncle about getting to King’s 
Cross station the next day, so he went down to the 
living room where they were watching a quiz show on 
television. He cleared his throat to let them know he 
was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the 
room. 

“Er — Uncle Vernon?” 

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening. 

“Er — I need to be at King’s Cross tomorrow to — to 
go to Hogwarts.” 

Uncle Vernon grunted again. 

“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?” 

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes. 

“Thank you.” 

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon 
actually spoke. 

“Funny way to get to a wizards’ school, the train. 
Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?” 

Harry didn’t say anything. 

“Where is this school, anyway?” 

“I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first 
time. He pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of 
his pocket. 

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“I just take the train from platform nine and three- 
quarters at eleven o’clock,” he read. 

His aunt and uncle stared. 

“Platform what?” 

“Nine and three-quarters.” 

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no 
platform nine and three-quarters.” 

“It’s on my ticket.” 

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of 
them. You 11 see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take 
you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London 
tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.” 

“Why are you going to London?” Harry asked, trying 
to keep things friendly. 

“Taking Dudley to the hospital,” growled Uncle 
Vernon. “Got to have that ruddy tail removed before 
he goes to Smeltings.” 

Harry woke at five o’clock the next morning and was 
too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up 
and pulled on his jeans because he didn’t want to 
walk into the station in his wizard’s robes — he’d 
change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet 
again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw 
that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then 
paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. 
Two hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy trunk had been 
loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had 
talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had 
set off. 



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They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle 
Vernon dumped Harry’s trunk onto a cart and 
wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this 
was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, 
facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face. 

“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine — platform 
ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the 
middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do 
they?” 

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic 
number nine over one platform and a big plastic 
number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, 
nothing at all. 

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even 
nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry 
turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of 
them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry. 
What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to 
attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He’d 
have to ask someone. 

He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention 
platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had 
never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry couldn’t 
even tell him what part of the country it was in, he 
started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being 
stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for 
the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said 
there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, 
muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying 
hard not to panic. According to the large clock over 
the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on 
the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; 
he was stranded in the middle of a station with a 
trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard 
money, and a large owl. 

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Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you 
had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to 
get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get 
out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s 
stand between platforms nine and ten. 

At that moment a group of people passed just behind 
him and he caught a few words of what they were 
saying. 

“ — packed with Muggles, of course — ” 

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump 
woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming 
red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like 
Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl. 

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. 
They stopped and so did he, just near enough to hear 
what they were saying. 

“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ 
mother. 

“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red- 
headed, who was holding her hand, “Mom, can’t I go 



“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, 
Percy, you go first.” 

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward 
platforms nine and ten. Harry watched, careful not to 
blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy 
reached the dividing barrier between the two 
platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in 
front of him and by the time the last backpack had 
cleared away, the boy had vanished. 



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“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said. 



“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, 
woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell 
I’m George?” 

“Sorry, George, dear.” 

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he 
went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he 
must have done so, because a second later, he had 
gone — but how had he done it? 

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the 
barrier — he was almost there — and then, quite 
suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere. 

There was nothing else for it. 

“Excuse me,” Harry said to the plump woman. 

“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s 
new, too.” 

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He 
was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands 
and feet, and a long nose. 

“Yes,” said Harry. “The thing is — the thing is, I don’t 
know how to — ” 

“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and 
Harry nodded. 

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk 
straight at the barrier between platforms nine and 
ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into 
it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if 
you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.” 

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“Er — okay,” said Harry. 

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the 
barrier. It looked very solid. 

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on 
their way to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked 
more quickly. He was going to smash right into that 
barrier and then he’d be in trouble — leaning forward 
on his cart, he broke into a heavy run — the barrier 
was coming nearer and nearer — he wouldn’t be able 
to stop — the cart was out of control — he was a foot 
away — he closed his eyes ready for the crash — 

It didn’t come ... he kept on running ... he opened his 
eyes. 

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform 
packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts 
Express, eleven o’clock. Harry looked behind him and 
saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had 
been, with the words Platform Nine and Three- 
Quarters on it. He had done it. 

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the 
chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound 
here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one 
another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble 
and the scraping of heavy trunks. 

The first few carriages were already packed with 
students, some hanging out of the window to talk to 
their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed 
his cart off down the platform in search of an empty 
seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, 
“Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.” 

“Oh, Neville,” he heard the old woman sigh. 



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A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small 
crowd. 



“Give us a look, Lee, go on.” 

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the 
people around him shrieked and yelled as something 
inside poked out a long, hairy leg. 

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found 
an empty compartment near the end of the train. He 
put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and 
heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift 
it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and 
twice he dropped it painfully on his foot. 

“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired twins 
he’d followed through the barrier. 

“Yes, please,” Harry panted. 

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!” 

With the twins’ help, Harry’s trunk was at last tucked 
away in a corner of the compartment. 

“Thanks,” said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of 
his eyes. 

“What’s that?” said one of the twins suddenly, 
pointing at Harry’s lightning scar. 

“Blimey,” said the other twin. “Are you — ?” 

“He is,” said the first twin. “Aren’t you?” he added to 
Harry. 

“What?” said Harry. 

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“ Harry Potter,” chorused the twins. 

“Oh, him,” said Harry. “I mean, yes, I am.” 

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself 
turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating 
in through the train’s open door. 

“Fred? George? Are you there?” 

“Coming, Mom.” 

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the 
train. 

Harry sat down next to the window where, half 
hidden, he could watch the red-haired family on the 
platform and hear what they were saying. Their 
mother had just taken out her handkerchief. 

“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.” 

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she 
grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose. 

“Mom — geroff.” He wriggled free. 

“Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?” 
said one of the twins. 

“Shut up,” said Ron. 

“Where’s Percy?” said their mother. 

“He’s coming now.” 

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had 
already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts 



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robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red and gold badge 
on his chest with the letter P on it. 

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the 
prefects have got two compartments to themselves — ” 

“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins, 
with an air of great surprise. “You should have said 
something, we had no idea.” 

“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something 
about it,” said the other twin. “Once — ” 

“Or twice — ” 

“A minute — ” 

“All summer — ” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect. 

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one 
of the twins. 

“Because he’s a prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All 
right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl 
when you get there.” 

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she 
turned to the twins. 

“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I 
get one more owl telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up 
a toilet or — ” 

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.” 
“Great idea though, thanks, Mom.” 



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“It’s not funny. And look after Ron.” 

“Don’t worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.” 

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as 
the twins already and his nose was still pink where 
his mother had rubbed it. 

“Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on 
the train?” 

Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see him 
looking. 

“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in 
the station? Know who he is?” 

“Who?” 

“ Harry Potted” 

Harry heard the little girl’s voice. 

“Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, 
oh please. ...” 

“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy 
isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, 
Fred? How do you know?” 

“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there — like 
lightning.” 

“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He 
was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the 
platform.” 

“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what 
You-Know-Who looks like?” 

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Their mother suddenly became very stern. 



“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As 
though he needs reminding of that on his first day at 
school.” 

“All right, keep your hair on.” 

A whistle sounded. 

“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys 
clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the 
window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their 
younger sister began to cry. 

“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.” 

“Well send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.” 

“ Georg e\” 

“Only joking, Mom.” 

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother 
waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, 
running to keep up with the train until it gathered too 
much speed, then she fell back and waved. 

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as 
the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the 
window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He 
didn’t know what he was going to — but it had to be 
better than what he was leaving behind. 

The door of the compartment slid open and the 
youngest redheaded boy came in. 

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat 
opposite Harry. “Everywhere else is full.” 

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Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He 
glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the 
window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw he 
still had a black mark on his nose. 

“Hey, Ron.” 

The twins were back. 

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train — 

Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.” 

“Right,” mumbled Ron. 

“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce 
ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, 
our brother. See you later, then.” 

“Bye,” said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the 
compartment door shut behind them. 

“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out. 

Harry nodded. 

“Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and 
George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got — 
you know ...” 

He pointed at Harry’s forehead. 

Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning 
scar. Ron stared. 

“So that’s where You-Know-Who — ?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I can’t remember it.” 

“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly. 

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“Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing 
else.” 



“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few 
moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized 
what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the 
window again. 

“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, who found 
Ron just as interesting as Ron found him. 

“Er — yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mom’s got a 
second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk 
about him.” 

“So you must know loads of magic already.” 

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding 
families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked 
about. 

“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron. 
“What are they like?” 

“Horrible — well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle 
and cousin are, though. Wish I’d had three wizard 
brothers.” 

“Five,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking 
gloomy. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. 
You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and 
Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and 
Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a 
prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they 
still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re 
really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the 
others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it 
first. You never get anything new, either, with five 

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brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, 
and Percy’s old rat.” 

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat 
gray rat, which was asleep. 

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever 
wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being 
made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff — I mean, I got 
Scabbers instead.” 

Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said 
too much, because he went back to staring out of the 
window. 

Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not 
being able to afford an owl. After all, he’d never had 
any money in his life until a month ago, and he told 
Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old clothes 
and never getting proper birthday presents. This 
seemed to cheer Ron up. 

"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything 
about being a wizard or about my parents or 
Voldemort — ” 

Ron gasped. 

“What?” said Harry. 

“ You said You-Know-Who’s name\” said Ron, sounding 
both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you, 
of all people — ” 

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the 
name,” said Harry, “I just never knew you shouldn’t. 
See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn. ... I bet,” he 
added, voicing for the first time something that had 



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been worrying him a lot lately, “I bet I’m the worst in 
the class.” 

“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from 
Muggle families and they learn quick enough.” 

While they had been talking, the train had carried 
them out of London. Now they were speeding past 
fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a 
time, watching the fields and lanes flick past. 

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering 
outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman 
slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, 
dears?” 

Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, 
but Ron’s ears went pink again and he muttered that 
he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the 
corridor. 

He had never had any money for candy with the 
Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with 
gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars 
Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have 
Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s 
Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, 
Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, 
Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things 
Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss 
anything, he got some of everything and paid the 
woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts. 

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the 
compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat. 

“Hungry, are you?” 



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“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bite out of a 
pumpkin pasty. 

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped 
it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one 
of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t 
like corned beef.” 

“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a 
pasty. “Go on — ” 

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She 
hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, 
with five of us.” 

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had 
anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share 
it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, 
eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, 
and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten). 

“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a 
pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are 
they?” He was starting to feel that nothing would 
surprise him. 

“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing 
Agrippa.” 

“What?” 

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs 
have cards inside them, you know, to collect — 
famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five 
hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.” 

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up 
the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon 
glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver 

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hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture 
was the name Albus Dumbledore. 



“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry. 

“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said 
Ron. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks 



Harry turned over his card and read: 

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS 

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern 
times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his 
defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the 
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his 
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. 
Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and ten 
pin bowling. 

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his 
astonishment, that Dumbledore ’s face had 
disappeared. 

“He’s gone!” 

“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” 
said Ron. “He’ll be back. No, I’ve got Morgana again 
and I’ve got about six of her ... do you want it? You 
can start collecting.” 

Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs 
waiting to be unwrapped. 

“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the 
Muggle world, people just stay put in photos.” 

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“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded 
amazed. “Weird).” 



Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the 
picture on his card and gave him a small smile. Ron 
was more interested in eating the frogs than looking 
at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry 
couldn’t keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only 
Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcraft, 
Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He 
finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, 
who was scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie 
Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. 

“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned 
Harry. “When they say every flavor, they mean every 
flavor — you know, you get all the ordinary ones like 
chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then 
you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George 
reckons he had a booger-flavored one once.” 

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, 
and bit into a corner. 

“Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.” 

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. 
Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, 
curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave 
enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron 
wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper. 

The countryside now flying past the window was 
becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there 
were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. 

There was a knock on the door of their compartment 
and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on 

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platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked 
tearful. 



“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?” 

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost 
him! He keeps getting away from me!” 

“Hell turn up,” said Harry. 

“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him ...” 
He left. 

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d 
brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind 
you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.” 

The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap. 

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the 
difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him 
yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but 
the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look ...” 

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a 
very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places 
and something white was glinting at the end. 

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway — ” 

He had just raised his wand when the compartment 
door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but 
this time he had a girl with him. She was already 
wearing her new Hogwarts robes. 

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. 
She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown 
hair, and rather large front teeth. 

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“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, 
but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the 
wand in his hand. 

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.” 

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback. 

“Er — all right.” 

He cleared his throat. 

“ Sunshine , daisies, butter mellow, 

Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.” 

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers 
stayed gray and fast asleep. 

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, 
it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells 
just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in 
my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise 
when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of 
course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft 
there is, I’ve heard — I’ve learned all our course books 
by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I’m 
Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?” 

She said all this very fast. 

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his 
stunned face that he hadn’t learned all the course 
books by heart either. 

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered. 

“Harry Potter,” said Harry. 



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“Are you really?” said Hermione. “I know all about 
you, of course — I got a few extra books for 
background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical 
History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and 
Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.” 

“Am I?” said Harry, feeling dazed. 

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out 
everything I could if it was me,” said Hermione. “Do 
either of you know what House you’ll be in? I’ve been 
asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds 
by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, 
but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. ... 
Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. 

You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll 
be there soon.” 

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her. 

“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said 
Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. “Stupid 
spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a 
dud.” 

“What House are your brothers in?” asked Harry. 

“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling 
on him again. “Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don’t 
know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose 
Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put 
me in Slytherin.” 

“That’s the House Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was 
in?” 



“Yeah,” said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, 
looking depressed. 



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“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are 
a bit lighter,” said Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off 
Houses. “So what do your oldest brothers do now that 
they’ve left, anyway?” 

Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he’d 
finished school. 

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in 
Africa doing something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did 
you hear about Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily 
Prophet, but I don’t suppose you get that with the 
Muggles — someone tried to rob a high security 
vault.” 

Harry stared. 

“Really? What happened to them?” 

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t 
been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful 
Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don’t 
think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ’Course, 
everyone gets scared when something like this 
happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.” 

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was 
starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know- 
Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all part of 
entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more 
comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying. 

“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked. 

“Er — I don’t know any,” Harry confessed. 

“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. “Oh, you wait, it’s 
the best game in the world — ” And he was off, 
explaining all about the four balls and the positions of 

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the seven players, describing famous games he’d been 
to with his brothers and the broomstick he’d like to 
get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry 
through the finer points of the game when the 
compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn’t 
Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this 
time. 

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle 
one at once: It was the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s 
robe shop. He was looking at Harry with a lot more 
interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley. 

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train 
that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is 
it?” 



“Yes,” said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. 
Both of them were thickset and looked extremely 
mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they 
looked like bodyguards. 

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale 
boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. 

“And my names Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.” 

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been 
hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him. 

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who 
you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red 
hair, freckles, and more children than they can 
afford.” 

He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some 
wizarding families are much better than others, 

Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the 
wrong sort. I can help you there.” 



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He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry 
didn’t take it. 

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, 
thanks,” he said coolly. 

Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared 
in his pale cheeks. 

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. 
“Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as 
your parents. They didn’t know what was good for 
them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the 
Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.” 

Both Harry and Ron stood up. 

“Say that again,” Ron said, his face as red as his hair. 

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy 
sneered. 

“Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely 
than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot 
bigger than him or Ron. 

“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve 
eaten all our food and you still seem to have some.” 

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to 
Ron — Ron leapt forward, but before he’d so much as 
touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell. 

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp 
little teeth sunk deep into Goyle ’s knuckle — Crabbe 
and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers 
round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally 
flew off and hit the window, all three of them 
disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were 
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more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps 
they’d heard footsteps, because a second later, 
Hermione Granger had come in. 

“What has been going on?” she said, looking at the 
sweets all over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers 
by his tail. 

“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry. 

He looked closer at Scabbers. “No — I don’t believe it 
— he’s gone back to sleep.” 

And so he had. 

“You’ve met Malfoy before?” 

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley. 

“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were 
some of the first to come back to our side after You- 
Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched. 
My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father 
didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He 
turned to Hermione. “Can we help you with 
something?” 

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve 
just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he 
says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been fighting, 
have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get 
there!” 

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” said Ron, 
scowling at her. “Would you mind leaving while we 
change?” 

“All right — I only came in here because people 
outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and 
down the corridors,” said Hermione in a sniffy voice. 

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“And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you 
know?” 



Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the 
window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains 
and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did 
seem to be slowing down. 

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their 
long black robes. Ron’s were a bit short for him, you 
could see his sneakers underneath them. 

A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching 
Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your 
luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school 
separately.” 

Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he 
saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed 
their pockets with the last of the sweets and joined 
the crowd thronging the corridor. 

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. 
People pushed their way toward the door and out on 
to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold 
night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads 
of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: 
“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there, 
Harry?” 

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads. 

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer 
step, now! Firs’ years follow me!” 

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down 
what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so 
dark on either side of them that Harry thought there 
must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. 

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Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once 
or twice. 



“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid 
called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.” 

There was a loud “Oooooh!” 

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge 
of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain 
on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry 
sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers. 

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to 
a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. 
Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville 
and Hermione. 

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to 
himself. “Right then — FORWARD!” 

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, 
gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as 
glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great 
castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed 
nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood. 

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached 
the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats 
carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide 
opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a 
dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right 
underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of 
underground harbor, where they clambered out onto 
rocks and pebbles. 

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who 
was checking the boats as people climbed out of 
them. 

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“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his 
hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the 
rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto 
smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle. 

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded 
around the huge, oak front door. 

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?” 

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times 
on the castle door. 



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7 




THE SORTING HAT 

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired 
witch in emerald-green robes stood there. She had a 
very stern face and Harry’s first thought was that this 
was not someone to cross. 

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid. 

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.” 

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so 
big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys’ 
house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming 
torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too 
high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase 
facing them led to the upper floors. 

They followed Professor McGonagall across the 
flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of 
hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right — the 
rest of the school must already be here — but 
Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a 
small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, 
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standing rather closer together than they would 
usually have done, peering about nervously. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. 
“The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but 
before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will 
be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very 
important ceremony because, while you are here, 
your House will be something like your family within 
Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your 
House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free 
time in your House common room. 

“The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, 
Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House has its own 
noble history and each has produced outstanding 
witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your 
triumphs will earn your House points, while any rule- 
breaking will lose House points. At the end of the 
year, the House with the most points is awarded the 
House cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a 
credit to whichever House becomes yours. 

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few 
minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest 
you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can 
while you are waiting.” 

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, 
which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s 
smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his 
hair. 

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said 
Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.” 

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed. 



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“How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” he asked 
Ron. 



“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but 
I think he was joking.” 

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of 
the whole school? But he didn’t know any magic yet 
— what on earth would he have to do? He hadn’t 
expected something like this the moment they 
arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that 
everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was talking 
much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering 
very fast about all the spells she’d learned and 
wondering which one she’d need. Harry tried hard not 
to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never, 
not even when he’d had to take a school report home 
to the Dursleys saying that he’d somehow turned his 
teachers wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door. 
Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come 
back and lead him to his doom. 

Then something happened that made him jump about 
a foot in the air — several people behind him 
screamed. 

“What the — ?” 

He gasped. So did the people around him. About 
twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back 
wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they 
glided across the room talking to one another and 
hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be 
arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was 
saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give 
him a second chance — ” 

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the 
chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and 

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you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say, what 
are you all doing here?” 



A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly 
noticed the first years. 

Nobody answered. 

“New students!” said the Fat Friar, smiling around at 
them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?” 

A few people nodded mutely. 

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said the Friar. “My old 
House, you know.” 

“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting 
Ceremony’s about to start.” 

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the 
ghosts floated away through the opposite wall. 

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first 
years, “and follow me.” 

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, 
Harry got into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with 
Ron behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, 
back across the hall, and through a pair of double 
doors into the Great Hall. 

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and 
splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands 
of candles that were floating in midair over four long 
tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. 
These tables were laid with glittering golden plates 
and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long 
table where the teachers were sitting. Professor 
McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they 
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came to a halt in a line facing the other students, 
with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces 
staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the 
flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among 
the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to 
avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and 
saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard 
Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky 
outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.” 

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, 
and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the 
heavens. 

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor 
McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front 
of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed 
wizard’s hat. This hat was patched and frayed and 
extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have let it in 
the house. 

Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry 
thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing — 
noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at 
the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there 
was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip 
near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and the 
hat began to sing: 

“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty, 

But don’t judge on what you see, 

I’ll eat myself if you can find 

A smarter hat than me. 

You can keep your bowlers black, 



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Your top hats sleek and tall, 

For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat 
And I can cap them all. 

There’s nothing hidden in your head 
The Sorting Hat can’t see, 

So try me on and I will tell you 
Where you ought to be. 

You might belong in Gryffindor, 

Where dwell the brave at heart, 

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry 
Set Gryffindors apart; 

You might belong in Hufflepuff, 

Where they are just and loyal, 

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true 
And unafraid of toil; 

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, 

If you’ve a ready mind, 

Where those of wit and learning, 

Will always find their kind; 

Or perhaps in Slytherin 

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You’ll make your real friends, 

Those cunning folk use any means 
To achieve their ends. 

So put me on! Don’t be afraid l\ 

And don’t get in a flap\ 

You’re in safe hands (though I have none) 

For I’m a Thinking Cap\” 

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished 
its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then 
became quite still again. 

“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to 
Harry. “I’ll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling 
a troll.” 

Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot 
better than having to do a spell, but he did wish they 
could have tried it on without everyone watching. The 
hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn’t feel 
brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If 
only the hat had mentioned a House for people who 
felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for 
him. 

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a 
long roll of parchment. 

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and 
sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, 
Hannah!” 



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A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of 
line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her 
eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause — 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat. 

The table on the right cheered and clapped as 
Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. 

Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at 
her. 

“Bones, Susan!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan 
scuttled off to sit next to Hannah. 

“Boot, Terry!” 

“RAVENCLAW!” 

The table second from the left clapped this time; 
several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with 
Terry as he joined them. 

“Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but 
“Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor, 
and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; 
Harry could see Ron’s twin brothers catcalling. 

“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin. 
Perhaps it was Harry’s imagination, after all he’d 
heard about Slytherin, but he thought they looked 
like an unpleasant lot. 

He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He 
remembered being picked for teams during gym at his 
old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not 
because he was no good, but because no one wanted 
Dudley to think they liked him. 

Page | 134 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!” 



“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the 
House at once, but at others it took a little while to 
decide. “Finnigan, Seamus,” the sandy-haired boy 
next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a 
whole minute before the hat declared him a 
Gryffindor. 

“Granger, Hermione!” 

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat 
eagerly on her head. 

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat. Ron groaned. 

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts 
always do when you’re very nervous. What if he 
wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there with 
the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor 
McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had 
obviously been a mistake and he’d better get back on 
the train? 

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his 
toad, was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. 
The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When 
it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR,” Neville ran off still 
wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter 
to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.” 

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called 
and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched 
his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!” 

Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, 
looking pleased with himself. 

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There weren’t many people left now. 



“Moon” , “Nott” ... , “Parkinson” ... , then a pair of 
twin girls, “Path” and “Path” ... , then “Perks, Sally- 
Anne” . . . , and then, at last — 

“Potter, Harry!” 

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke 
out like little hissing fires all over the hall. 

“ Potter , did she say?” 

“ The Harry Potter?” 

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over 
his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a 
good look at him. Next second he was looking at the 
black inside of the hat. He waited. 

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very 
difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind 
either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a 
nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting. ... 
So where shall I put you?” 

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not 
Slytherin, not Slytherin. 

“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you 
sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in 
your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to 
greatness, no doubt about that — no? Well, if you’re 
sure — better be GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole 
hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward 
the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to have been 
chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed 

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that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the 
Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while 
the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got 
Potter!” Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff 
he’d seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving 
Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just plunged it 
into a bucket of ice-cold water. 

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end 
nearest him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave 
him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back. And there, 
in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, 
sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once 
from the card he’d gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on 
the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing 
in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. 
Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, too, the nervous 
young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking 
very peculiar in a large purple turban. 

And now there were only four people left to be sorted. 
“Thomas, Dean,” a Black boy even taller than Ron, 
joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. “Turpin, Lisa,” 
became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He 
was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers 
under the table and a second later the hat had 
shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!” 

Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed 
into the chair next to him. 

“Well done, Ron, excellent,” said Percy Weasley 
pompously across Harry as “Zabini, Blaise,” was 
made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her 
scroll and took the Sorting Hat away. 

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had 
only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin 
pasties seemed ages ago. 

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Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was 
beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if 
nothing could have pleased him more than to see 
them all there. 

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at 
Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like 
to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! 

Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! 

“Thank you!” 

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. 
Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not. 

“Is he — a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly. 

“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard 
in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, 
Harry?” 

Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him 
were now piled with food. He had never seen so many 
things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast 
chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, 
bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, 
fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, 
ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint 
humbugs. 

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but 
he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. 
Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really 
wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate 
with a bit of everything except the peppermints and 
began to eat. It was all delicious. 

“That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly, 
watching Harry cut up his steak. 

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“Can’t you — ?” 



“I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” said 
the ghost. “I don’t need to, of course, but one does 
miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself? Sir 
Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. 
Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower.” 

“I know who you are!” said Ron suddenly. “My 
brothers told me about you — you’re Nearly Headless 
Nick!” 

“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy 
— ” the ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus 
Finnigan interrupted. 

“Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?” 

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little 
chat wasn’t going at all the way he wanted. 

“Like this,” he said irritably. He seized his left ear and 
pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell 
onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge. Someone 
had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it 
properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on 
their faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head 
back onto his neck, coughed, and said, “So — new 
Gryffindors! I hope you’re going to help us win the 
House Championship this year? Gryffindors have 
never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have 
got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron’s 
becoming almost unbearable — he’s the Slytherin 
ghost.” 

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a 
horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a 
gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood. He 
was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to 

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see, didn’t look too pleased with the seating 
arrangements. 

“How did he get covered in blood?” asked Seamus 
with great interest. 

“I’ve never asked,” said Nearly Headless Nick 
delicately. 

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the 
remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving 
them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the 
desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor 
you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate 
eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell- 
0, rice pudding ... 

As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk 
turned to their families. 

“I’m half-and-half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle. 
Mom didn’t tell him she was a witch ’til after they 
were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.” 

The others laughed. 

“What about you, Neville?” said Ron. 

“Well, my gran brought me up and she’s a witch,” 
said Neville, “but the family thought I was all- Muggle 
for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me 
off my guard and force some magic out of me — he 
pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly 
drowned — but nothing happened until I was eight. 
Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was 
hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles 
when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue 
and he accidentally let go. But I bounced — all the 
way down the garden and into the road. They were all 
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really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. 
And you should have seen their faces when I got in 
here — they thought I might not be magic enough to 
come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he 
bought me my toad.” 

On Harry’s other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione 
were talking about lessons (“I do hope they start right 
away, there’s so much to learn, I’m particularly 
interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning 
something into something else, of course, it’s 
supposed to be very difficult — “You’ll be starting 
small, just matches into needles and that sort of 
thing — ”). 



Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, 
looked up at the High Table again. Hagrid was 
drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall 
was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor 
Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a 
teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and 
sallow skin. 

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher 
looked past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s 
eyes — and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on 
Harry’s forehead. 

“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head. 

“What is it?” asked Percy. 

“N-nothing.” 

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder 
to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the 
teacher’s look — a feeling that he didn’t like Harry at 
all. 



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“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he 
asked Percy. 

“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder 
he’s looking so nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He 
teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to — everyone 
knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot 
about the Dark Arts, Snape.” 

Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t 
look at him again. 

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor 
Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent. 

“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all 
fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to 
give you. 

“First years should note that the forest on the 
grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our 
older students would do well to remember that as 
well.” 

Dumbledore ’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction 
of the Weasley twins. 

“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to 
remind you all that no magic should be used between 
classes in the corridors. 

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of 
the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House 
teams should contact Madam Hooch. 

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third- 
floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds 
to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful 
death.” 

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Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did. 



“He’s not serious?” he muttered to Percy. 

“Must be,” said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. “It’s 
odd, because he usually gives us a reason why we’re 
not allowed to go somewhere — the forest’s full of 
dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he 
might have told us prefects, at least.” 

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school 
song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other 
teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed. 

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was 
trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden 
ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables 
and twisted itself, snakelike, into words. 

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, 
“and off we go!” 

And the school bellowed: 

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, 

Teach us something please, 

Whether we be old and bald 
Or young with scabby knees, 

Our heads could do with filling 
With some interesting stuff, 

For now they’re bare and full of air, 

Dead flies and bits of fluff, 

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So teach us things worth knowing, 

Bring back what we’ve forgot, 

Just do your best, we’ll do the rest, 

And learn until our brains all rot.” 

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, 
only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a 
very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their 
last few lines with his wand and when they had 
finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest. 

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic 
beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you 
trot!” 

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the 
chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the 
marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead again, 
but only because he was so tired and full of food. He 
was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in 
the portraits along the corridors whispered and 
pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them 
through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and 
hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, 
yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just 
wondering how much farther they had to go when 
they came to a sudden halt. 

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair 
ahead of them, and as Percy took a step toward them 
they started throwing themselves at him. 

“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. “A 
poltergeist.” He raised his voice, “Peeves — show 
yourself.” 



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A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a 
balloon, answered. 

“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?” 

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark 
eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross- 
legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks. 

“Oooooooh!” he said, with an evil cackle. “Ickle 
Firsties! What fun!” 

He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked. 

“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I 
mean it!” barked Percy. 

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping 
the walking sticks on Neville’s head. They heard him 
zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he passed. 

“You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as 
they set off again. “The Bloody Baron’s the only one 
who can control him, he won’t even listen to us 
prefects. Here we are.” 

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a 
very fat woman in a pink silk dress. 

“Password?” she said. 

“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung 
forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all 
scrambled through it — Neville needed a leg up — 
and found themselves in the Gryffindor common 
room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs. 

Percy directed the girls through one door to their 
dormitory and the boys through another. At the top of 

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a spiral staircase — they were obviously in one of the 
towers — they found their beds at last: five four- 
posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their 
trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk 
much, they pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed. 

“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron muttered to Harry through 
the hangings. “Get off Scabbers! He’s chewing my 
sheets.” 

Harry was going to ask Ron if he’d had any of the 
treacle tart, but he fell asleep almost at once. 

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he 
had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor 
Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to him, telling 
him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it 
was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t want 
to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried 
to pull it off but it tightened painfully — and there 
was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it — 
then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher, 
Snape, whose laugh became high and cold — there 
was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating 
and shaking. 

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he 
woke next day, he didn’t remember the dream at all. 



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THE POTIONS MASTER 

“There, look.” 

“Where?” 

“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.” 

“Wearing the glasses?” 

“Did you see his face?” 

“Did you see his scar?” 

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his 
dormitory the next day. People lining up outside 
classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or 
doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, 
staring. Harry wished they wouldn’t, because he was 
trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes. 

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at 
Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; 
some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some 

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with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to 
remember to jump. Then there were doors that 
wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or tickled 
them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t 
really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It 
was also very hard to remember where anything was, 
because it all seemed to move around a lot. The 
people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, 
and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk. 

The ghosts didn’t help, either. It was always a nasty 
shock when one of them glided suddenly through a 
door you were trying to open. Nearly Headless Nick 
was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the 
right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth 
two locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him 
when you were late for class. He would drop 
wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from 
under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak 
up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, 
“GOT YOUR CONK!” 

Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the 
caretaker, Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get 
on the wrong side of him on their very first morning. 
Filch found them trying to force their way through a 
door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to 
the out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He 
wouldn’t believe they were lost, was sure they were 
trying to break into it on purpose, and was 
threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they 
were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing. 

Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust- 
colored creature with bulging, lamplike eyes just like 
Filch’s. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule 
in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she’d 
whisk off for Filch, who’d appear, wheezing, two 
seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of 
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the school better than anyone (except perhaps the 
Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any 
of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was 
the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a 
good kick. 

And then, once you had managed to find them, there 
were the classes themselves. There was a lot more to 
magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your 
wand and saying a few funny words. 

They had to study the night skies through their 
telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn 
the names of different stars and the movements of the 
planets. Three times a week they went out to the 
greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, 
with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout, 
where they learned how to take care of all the strange 
plants and fungi, and found out what they were used 
for. 

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, 
which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor 
Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen 
asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next 
morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns 
droned on and on while they scribbled down names 
and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the 
Oddball mixed up. 

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny 
little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to 
see over his desk. At the start of their first class he 
took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name 
he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. 

Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had 
been quite right to think she wasn’t a teacher to 



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cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking- to 
the moment they sat down in her first class. 

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and 
dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she 
said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave 
and not come back. You have been warned.” 

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. 
They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get 
started, but soon realized they weren’t going to be 
changing the furniture into animals for a long time. 
After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each 
given a match and started trying to turn it into a 
needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione 
Granger had made any difference to her match; 
Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had 
gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare 
smile. 

The class everyone had really been looking forward to 
was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s 
lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom 
smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to 
ward off a vampire he’d met in Romania and was 
afraid would be coming back to get him one of these 
days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him 
by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of 
a troublesome zombie, but they weren’t sure they 
believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus 
Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had 
fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started 
talking about the weather; for another, they had 
noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, 
and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full 
of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected 
wherever he went. 



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Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t 
miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come 
from Muggle families and, like him, hadn’t had any 
idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so 
much to learn that even people like Ron didn’t have 
much of a head start. 

Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They 
finally managed to find their way down to the Great 
Hall for breakfast without getting lost once. 

“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he 
poured sugar on his porridge. 

“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” said Ron. 
“Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always 
favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.” 

“Wish McGonagall favored us,” said Harry. Professor 
McGonagall was head of Gryffindor House, but it 
hadn’t stopped her from giving them a huge pile of 
homework the day before. 

Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to 
this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on 
the first morning, when about a hundred owls had 
suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during 
breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their 
owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their 
laps. 

Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She 
sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of 
toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the 
other school owls. This morning, however, she 
fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar 
bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s plate. Harry 
tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl: 



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Dear Harry, 



I know you get Friday afternoons off so would you like 
to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? 

I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an 
answer back with Hedwig. 

Hagrid 

Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see 
you later on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off 
again. 

It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look 
forward to, because the Potions lesson turned out to 
be the worst thing that had happened to him so far. 

At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the 
idea that Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of 
the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong. 
Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him. 

Potions lessons took place down in one of the 
dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main 
castle, and would have been quite creepy enough 
without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all 
around the walls. 

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the 
roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name. 

“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — 
celebrity.” 

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle 
sniggered behind their hands. Snape finished calling 
the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were 
black like Hagrid ’s, but they had none of Hagrid ’s 

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warmth. They were cold and empty and made you 
think of dark tunnels. 

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art 
of potion-making,” he began. He spoke in barely more 
than a whisper, but they caught every word — like 
Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a 
class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish 
wand- waving here, many of you will hardly believe 
this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand 
the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its 
shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that 
creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, 
ensnaring the senses. ... I can teach you how to bottle 
fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t 
as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to 
teach.” 

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and 
Ron exchanged looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione 
Granger was on the edge of her seat and looked 
desperate to start proving that she wasn’t a 
dunderhead. 

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I 
added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of 
wormwood?” 

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry 
glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was; 
Hermione ’s hand had shot into the air. 

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry. 

Snape ’s lips curled into a sneer. 

“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.” 

He ignored Hermione ’s hand. 

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“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told 
you to find me a bezoar?” 

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it 
would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry 
didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He 
tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who 
were shaking with laughter. 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, 
eh, Potter?” 

Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into 
those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at 
the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember 
everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and 
Fungi ? 

Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand. 

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood 
and wolfsbane?” 

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching 
toward the dungeon ceiling. 

“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione 
does, though, why don’t you try her?” 

A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye, 
and Seamus winked. Snape, however, was not 
pleased. 

“Sit down,” he snapped at Hermione. “For your 
information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a 
sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the 
Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken 

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from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from 
most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they 
are the same plant, which also goes by the name of 
aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?” 

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and 
parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, “And a point 
will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, 
Potter.” 

Things didn’t improve for the Gryffindors as the 
Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into 
pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to 
cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, 
watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake 
fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, 
whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone 
to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his 
horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a 
loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow 
managed to melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted 
blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone 
floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within 
seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools 
while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion 
when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as 
angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs. 

“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion 
away with one wave of his wand. “I suppose you 
added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron 
off the fire?” 

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over 
his nose. 

“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at 
Seamus. Then he rounded on Harry and Ron, who 
had been working next to Neville. 

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“You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add 
the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got 
it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for 
Gryffindor.” 

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to 
argue, but Ron kicked him behind their cauldron. 

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, “I’ve heard Snape can 
turn very nasty.” 

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour 
later, Harry’s mind was racing and his spirits were 
low. He’d lost two points for Gryffindor in his very 
first week — why did Snape hate him so much? 

“Cheer up,” said Ron, “Snape’s always taking points 
off Fred and George. Can I come and meet Hagrid 
with you?” 

At five to three they left the castle and made their way 
across the grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden 
house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow 
and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door. 

When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling 
from inside and several booming barks. Then Hagrid ’s 
voice rang out, saying, “Back, Fang — back.” 

Hagrid ’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he 
pulled the door open. 

“Hang on,” he said. “Back, Fang.” 

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar 
of an enormous black boarhound. 

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants 
were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was 

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boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a 
massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it. 

“Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, letting go of 
Fang, who bounded straight at Ron and started 
licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not as 
fierce as he looked. 

“This is Ron,” Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring 
boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock 
cakes onto a plate. 

“Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s 
freckles. “I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers 
away from the forest.” 

The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins 
that almost broke their teeth, but Harry and Ron 
pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid all 
about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on 
Harry’s knee and drooled all over his robes. 

Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call 
Filch “that old git.” 

“An’ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I’d like ter introduce 
her to Fang sometime. D’yeh know, every time I go up 
ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can’t get 
rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.” 

Harry told Hagrid about Snape’s lesson. Hagrid, like 
Ron, told Harry not to worry about it, that Snape 
liked hardly any of the students. 

“But he seemed to really hate me.” 

“Rubbish!” said Hagrid. “Why should he?” 



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Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t 
quite meet his eyes when he said that. 

“How’s yer brother Charlie?” Hagrid asked Ron. “I 
liked him a lot — great with animals.” 

Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on 
purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie’s 
work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of paper 
that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was 
a cutting from the Daily Prophet : 

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST 

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts 
on 3 1 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark 
wizards or witches unknown. 

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had 
been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact 
been emptied the same day. 

“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep 
your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said 
a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon. 

Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that 
someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t 
mentioned the date. 

“Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in 
happened on my birthday! It might’ve been happening 
while we were there!” 

There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t 
meet Harry’s eyes this time. He grunted and offered 
him another rock cake. Harry read the story again. 

The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied 
earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven 
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hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, 
taking out that grubby little package. Had that been 
what the thieves were looking for? 

As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for 
dinner, their pockets weighed down with rock cakes 
they’d been too polite to refuse, Harry thought that 
none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as 
much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid 
collected that package just in time? Where was it 
now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape 
that he didn’t want to tell Harry? 



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9 




THE MIDNIGHT DUEL 

Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he 
hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met 
Draco Malfoy. Still, first-year Gryffindors only had 
Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn’t have to put 
up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn’t until 
they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor 
common room that made them all groan. Flying 
lessons would be starting on Thursday — and 
Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together. 

“Typical,” said Harry darkly. “Just what I always 
wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in 
front of Malfoy.” 

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more 
than anything else. 

“You don’t know that you’ll make a fool of yourself,” 
said Ron reasonably. “Anyway, I know Malfoy’s always 
going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet 
that’s all talk.” 

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Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He 
complained loudly about first years never getting on 
the House Quidditch teams and told long, boastful 
stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly 
escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn’t the only 
one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he’d 
spent most of his childhood zooming around the 
countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell 
anyone who’d listen about the time he’d almost hit a 
hang glider on Charlie’s old broom. Everyone from 
wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly. 
Ron had already had a big argument with Dean 
Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about soccer. 
Ron couldn’t see what was exciting about a game with 
only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry 
had caught Ron prodding Dean’s poster of West Ham 
soccer team, trying to make the players move. 

Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, 
because his grandmother had never let him near one. 
Privately, Harry felt she’d had good reason, because 
Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of 
accidents even with both feet on the ground. 

Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about 
flying as Neville was. This was something you couldn’t 
learn by heart out of a book — not that she hadn’t 
tried. At breakfast on Thursday she bored them all 
stupid with flying tips she’d gotten out of a library 
book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Neville was 
hanging on to her every word, desperate for anything 
that might help him hang on to his broomstick later, 
but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione ’s 
lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail. 

Harry hadn’t had a single letter since Hagrid’s note, 
something that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of 
course. Malfoy ’s eagle owl was always bringing him 



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packages of sweets from home, which he opened 
gloatingly at the Slytherin table. 

A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his 
grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed 
them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which 
seemed to be full of white smoke. 

“It’s a Remembrall!” he explained. “Gran knows I 
forget things — this tells you if there’s something 
you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this 
and if it turns red — oh ...” His face fell, because the 
Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, “... you’ve 
forgotten something ...” 

Neville was trying to remember what he’d forgotten 
when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor 
table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand. 

Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half 
hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but Professor 
McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any 
teacher in the school, was there in a flash. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor.” 

Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall 
back on the table. 

“Just looking,” he said, and he sloped away with 
Crabbe and Goyle behind him. 

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the 
other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto 
the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, 
breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as 
they marched down the sloping lawns toward a 
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smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds 
to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying 
darkly in the distance. 

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty 
broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry 
had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about 
the school brooms, saying that some of them started 
to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly 
to the left. 

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, 
gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. 
“Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry 
up.” " 

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and 
some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. 

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called 
Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’ ” 

“UP!” everyone shouted. 

Harry’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it 
was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger’s had 
simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville’s hadn’t 
moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell 
when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a 
quaver in Neville’s voice that said only too clearly that 
he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. 

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their 
brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up 
and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and 
Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he’d been 
doing it wrong for years. 

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“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the 
ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your 
brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight 
back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle 
— three — two — ” 

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of 
being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the 
whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips. 

“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising 
straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle — twelve 
feet — twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face 
look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, 
slip sideways off the broom and — 

WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay 
facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was 
still rising higher and higher, and started to drift 
lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight. 

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as 
white as his. 

“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on, 
boy — it’s all right, up you get.” 

She turned to the rest of the class. 

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the 
hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are 
or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 
‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.” 

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, 
hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm 
around him. 



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No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst 
into laughter. 

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” 

The other Slytherins joined in. 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil. 

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy 
Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never thought 
you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.” 

“Look!” said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching 
something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing 
Longbottom’s gran sent him.” 

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up. 

“Give that here, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Everyone 
stopped talking to watch. 

Malfoy smiled nastily. 

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find 
— how about — up a tree?” 

“Give it here!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto 
his broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he 
could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost 
branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it, 
Potter!” 

Harry grabbed his broom. 

“iVo!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told 
us not to move — you’ll get us all into trouble.” 



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Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. 

He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the 
ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his 
hair, and his robes whipped out behind him — and in 
a rush of fierce joy he realized he’d found something 
he could do without being taught — this was easy, 
this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a 
little to take it even higher, and heard screams and 
gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring 
whoop from Ron. 

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in 
midair. Malfoy looked stunned. 

“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that 
broom!” 

“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking 
worried. 

Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward 
and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it 
shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got 
out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about- 
face and held the broom steady. A few people below 
were clapping. 

“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, 
Malfoy,” Harry called. 

The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy. 

“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw 
the glass ball high into the air and streaked back 
toward the ground. 

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up 
in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward 
and pointed his broom handle down — next second 

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he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball 
— wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the 
screams of people watching — he stretched out his 
hand — a foot from the ground he caught it, just in 
time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently 
onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in 
his fist. 

“HARRY POTTER!” 

His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor 
McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his 
feet, trembling. 

“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts — ” 

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with 
shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “ — how dare 
you — might have broken your neck — ” 

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor — ” 

“Be quiet, Miss Patil — ” 

“But Malfoy — ” 

“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.” 

Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s 
triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in 
Professor McGonagall’s wake as she strode toward the 
castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it. 

He wanted to say something to defend himself, but 
there seemed to be something wrong with his voice. 
Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without 
even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now 
he’d done it. He hadn’t even lasted two weeks. He’d be 
packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the 
Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep? 
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Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, 
and still Professor McGonagall didn’t say a word to 
him. She wrenched open doors and marched along 
corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. 
Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He 
thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as 
gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid’s assistant. 
His stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron 
and the others becoming wizards while he stumped 
around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag. 

Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. 
She opened the door and poked her head inside. 

“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood 
for a moment?” 

Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane 
she was going to use on him? 

But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year 
boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking 
confused. 

“Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and 
they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking 
curiously at Harry. 

“In here.” 

Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom 
that was empty except for Peeves, who was busy 
writing rude words on the blackboard. 

“Out, Peeves!” she barked. Peeves threw the chalk 
into a bin, which clanged loudly, and he swooped out 
cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door 
behind him and turned to face the two boys. 



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“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I’ve found you a 
Seeker.” 

Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to 
delight. 

“Are you serious, Professor?” 

“Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The 
boy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was 
that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?” 

Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was 
going on, but he didn’t seem to be being expelled, and 
some of the feeling started coming back to his legs. 

“He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot 
dive,” Professor McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even 
scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done 
it.” 

Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had 
come true at once. 

“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked 
excitedly. 

“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor 
McGonagall explained. 

“He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now 
walking around Harry and staring at him. “Light — 
speedy — we’ll have to get him a decent broom, 
Professor — a Nimbus Two Thousand or a 
Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.” 

“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we 
can’t bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need 
a better team than last year. Flattened in that last 

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match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in 
the face for weeks. ...” 

Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses 
at Harry. 

“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may 
change my mind about punishing you.” 

Then she suddenly smiled. 

“Your father would have been proud,” she said. “He 
was an excellent Quidditch player himself.” 

“You’re joking.” 

It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron 
what had happened when he’d left the grounds with 
Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and 
kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all 
about it. 

“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never — you must 
be the youngest House player in about — ” 

“ — a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his 
mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the 
excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.” 

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and 
gaped at Harry. 

“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t 
tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.” 

Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, 
spotted Harry, and hurried over. 



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“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us. 
We’re on the team too — Beaters.” 

“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for 
sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since 
Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be 
brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost 
skipping when he told us.” 

“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s 
found a new secret passageway out of the school.” 

“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the 
Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.” 

Fred and George had hardly disappeared when 
someone far less welcome turned up: Malfoy, flanked 
by Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the 
train back to the Muggles?” 

“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the 
ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” 
said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all 
little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table 
was full of teachers, neither of them could do more 
than crack their knuckles and scowl. 

“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy. 
“Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only — 
no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a 
wizard’s duel before, I suppose?” 

“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m 
his second, who’s yours?” 

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up. 



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“Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? Well meet you 
in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.” 

When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each 
other. 

“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do 
you mean, you’re my second?” 

“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said 
Ron casually, getting started at last on his cold pie. 
Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added quickly, 
“But people only die in proper duels, you know, with 
real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do 
is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows 
enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he 
expected you to refuse, anyway.” 

“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?” 

“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron 
suggested. 

“Excuse me.” 

They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger. 

“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron. 

Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry. 

“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy 
were saying — ” 

“Bet you could,” Ron muttered. 

“ — and you mustn’t go wandering around the school 
at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if 



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you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very 
selfish of you.” 

“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry. 
“Good-bye,” said Ron. 

All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end 
to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later 
listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep (Neville 
wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent 
all evening giving him advice such as “If he tries to 
curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I can’t 
remember how to block them.” There was a very good 
chance they were going to get caught by Filch or Mrs. 
Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck, 
breaking another school rule today. On the other 
hand, Malfoy’s sneering face kept looming up out of 
the darkness — this was his big chance to beat 
Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it. 

“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better 
go.” 

They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their 
wands, and crept across the tower room, down the 
spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common 
room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, 
turning all the armchairs into hunched black 
shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole 
when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I 
can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.” 

A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, 
wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. 

“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!” 



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“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, 

“Percy — he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.” 

Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering. 

“Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the 
portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole. 

Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She 
followed Ron through the portrait hole, hissing at 
them like an angry goose. 

“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care 
about yourselves, / don’t want Slytherin to win the 
House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from 
Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching 
Spells.” 

“Go away.” 

“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what 
I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow, 
you’re so — ” 

But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione 
had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back 
inside and found herself facing an empty painting. 

The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and 
Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor Tower. 

“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly. 

“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go, 
we’re going to be late.” 

They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor 
when Hermione caught up with them. 

“I’m coming with you,” she said. 

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“You are not.” 



“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for 
Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I’ll tell 
him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you 
can back me up.” 

“You’ve got some nerve — ” said Ron loudly. 

“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard 
something.” 

It was a sort of snuffling. 

“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the 
dark. 

It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up 
on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake 
as they crept nearer. 

“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for 
hours, I couldn’t remember the new password to get 
in to bed.” 

“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig 
snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone 
off somewhere.” 

“How’s your arm?” said Harry. 

“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey 
mended it in about a minute.” 

“Good — well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be 
somewhere, we’ll see you later — ” 



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“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet, 

“I don’t want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s 
been past twice already.” 

Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at 
Hermione and Neville. 

“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve 
learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us 
about, and used it on you.” 

Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron 
exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry 
hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all 
forward. 

They flitted along corridors striped with bars of 
moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry 
expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they 
were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor 
and tiptoed toward the trophy room. 

Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal 
trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught 
them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver 
and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, 
keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the 
room. Harry took out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in 
and started at once. The minutes crept by. 

“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered. 

Then a noise in the next room made them jump. 

Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard 
someone speak — and it wasn’t Malfoy. 

“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a 
corner.” 



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It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, 
Harry waved madly at the other three to follow him as 
quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the 
door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had 
barely whipped round the corner when they heard 
Filch enter the trophy room. 

“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter, 
“probably hiding.” 

“This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and, 
petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full 
of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting 
nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak 
and broke into a run — he tripped, grabbed Ron 
around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right 
into a suit of armor. 

The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the 
whole castle. 

“RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted 
down the gallery, not looking back to see whether 
Filch was following — they swung around the 
doorpost and galloped down one corridor then 
another, Harry in the lead, without any idea where 
they were or where they were going — they ripped 
through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden 
passageway, hurtled along it and came out near their 
Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from 
the trophy room. 

“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against 
the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was 
bent double, wheezing and spluttering. 

“I — told — you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the 
stitch in her chest, “I — told — you.” 



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“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Ron, 
“quickly as possible.” 

“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You 
realize that, don’t you? He was never going to meet 
you — Filch knew someone was going to be in the 
trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.” 

Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t 
going to tell her that. 

“Let’s go.” 

It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone 
more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled 
and something came shooting out of a classroom in 
front of them. 

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a 
squeal of delight. 

“Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown 
out.” 

Peeves cackled. 

“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, 
tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.” 

“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.” 

“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a sanity 
voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “It’s for your 
own good, you know.” 

“Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at 
Peeves — this was a big mistake. 



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“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, 
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS 
CORRIDOR!” 

Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right 
to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a 
door — and it was locked. 

“This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at 
the door, “We’re done for! This is the end!” 

They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he 
could toward Peeves ’s shouts. 

“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed 
Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, 
“Alohomora\” 

The lock clicked and the door swung open — they 
piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their 
ears against it, listening. 

“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying. 
“Quick, tell me.” 

“Say ‘please.’ ” 

“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?” 

“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said 
Peeves in his annoying singsong voice. 

“All right — please.” 

“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing 
if you didn’t say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” And they 
heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away and Filch 
cursing in rage. 



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“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered. “I 
think well be okay — get off Neville!” For Neville had 
been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s bathrobe for the 
last minute. “What?” 

Harry turned around — and saw, quite clearly, what. 
For a moment, he was sure he’d walked into a 
nightmare — this was too much, on top of everything 
that had happened so far. 

They weren’t in a room, as he had supposed. They 
were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third 
floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden. 

They were looking straight into the eyes of a 
monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space 
between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three 
pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and 
quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, 
saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs. 

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, 
and Harry knew that the only reason they weren’t 
already dead was that their sudden appearance had 
taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over 
that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous 
growls meant. 

Harry groped for the doorknob — between Filch and 
death, he’d take Filch. 

They fell backward — Harry slammed the door shut, 
and they ran, they almost flew, back down the 
corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them 
somewhere else, because they didn’t see him 
anywhere, but they hardly cared — all they wanted to 
do was put as much space as possible between them 
and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they 



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reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh 
floor. 

“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked, 
looking at their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders 
and their flushed, sweaty faces. 

“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” panted 
Harry, and the portrait swung forward. They 
scrambled into the common room and collapsed, 
trembling, into armchairs. 

It was a while before any of them said anything. 
Neville, indeed, looked as if he’d never speak again. 

“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing 
like that locked up in a school?” said Ron finally. “If 
any dog needs exercise, that one does.” 

Hermione had got both her breath and her bad 
temper back again. 

“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she 
snapped. “Didn’t you see what it was standing on?” 

“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its 
feet, I was too busy with its heads.” 

“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s 
obviously guarding something.” 

She stood up, glaring at them. 

“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all 
have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you 
don’t mind, I’m going to bed.” 

Ron stared after her, his mouth open. 



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“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged 
her along, wouldn’t you?” 

But Hermione had given Harry something else to 
think about as he climbed back into bed. The dog was 
guarding something. . . . What had Hagrid said? 
Gringotts was the safest place in the world for 
something you wanted to hide — except perhaps 
Hogwarts. 

It looked as though Harry had found out where the 
grubby little package from vault seven hundred and 
thirteen was. 



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10 




HALLOWEEN 

Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that 
Harry and Ron were still at Hogwarts the next day, 
looking tired but perfectly cheerful. Indeed, by the 
next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting 
the three-headed dog had been an excellent 
adventure, and they were quite keen to have another 
one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the 
package that seemed to have been moved from 
Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time 
wondering what could possibly need such heavy 
protection. 

“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said 
Ron. 

“Or both,” said Harry. 

But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious 
object was that it was about two inches long, they 
didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was 
without further clues. 

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Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest 
interest in what lay underneath the dog and the 
trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going near 
the dog again. 

Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and 
Ron, but she was such a bossy know-it-all that they 
saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted 
now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their 
great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail 
about a week later. 

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, 
everyone’s attention was caught at once by a long, 
thin package carried by six large screech owls. Harry 
was just as interested as everyone else to see what 
was in this large parcel, and was amazed when the 
owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him, 
knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly 
fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a 
letter on top of the parcel. 

Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, 
because it said: 



DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE. 

It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I 
don’t want everybody knowing you’ve got a 
broomstick or they’ll all want one. Oliver Wood will 
meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven 
o’clock for your first training session. 

Professor M. McGonagall 

Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the 
note to Ron to read. 

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“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously. 
“I’ve never even touched one.” 

They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the 
broomstick in private before their first class, but 
halfway across the entrance hall they found the way 
upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized 
the package from Harry and felt it. 

“That’s a broomstick,” he said, throwing it back to 
Harry with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face. 
“You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren’t 
allowed them.” 

Ron couldn’t resist it. 

“It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus 
Two Thousand. What did you say you’ve got at home, 
Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?” Ron grinned at Harry. 
“Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same 
league as the Nimbus.” 

“What would you know about it, Weasley, you 
couldn’t afford half the handle,” Malfoy snapped back. 
“I suppose you and your brothers have to save up 
twig by twig.” 

Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared 
at Malfoy’s elbow. 

“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked. 

“Potters been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said 
Malfoy quickly. 

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick, 
beaming at Harry. “Professor McGonagall told me all 
about the special circumstances, Potter. And what 
model is it?” 

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“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting 
not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy’s face. 
“And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that I’ve got it,” 
he added. 

Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their 
laughter at Malfoy’s obvious rage and confusion. 

“Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the 
top of the marble staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen 
Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the team. ...” 

“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking 
rules?” came an angry voice from just behind them. 
Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking 
disapprovingly at the package in Harry’s hand. 

“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry. 

“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so 
much good.” 

Hermione marched away with her nose in the air. 

Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his 
lessons that day. It kept wandering up to the 
dormitory where his new broomstick was lying under 
his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field where 
he’d be learning to play that night. He bolted his 
dinner that evening without noticing what he was 
eating, and then rushed upstairs with Ron to unwrap 
the Nimbus Two Thousand at last. 

“Wow,” Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto 
Harry’s bedspread. 

Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different 
brooms, thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and 
shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of 

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neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand 
written in gold near the top. 

As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and 
set off in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. He’d 
never been inside the stadium before. Hundreds of 
seats were raised in stands around the field so that 
the spectators were high enough to see what was 
going on. At either end of the field were three golden 
poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of 
the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles 
through, except that they were fifty feet high. 

Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry 
mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the 
ground. What a feeling — he swooped in and out of 
the goal posts and then sped up and down the field. 
The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he 
wanted at his lightest touch. 

“Hey, Potter, come down!” 

Oliver Wood had arrived. He was carrying a large 
wooden crate under his arm. Harry landed next to 
him. 

“Very nice,” said Wood, his eyes glinting. “I see what 
McGonagall meant ... you really are a natural. I’m 
just going to teach you the rules this evening, then 
you’ll be joining team practice three times a week.” 

He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized 
balls. 

“Right,” said Wood. “Now, Quidditch is easy enough to 
understand, even if it’s not too easy to play. There are 
seven players on each side. Three of them are called 
Chasers.” 



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“Three Chasers,” Harry repeated, as Wood took out a 
bright red ball about the size of a soccer ball. 

“This ball’s called the Quaffle,” said Wood. “The 
Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try and 
get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten 
points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the 
hoops. Follow me?” 

“The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through 
the hoops to score,” Harry recited. “So — that’s sort of 
like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn’t 
it?” 



“What’s basketball?” said Wood curiously. 

“Never mind,” said Harry quickly. 

“Now, there’s another player on each side who’s called 
the Keeper — I’m Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly 
around our hoops and stop the other team from 
scoring.” 

“Three Chasers, one Keeper,” said Harry, who was 
determined to remember it all. “And they play with 
the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?” He 
pointed at the three balls left inside the box. 

“I’ll show you now,” said Wood. “Take this.” 

He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short 
baseball bat. 

“I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Wood 
said. “These two are the Bludgers.” 

He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and 
slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed 



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that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps 
holding them inside the box. 

“Stand back,” Wood warned Harry. He bent down and 
freed one of the Bludgers. 

At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then 
pelted straight at Harry’s face. Harry swung at it with 
the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it 
zigzagging away into the air — it zoomed around their 
heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it 
and managed to pin it to the ground. 

“See?” Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger 
back into the crate and strapping it down safely. “The 
Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off 
their brooms. That’s why you have two Beaters on 
each team — the Weasley twins are ours — it’s their 
job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and 
knock them toward the other team. So — think you’ve 
got all that?” 

“Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the 
Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the 
Bludgers away from their team,” Harry reeled off. 

“Very good,” said Wood. 

“Er — have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry 
asked, hoping he sounded offhand. 

“Never at Hogwarts. We’ve had a couple of broken 
jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last 
member of the team is the Seeker. That’s you. And 
you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the 
Bludgers — ” 

“ — unless they crack my head open.” 



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“Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for 
the Bludgers — I mean, they’re like a pair of human 
Bludgers themselves.” 

Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth 
and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the 
Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. 
It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver 
wings. 

“This,” said Wood, “is the Golden Snitch, and it’s the 
most important ball of the lot. It’s very hard to catch 
because it’s so fast and difficult to see. It’s the 
Seeker’s job to catch it. You’ve got to weave in and out 
of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get 
it before the other team’s Seeker, because whichever 
Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra 
hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. 
That’s why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of 
Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it 
can go on for ages — I think the record is three 
months, they had to keep bringing on substitutes so 
the players could get some sleep. 

“Well, that’s it — any questions?” 

Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to 
do all right, it was doing it that was going to be the 
problem. 

“We won’t practice with the Snitch yet,” said Wood, 
carefully shutting it back inside the crate, “it’s too 
dark, we might lose it. Let’s try you out with a few of 
these.” 

He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket 
and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the 
air, Wood throwing the golf balls as hard as he could 
in every direction for Harry to catch. 

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Harry didn’t miss a single one, and Wood was 
delighted. After half an hour, night had really fallen 
and they couldn’t carry on. 

“That Quidditch Cup’ll have our name on it this year,” 
said Wood happily as they trudged back up to the 
castle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turn out better 
than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for 
England if he hadn’t gone off chasing dragons.” 

Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what 
with Quidditch practice three evenings a week on top 
of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it 
when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts 
two months. The castle felt more like home than 
Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too, were becoming 
more and more interesting now that they had 
mastered the basics. 

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious 
smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the 
corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced 
in Charms that he thought they were ready to start 
making objects fly, something they had all been dying 
to try since they’d seen him make Neville’s toad zoom 
around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the 
class into pairs to practice. Harry’s partner was 
Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief, because Neville 
had been trying to catch his eye). Ron, however, was 
to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to 
tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this. 
She hadn’t spoken to either of them since the day 
Harry’s broomstick had arrived. 

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve 
been practicing!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, 
perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish 
and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the 
magic words properly is very important, too — never 
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forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f and 
found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his 
chest.” 

It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and 
flicked, but the feather they were supposed to be 
sending skyward just lay on the desktop. Seamus got 
so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set 
fire to it — Harry had to put it out with his hat. 

Ron, at the next table, wasn’t having much more 
luck. 

“Wingardium Leviosal” he shouted, waving his long 
arms like a windmill. 

“You’re saying it wrong,” Harry heard Hermione snap. 
“It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and 
long.” 

“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” Ron snarled. 

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked 
her wand, and said, “Wingardium LeviosaV’ 

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four 
feet above their heads. 

“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. 
“Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!” 

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class. 

“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” he said to 
Harry as they pushed their way into the crowded 
corridor, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.” 



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Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past 
him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her 
face — and was startled to see that she was in tears. 

“I think she heard you.” 

“So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. 
“She must’ve noticed she’s got no friends.” 

Hermione didn’t turn up for the next class and wasn’t 
seen all afternoon. On their way down to the Great 
Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron overheard 
Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione 
was crying in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be 
left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but 
a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, 
where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of 
their minds. 

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and 
ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the 
tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the 
pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on 
the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term 
banquet. 

Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato 
when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, 
his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone 
stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair, 
slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll — in 
the dungeons — thought you ought to know.” 

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. 

There was an uproar. It took several purple 
firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor 
Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence. 



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“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the 
dormitories immediately!” 

Percy was in his element. 

“Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear 
the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind 
me, now. Make way, first years coming through! 
Excuse me, I’m a prefect!” 

“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they 
climbed the stairs. 

“Don’t ask me, they’re supposed to be really stupid,” 
said Ron. “Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween 
joke.” 

They passed different groups of people hurrying in 
different directions. As they jostled their way through 
a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly 
grabbed Ron’s arm. 

“I’ve just thought — Hermione.” 

“What about her?” 

“She doesn’t know about the troll.” 

Ron bit his lip. 

“Oh, all right,” he snapped. “But Percy’d better not 
see us.” 

Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the 
other way, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and 
hurried off toward the girls’ bathroom. They had just 
turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps 
behind them. 



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“Percy!” hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large 
stone griffin. 

Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but 
Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from 
view. 

“What’s he doing?” Harry whispered. “Why isn’t he 
down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?” 

“Search me.” 

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor 
after Snape ’s fading footsteps. 

“He’s heading for the third floor,” Harry said, but Ron 
held up his hand. 

“Can you smell something?” 

Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a 
mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no 
one seems to clean. 

And then they heard it — a low grunting, and the 
shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed — at 
the end of a passage to the left, something huge was 
moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows 
and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight. 

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a 
dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder 
with its small bald head perched on top like a 
coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with 
flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was 
incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which 
dragged along the floor because its arms were so long. 



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The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. 
It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then 
slouched slowly into the room. 

“The key’s in the lock,” Harry muttered. “We could 
lock it in.” 

“Good idea,” said Ron nervously. 

They edged toward the open door, mouths dry, 
praying the troll wasn’t about to come out of it. With 
one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key, slam 
the door, and lock it. 

“Yes!” 

Flushed with their victory, they started to run back 
up the passage, but as they reached the corner they 
heard something that made their hearts stop — a 
high, petrified scream — and it was coming from the 
chamber they’d just chained up. 

“Oh, no,” said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron. 

“It’s the girls’ bathroom!” Harry gasped. 

“ Hermionel” they said together. 

It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what 
choice did they have? Wheeling around, they sprinted 
back to the door and turned the key, fumbling in their 
panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran 
inside. 

Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall 
opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll 
was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the 
walls as it went. 



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“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and, 
seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against 
the wall. 

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It 
lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had 
made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It 
hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club 
as it went. 

“Oy, pea-brain!” yelled Ron from the other side of the 
chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll 
didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting its 
shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again, 
turning its ugly snout toward Ron instead, giving 
Harry time to run around it. 

“Come on, run, run\” Harry yelled at Hermione, trying 
to pull her toward the door, but she couldn’t move, 
she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open 
with terror. 

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the 
troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron, 
who was nearest and had no way to escape. 

Harry then did something that was both very brave 
and very stupid: He took a great running jump and 
managed to fasten his arms around the troll’s neck 
from behind. The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging 
there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit 
of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wand had still been 
in his hand when he’d jumped — it had gone straight 
up one of the troll’s nostrils. 

Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its 
club, with Harry clinging on for dear life; any second, 
the troll was going to rip him off or catch him a 
terrible blow with the club. 

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Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled 
out his own wand — not knowing what he was going 
to do he heard himself cry the first spell that came 
into his head: “Wingardium Leviosal” 

The club flew suddenly out of the troll’s hand, rose 
high, high up into the air, turned slowly over — and 
dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its owner’s 
head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat 
on its face, with a thud that made the whole room 
tremble. 

Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of 
breath. Ron was standing there with his wand still 
raised, staring at what he had done. 

It was Hermione who spoke first. 

“Is it — dead?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Harry, “I think it’s just been 
knocked out.” 

He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll’s 
nose. It was covered in what looked like lumpy gray 
glue. 

“Urgh — troll boogers.” 

He wiped it on the troll’s trousers. 

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the 
three of them look up. They hadn’t realized what a 
racket they had been making, but of course, someone 
downstairs must have heard the crashes and the 
troll’s roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall 
had come bursting into the room, closely followed by 
Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell 



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took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and 
sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart. 

Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was 
looking at Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her 
look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of winning 
fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry’s 
mind. 

“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor 
McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked 
at Ron, who was still standing with his wand in the 
air. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you 
in your dormitory?” 

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked 
at the floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down. 

Then a small voice came out of the shadows. 

“Please, Professor McGonagall — they were looking for 
me.” 

“Miss Granger!” 

Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last. 

“I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I 
could deal with it on my own — you know, because 
I’ve read all about them.” 

Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a 
downright lie to a teacher? 

“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry 
stuck his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out 
with its own club. They didn’t have time to come and 
fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they 
arrived.” 

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Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story 
wasn’t new to them. 

“Well — in that case ...” said Professor McGonagall, 
staring at the three of them, “Miss Granger, you 
foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a 
mountain troll on your own?” 

Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless. 
Hermione was the last person to do anything against 
the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to 
get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started 
handing out sweets. 

“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from 
Gryffindor for this,” said Professor McGonagall. “I’m 
very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at all, 
you’d better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are 
finishing the feast in their Houses.” 

Hermione left. 

Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron. 

“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first 
years could have taken on a full-grown mountain 
troll. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor 
Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.” 

They hurried out of the chamber and didn’t speak at 
all until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief 
to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from 
anything else. 

“We should have gotten more than ten points,” Ron 
grumbled. 

“Five, you mean, once she’s taken off Hermione ’s.” 



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“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron 
admitted. “Mind you, we did save her.” 

“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t 
locked the thing in with her,” Harry reminded him. 

They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. 

“Pig snout,” they said and entered. 

The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone 
was eating the food that had been sent up. Hermione, 
however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them. 
There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of 
them looking at each other, they all said “Thanks,” 
and hurried off to get plates. 

But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became 
their friend. There are some things you can’t share 
without ending up liking each other, and knocking 
out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them. 



Page | 201 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 





QUIDDITCH 

As they entered November, the weather turned very 
cold. The mountains around the school became icy 
gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the 
ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen 
from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on 
the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin 
overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin 
boots. 

The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry 
would be playing in his first match after weeks of 
training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor 
won, they would move up into second place in the 
House Championship. 

Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood 
had decided that, as their secret weapon, Harry 
should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he was 
playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry 
didn’t know which was worse — people telling him 
he’d be brilliant or people telling him they’d be 
running around underneath him holding a mattress. 
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It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a 
friend. He didn’t know how he’d have gotten through 
all his homework without her, what with all the last- 
minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them 
do. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages, 
which turned out to be a very interesting read. 

Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of 
committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had 
happened during a World Cup match in 1473; that 
Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players, 
and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to 
happen to them; that although people rarely died 
playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish 
and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert. 

Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about 
breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her 
from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer for 
it. The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match the 
three of them were out in the freezing courtyard 
during break, and she had conjured them up a bright 
blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar. 
They were standing with their backs to it, getting 
warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at 
once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from 
view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed. 
Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces 
caught Snape’s eye. He limped over. He hadn’t seen 
the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to 
tell them off anyway. 

“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?” 

It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him. 



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“Library books are not to be taken outside the 
school,” said Snape. “Give it to me. Five points from 
Gryffindor.” 

“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily 
as Snape limped away. “Wonder what’s wrong with 
his leg?” 

“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron 
bitterly. 

The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that 
evening. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together next 
to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and Ron’s 
Charms homework for them. She would never let 
them copy (“How will you learn?”), but by asking her 
to read it through, they got the right answers anyway. 

Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the 
Ages back, to take his mind off his nerves about 
tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape? Getting 
up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask 
Snape if he could have it. 

“Better you than me,” they said together, but Harry 
had an idea that Snape wouldn’t refuse if there were 
other teachers listening. 

He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. 
There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. 

Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was 
worth a try. He pushed the door ajar and peered 
inside — and a horrible scene met his eyes. 

Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was 
holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was 
bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape 
bandages. 

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“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you 
supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at 
once?” 

Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but — 

“POTTER!” 

Snape ’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his 
robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped. 

“I just wondered if I could have my book back.” 

“GET OUT! OUT!” 

Harry left, before Snape could take any more points 
from Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs. 

“Did you get it?” Ron asked as Harry joined them. 
“What’s the matter?” 

In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen. 

“You know what this means?” he finished 
breathlessly. “He tried to get past that three-headed 
dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we 
saw him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d 
bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a 
diversion!” 

Hermione’s eyes were wide. 

“No — he wouldn’t,” she said. “I know he’s not very 
nice, but he wouldn’t try and steal something 
Dumbledore was keeping safe.” 

“Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints 
or something,” snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I 



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wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But what’s he 
after? What’s that dog guarding?” 

Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the 
same question. Neville was snoring loudly, but Harry 
couldn’t sleep. He tried to empty his mind — he 
needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch 
match in a few hours — but the expression on 
Snape’s face when Harry had seen his leg wasn’t easy 
to forget. 

The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The 
Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried 
sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking 
forward to a good Quidditch match. 

“You’ve got to eat some breakfast.” 

“I don’t want anything.” 

“Just a bit of toast,” wheedled Hermione. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Harry felt terrible. In an hour’s time he’d be walking 
onto the field. 

“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus 
Finnigan. “Seekers are always the ones who get 
clobbered by the other team.” 

“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile 
ketchup on his sausages. 

By eleven o’clock the whole school seemed to be out 
in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many 
students had binoculars. The seats might be raised 
high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what 
was going on sometimes. 

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Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean 
the West Ham fan up in the top row. As a surprise for 
Harry, they had painted a large banner on one of the 
sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for 
President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had 
done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then 
Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that 
the paint flashed different colors. 

Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of 
the team were changing into their scarlet Quidditch 
robes (Slytherin would be playing in green) . 

Wood cleared his throat for silence. 

“Okay, men,” he said. 

“And women,” said Chaser Angelina Johnson. 

“And women,” Wood agreed. “This is it.” 

“The big one,” said Fred Weasley. 

“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” said George. 

“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Harry, 
“we were on the team last year.” 

“Shut up, you two,” said Wood. “This is the best team 
Gryffindor’s had in years. We’re going to win. I know 
it.” 

He glared at them all as if to say, “Or else.” 

“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.” 

Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker 
room and, hoping his knees weren’t going to give way, 
walked onto the field to loud cheers. 

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Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the 
middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her 
broom in her hand. 

“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said, 
once they were all gathered around her. Harry noticed 
that she seemed to be speaking particularly to the 
Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a fifth year. Harry 
thought Flint looked as if he had some troll blood in 
him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering 
banner high above, flashing Potter for President over 
the crowd. His heart skipped. He felt braver. 

“Mount your brooms, please.” 

Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand. 

Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle. 

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They 
were off. 

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina 
Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser 
that girl is, and rather attractive, too — ” 

“JORDAN!” 

“Sorry, Professor.” 

The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the 
commentary for the match, closely watched by 
Professor McGonagall. 

“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass 
to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood’s, last 
year only a reserve — back to Johnson and — no, the 
Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain 
Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint 
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flying like an eagle up there — he’s going to sc- no, 
stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper 
Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s 
Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive 
around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that 
must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a 
Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s 
Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but 
he’s blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by 
Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which — nice play 
by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back 
in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and 
off she goes — she’s really flying — dodges a speeding 
Bludger — the goal posts are ahead — come on, now, 
Angelina — Keeper Bletchley dives — misses — 
GRYFFINDORS SCORE!” 

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and 
moans from the Slytherins. 

“Budge up there, move along.” 

“Hagrid!” 

Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid 
enough space to join them. 

“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid, patting a 
large pair of binoculars around his neck, “But it isn’t 
the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch 
yet, eh?” 

“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.” 

“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said 
Hagrid, raising his binoculars and peering skyward at 
the speck that was Harry. 



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Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, 
squinting about for some sign of the Snitch. This was 
part of his and Wood’s game plan. 

“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the 
Snitch,” Wood had said. “We don’t want you attacked 
before you have to be.” 

When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple 
of loop-the-loops to let off his feelings. Now he was 
back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he caught 
sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection 
from one of the Weasleys’ wristwatches, and once a 
Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a 
cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and 
Fred Weasley came chasing after it. 

“All right there, Harry?” he had time to yell, as he 
beat the Bludger furiously toward Marcus Flint. 

“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying, 
“Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, 
and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait a 
moment — was that the Snitch?” 

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey 
dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his 
shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left 
ear. 

Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived 
downward after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker 
Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and neck they 
hurtled toward the Snitch — all the Chasers seemed 
to have forgotten what they were supposed to be 
doing as they hung in midair to watch. 



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Harry was faster than Higgs — he could see the little 
round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead — he 
put on an extra spurt of speed — 

WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors 
below — Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, 
and Harry’s broom spun off course, Harry holding on 
for dear life. 

“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors. 

Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered 
a free shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all 
the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had 
disappeared from sight again. 

Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, “Send 
him off, ref! Red card!” 

“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron. 

“Red card!” said Dean furiously. “In soccer you get 
shown the red card and you’re out of the game!” 

“But this isn’t soccer, Dean,” Ron reminded him. 

Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side. 

“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked 
Harry outta the air.” 

Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides. 

“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of 
cheating — ” 

“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall. 

“I mean, after that open and revolting foul — ” 

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“Jordan, I’m warning you — ” 



“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor 
Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a 
penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it 
away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor 
still in possession.” 

It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went 
spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened. 
His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a 
split second, he thought he was going to fall. He 
gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and 
knees. He’d never felt anything like that. 

It happened again. It was as though the broom was 
trying to buck him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands 
did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off. Harry 
tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal posts — 
he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out — 
and then he realized that his broom was completely 
out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t 
direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and 
every now and then making violent swishing 
movements that almost unseated him. 

Lee was still commentating. 

“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle — 
passes Spinnet — passes Bell — hit hard in the face 
by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose — only joking, 
Professor — Slytherins score — oh no ...” 

The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have 
noticed that Harry’s broom was behaving strangely It 
was carrying him slowly higher, away from the game, 
jerking and twitching as it went. 



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“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid 
mumbled. He stared through his binoculars. “If I 
didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his 
broom ... but he can’t have. ...” 

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over 
the stands. His broom had started to roll over and 
over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then 
the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a 
wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling 
from it, holding on with only one hand. 

“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” 
Seamus whispered. 

“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t 
nothing interfere with a broomstick except powerful 
Dark magic — no kid could do that to a Nimbus Two 
Thousand.” 

At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid ’s binoculars, 
but instead of looking up at Harry, she started 
looking frantically at the crowd. 

“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced. 

“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape — look.” 

Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle 
of the stands opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on 
Harry and was muttering nonstop under his breath. 

“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said 
Hermione. 

“What should we do?” 

“Leave it to me.” 



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Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had 
disappeared. Ron turned the binoculars back on 
Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost 
impossible for him to hang on much longer. The 
whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the 
Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one 
of their brooms, but it was no good — every time they 
got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They 
dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously 
hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the 
Quaffle and scored five times without anyone 
noticing. 

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately. 

Hermione had fought her way across to the stand 
where Snape stood, and was now racing along the row 
behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as she 
knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in 
front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled 
out her wand, and whispered a few, well-chosen 
words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto 
the hem of Snape ’s robes. 

It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize 
that he was on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had 
done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a little jar 
in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row — 
Snape would never know what had happened. 

It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able 
to clamber back on to his broom. 

“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been 
sobbing into Hagrid’s jacket for the last five minutes. 

Harry was speeding toward the ground when the 
crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though 



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he was about to be sick — he hit the field on all fours 
— coughed — and something gold fell into his hand. 

“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his 
head, and the game ended in complete confusion. 

“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was 
still howling twenty minutes later, but it made no 
difference — Harry hadn’t broken any rules and Lee 
Jordan was still happily shouting the results — 
Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy 
points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He 
was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid’s 
hut, with Ron and Hermione. 

“It was Snape,” Ron was explaining, “Hermione and I 
saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, 
he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.” 

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of 
what had gone on next to him in the stands. “Why 
would Snape do somethin’ like that?” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, 
wondering what to tell him. Harry decided on the 
truth. 

“I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid. 
“He tried to get past that three-headed dog on 
Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to steal 
whatever it’s guarding.” 

Hagrid dropped the teapot. 

“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said. 

“ Fluffy ?” 



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“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie 
I met in the pub las’ year — I lent him to Dumbledore 
to guard the — ” 

“Yes?” said Harry eagerly. 

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. 
“That’s top secret, that is.” 

“But Snape’s trying to steal it.” 

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts 
teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort.” 

“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried 
Hermione. 

The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have 
changed her mind about Snape. 

“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all 
about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and 
Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!” 

“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’ 
know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape 
wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all 
three of yeh — yer meddlin’ in things that don’ 
concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ 
you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor 
Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel — ■” 

“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas 
Flamel involved, is there?” 

Hagrid looked furious with himself. 



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THE MIRROR OF ERISED 

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid- 
December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in 
several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the 
Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several 
snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, 
bouncing off the back of his turban. The few owls that 
managed to battle their way through the stormy sky 
to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by 
Hagrid before they could fly off again. 

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the 
Gryffindor common room and the Great Hall had 
roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and 
a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. 
Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes down in 
the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist 
before them and they kept as close as possible to 
their hot cauldrons. 

“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions 
class, “for all those people who have to stay at 



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Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted 
at home.” 

He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and 
Goyle chuckled. Harry, who was measuring out 
powdered spine of lion-fish, ignored them. Malfoy had 
been even more unpleasant than usual since the 
Quidditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had 
lost, he had tried to get everyone laughing at how a 
wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as 
Seeker next. Then he’d realized that nobody found 
this funny, because they were all so impressed at the 
way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking 
broomstick. So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone 
back to taunting Harry about having no proper 
family. 

It was true that Harry wasn’t going back to Privet 
Drive for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come 
around the week before, making a list of students 
who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had 
signed up at once. He didn’t feel sorry for himself at 
all; this would probably be the best Christmas he’d 
ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying, too, 
because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania 
to visit Charlie. 

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, 
they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. 
Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a 
loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind 
it. 

“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his 
head through the branches. 

“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.” 



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“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came 
Malfoy’s cold drawl from behind them. “Are you trying 
to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to be 
gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I 
suppose — that hut of Hagrid’s must seem like a 
palace compared to what your family’s used to.” 

Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs. 

“WEASLEY!” 

Ron let go of the front of Malfoy’s robes. 

“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid, 
sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree. 
“Malfoy was insultin’ his family.” 

“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, 
Hagrid,” said Snape silkily. “Five points from 
Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more. 
Move along, all of you.” 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the 
tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking. 

“I’ll get him,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy’s 
back, “one of these days, I’ll get him — ” 

“I hate them both,” said Harry, “Malfoy and Snape.” 

“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” said 
Hagrid. “Tell yeh what, come with me an’ see the 
Great Hall, looks a treat.” 

So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off 
to the Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and 
Professor Flitwick were busy with the Christmas 
decorations. 



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“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner, 
would you?” 

The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and 
mistletoe hung all around the walls, and no less than 
twelve towering Christmas trees stood around the 
room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering 
with hundreds of candles. 

“How many days you got left until yer holidays?” 
Hagrid asked. 

“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me — 
Harry, Ron, we’ve got half an hour before lunch, we 
should be in the library.” 

“Oh yeah, you’re right,” said Ron, tearing his eyes 
away from Professor Flitwick, who had golden 
bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was trailing 
them over the branches of the new tree. 

“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the 
hall. “Just before the holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?” 

“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry told him brightly. 

“Ever since you mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been 
trying to find out who he is.” 

“You what?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here — 
I’ve told yeh — drop it. It’s nothin’ to you what that 
dog’s guardin’.” 

“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s 
all,” said Hermione. 

“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble?” 
Harry added. “We must’ve been through hundreds of 
books already and we can’t find him anywhere — just 



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give us a hint — I know I’ve read his name 
somewhere.” 

“I’m sayin’ nothin’,” said Hagrid flatly. 

“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Ron, 
and they left Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried 
off to the library. 

They had indeed been searching books for Flamel’s 
name ever since Hagrid had let it slip, because how 
else were they going to find out what Snape was 
trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to 
know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might 
have done to get himself into a book. He wasn’t in 
Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable 
Magical Names of Our Time ; he was missing, too, from 
Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and A Study of 
Recent Developments in Wizardry. And then, of 
course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of 
thousands of books; thousands of shelves; hundreds 
of narrow rows. 

Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had 
decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of 
books and started pulling them off the shelves at 
random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted 
Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel 
wasn’t somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you 
needed a specially signed note from one of the 
teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he 
knew he’d never get one. These were the books 
containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at 
Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying 
advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

“What are you looking for, boy?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry. 

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Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather 
duster at him. 

“You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!” 

Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some 
story, Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione 
had already agreed they’d better not ask Madam 
Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure 
she’d be able to tell them, but they couldn’t risk 
Snape hearing what they were up to. 

Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other 
two had found anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful. 
They had been looking for two weeks, after all, but as 
they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t 
surprising they’d found nothing. What they really 
needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince 
breathing down their necks. 

Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, 
shaking their heads. They went off to lunch. 

“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” 
said Hermione. “And send me an owl if you find 
anything.” 

“And you could ask your parents if they know who 
Flamel is,” said Ron. “It’d be safe to ask them.” 

“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione. 

Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were 
having too good a time to think much about Flamel. 
They had the dormitory to themselves and the 
common room was far emptier than usual, so they 
were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They 
sat by the hour eating anything they could spear on a 
toasting fork — bread, English muffins, 

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marshmallows — and plotting ways of getting Malfoy 
expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they 
wouldn’t work. 

Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This 
was exactly like Muggle chess except that the figures 
were alive, which made it a lot like directing troops in 
battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like 
everything else he owned, it had once belonged to 
someone else in his family — in this case, his 
grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a 
drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had 
trouble getting them to do what he wanted. 

Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had 
lent him, and they didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t a 
very good player yet and they kept shouting different 
bits of advice at him, which was confusing. “Don’t 
send me there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we 
can afford to lose him.” 

On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward 
to the next day for the food and the fun, but not 
expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in 
the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a 
small pile of packages at the foot of his bed. 

“Merry Christmas,” said Ron sleepily as Harry 
scrambled out of bed and pulled on his bathrobe. 

“You, too,” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I’ve got 
some presents!” 

“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to 
his own pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry’s. 

Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in 
thick brown paper and scrawled across it was To 
Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut wooden 

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flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry 
blew it — it sounded a bit like an owl. 

A second, very small parcel contained a note. 

We received your message and enclose your Christmas 
present. From Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped 
to the note was a fifty-pence piece. 

“That’s friendly,” said Harry. 

Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence. 

“ Weird\ ” he said, “What a shape! This is money?” 

“You can keep it,” said Harry, laughing at how 
pleased Ron was. “Hagrid and my aunt and uncle — 
so who sent these?” 

“I think I know who that one’s from,” said Ron, 
turning a bit pink and pointing to a very lumpy 
parcel. “My mom. I told her you didn’t expect any 
presents and — oh, no,” he groaned, “she’s made you 
a Weasley sweater.” 

Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand- 
knitted sweater in emerald green and a large box of 
homemade fudge. 

“Every year she makes us a sweater,” said Ron, 
unwrapping his own, “and mine’s always maroon.” 

“That’s really nice of her,” said Harry, trying the 
fudge, which was very tasty. 

His next present also contained candy — a large box 
of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione. 



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This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt 
it. It was very light. He unwrapped it. 

Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the 
floor where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped. 

“I’ve heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice, 
dropping the box of Every Flavor Beans he’d gotten 
from Hermione. “If that’s what I think it is — they’re 
really rare, and really valuable.” 

“What is it?” 

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It 
was strange to the touch, like water woven into 
material. 

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on 
his face. “I’m sure it is — try it on.” 

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron 
gave a yell. 

“It is! Look down!” 

Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He 
dashed to the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection 
looked back at him, just his head suspended in 
midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the 
cloak over his head and his reflection vanished 
completely. 

“There’s a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of 
it!” 



Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. 
Written in narrow, loopy writing he had never seen 
before were the following words: 



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Your father left this in my possession before he died. It 
is time it was returned to you. 

Use it well. 

A Very Merry Christmas to you. 

There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron 
was admiring the cloak. 

“I’d give anuthinq for one of these,” he said. “Anuthinq. 
What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing,” said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had 
sent the cloak? Had it really once belonged to his 
father? 

Before he could say or think anything else, the 
dormitory door was flung open and Fred and George 
Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the cloak quickly 
out of sight. He didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone 
else yet. 

“Merry Christmas!” 

“Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!” 

Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one 
with a large yellow F on it, the other a G. 

“Harry’s is better than ours, though,” said Fred, 
holding up Harry’s sweater. “She obviously makes 
more of an effort if you’re not family.” 

“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George 
demanded. “Come on, get it on, they’re lovely and 
warm.” 



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“I hate maroon,” Ron moaned halfheartedly as he 
pulled it over his head. 

“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed. 

“I suppose she thinks you don’t forget your name. But 
we’re not stupid — we know we’re called Gred and 
Forge.” 

“What’s all this noise?” 

Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, 
looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway 
through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a 
lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized. 

“P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all 
wearing ours, even Harry got one.” 

“I — don’t — want — ” said Percy thickly, as the twins 
forced the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses 
askew. 

“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today, 
either,” said George. “Christmas is a time for family.” 

They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms 
pinned to his side by his sweater. 

Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas 
dinner. A hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of 
roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas; 
tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich 
gravy and cranberry sauce — and stacks of wizard 
crackers every few feet along the table. These 
fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble 
Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their 
little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside. 
Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t 
just bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and 
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engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from 
the inside exploded a rear admiral’s hat and several 
live, white mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore 
had swapped his pointed wizard’s hat for a flowered 
bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor 
Flitwick had just read him. 

Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. 
Percy nearly broke his teeth on a silver Sickle 
embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid getting 
redder and redder in the face as he called for more 
wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the 
cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggled and 
blushed, her top hat lopsided. 

When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down 
with a stack of things out of the crackers, including a 
pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a Grow- 
Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess 
set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a 
nasty feeling they were going to end up as Mrs. 
Norris’s Christmas dinner. 

Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon 
having a furious snowball fight on the grounds. Then, 
cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to the 
fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry 
broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to 
Ron. He suspected he wouldn’t have lost so badly if 
Percy hadn’t tried to help him so much. 

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, 
and Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy 
to do much before bed except sit and watch Percy 
chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor Tower 
because they’d stolen his prefect badge. 

It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever. Yet 
something had been nagging at the back of his mind 

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all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he free to 
think about it: the Invisibility Cloak and whoever had 
sent it. 

Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing 
mysterious to bother him, fell asleep almost as soon 
as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry 
leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the 
cloak out from under it. 

His father’s ... this had been his father’s. He let the 
material flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light 
as air. Use it well, the note had said. 

He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and 
wrapped the cloak around himself. Looking down at 
his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It was a 
very funny feeling. 

Use it well. 

Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of 
Hogwarts was open to him in this cloak. Excitement 
flooded through him as he stood there in the dark 
and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere, 
and Filch would never know. 

Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him? 
Something held him back — his father’s cloak — he 
felt that this time — the first time — he wanted to use 
it alone. 

He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across 
the common room, and climbed through the portrait 
hole. 

“Who’s there?” squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said 
nothing. He walked quickly down the corridor. 



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Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing, 
and thought. And then it came to him. The Restricted 
Section in the library. He’d be able to read as long as 
he liked, as long as it took to find out who Flamel 
was. He set off, drawing the Invisibility Cloak tight 
around him as he walked. 

The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a 
lamp to see his way along the rows of books. The 
lamp looked as if it was floating along in midair, and 
even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it, 
the sight gave him the creeps. 

The Restricted Section was right at the back of the 
library. Stepping carefully over the rope that 
separated these books from the rest of the library, he 
held up his lamp to read the titles. 

They didn’t tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold 
letters spelled words in languages Harry couldn’t 
understand. Some had no title at all. One book had a 
dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The 
hairs on the back of Harry’s neck prickled. Maybe he 
was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint 
whispering was coming from the books, as though 
they knew someone was there who shouldn’t be. 

He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down 
carefully on the floor, he looked along the bottom 
shelf for an interesting-looking book. A large black 
and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it out 
with difficulty, because it was very heavy, and, 
balancing it on his knee, let it fall open. 

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence — 
the book was screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but 
the shriek went on and on, one high, unbroken, 
earsplitting note. He stumbled backward and knocked 
over his lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he 
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heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside — 
stuffing the shrieking book back on the shelf, he ran 
for it. He passed Filch in the doorway; Filch’s pale, 
wild eyes looked straight through him, and Harry 
slipped under Filch’s outstretched arm and streaked 
off up the corridor, the book’s shrieks still ringing in 
his ears. 

He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of 
armor. He had been so busy getting away from the 
library, he hadn’t paid attention to where he was 
going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn’t 
recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of 
armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be 
five floors above there. 

“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if 
anyone was wandering around at night, and 
somebody’s been in the library — Restricted Section.” 

Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he 
was, Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft, 
greasy voice was getting nearer, and to his horror, it 
was Snape who replied, “The Restricted Section? Well, 
they can’t be far, we’ll catch them.” 

Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape 
came around the corner ahead. They couldn’t see 
him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if 
they came much nearer they’d knock right into him — 
the cloak didn’t stop him from being solid. 

He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood 
ajar to his left. It was his only hope. He squeezed 
through it, holding his breath, trying not to move it, 
and to his relief he managed to get inside the room 
without their noticing anything. They walked straight 
past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing 
deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. That 
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had been close, very close. It was a few seconds 
before he noticed anything about the room he had 
hidden in. 



It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes 
of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and 
there was an upturned wastepaper basket — but 
propped against the wall facing him was something 
that didn’t look as if it belonged there, something that 
looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it 
out of the way. 

It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, 
with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed 
feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: 
Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. 

His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch 
and Snape, Harry moved nearer to the mirror, 
wanting to look at himself but see no reflection again. 
He stepped in front of it. 

He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself 
from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was 
pounding far more furiously than when the book had 
screamed — for he had seen not only himself in the 
mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right 
behind him. 

But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he 
turned slowly back to the mirror. 

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared- 
looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least 
ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder — but still, 
no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was 
he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this 
mirrors trick was that it reflected them, invisible or 
not? 

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He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing 
right behind his reflection was smiling at him and 
waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind 
him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their 
reflections were so close together, but he felt only air 
— she and the others existed only in the mirror. 

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair 
and her eyes — her eyes are just like mine, Harry 
thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright 
green — exactly the same shape, but then he noticed 
that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same 
time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next 
to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and 
his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just 
as Harry’s did. 

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose 
was nearly touching that of his reflection. 

“Mom?” he whispered. “Dad?” 

They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry 
looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, 
and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses 
like his, even a little old man who looked as though 
he had Harry’s knobbly knees — Harry was looking at 
his family, for the first time in his life. 

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared 
hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against 
the glass as though he was hoping to fall right 
through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of 
ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness. 

How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The 
reflections did not fade and he looked and looked 
until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. 
He couldn’t stay here, he had to find his way back to 

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bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother’s face, 
whispered, “I’ll come back,” and hurried from the 
room. 

“You could have woken me up,” said Ron, crossly. 

“You can come tonight, I’m going back, I want to show 
you the mirror.” 

“I’d like to see your mom and dad,” Ron said eagerly. 

“And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, 
you’ll be able to show me your other brothers and 
everyone.” 

“You can see them any old time,” said Ron. “Just 
come round my house this summer. Anyway, maybe 
it only shows dead people. Shame about not finding 
Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why 
aren’t you eating anything?” 

Harry couldn’t eat. He had seen his parents and 
would be seeing them again tonight. He had almost 
forgotten about Flamel. It didn’t seem very important 
anymore. Who cared what the three-headed dog was 
guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really? 

“Are you all right?” said Ron. “You look odd.” 

What Harry feared most was that he might not be 
able to find the mirror room again. With Ron covered 
in the cloak, too, they had to walk much more slowly 
the next night. They tried retracing Harry’s route from 
the library, wandering around the dark passageways 
for nearly an hour. 

“I’m freezing,” said Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.” 

“IVo!” Harry hissed. “I know it’s here somewhere.” 

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They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the 
opposite direction, but saw no one else. Just as Ron 
started moaning that his feet were dead with cold, 
Harry spotted the suit of armor. 

“It’s here — just here — yes!” 

They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak 
from around his shoulders and ran to the mirror. 

There they were. His mother and father beamed at the 
sight of him. 

“See?” Harry whispered. 

“I can’t see anything.” 

“Look! Look at them all ... there are loads of them. ...” 
“I can only see you.” 

“Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am.” 

Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the 
mirror, he couldn’t see his family anymore, just Ron 
in his paisley pajamas. 

Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image. 
“Look at me!” he said. 

“Can you see all your family standing around you?” 

“No — I’m alone — but I’m different — I look older — 
and I’m Head Boy!” 

“What?” 



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“I am — I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to — and 
I’m holding the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup — 
I’m Quidditch captain, too!” 

Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to 
look excitedly at Harry. 

“Do you think this mirror shows the future?” 

“How can it? All my family are dead — let me have 
another look — ” 

“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit 
more time.” 

“You’re only holding the Quidditch Cup, what’s 
interesting about that? I want to see my parents.” 

“Don’t push me — ” 

A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to 
their discussion. They hadn’t realized how loudly they 
had been talking. 

“Quick!” 

Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous 
eyes of Mrs. Norris came round the door. Ron and 
Harry stood quite still, both thinking the same thing 
— did the cloak work on cats? After what seemed an 
age, she turned and left. 

“This isn’t safe — she might have gone for Filch, I bet 
she heard us. Come on.” 

And Ron pulled Harry out of the room. 

The snow still hadn’t melted the next morning. 



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“Want to play chess, Harry?” said Ron. 



“No.” 

“Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?” 

“No ... you go ...” 

“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that 
mirror. Don’t go back tonight.” 

“Why not?” 

“I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it — and 
anyway, you’ve had too many close shaves already. 
Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering around. 
So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into 
you? What if you knock something over?” 

“You sound like Hermione.” 

“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.” 

But Harry only had one thought in his head, which 
was to get back in front of the mirror, and Ron wasn’t 
going to stop him. 

That third night he found his way more quickly than 
before. He was walking so fast he knew he was 
making more noise than was wise, but he didn’t meet 
anyone. 

And there were his mother and father smiling at him 
again, and one of his grandfathers nodding happily. 
Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the 
mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying 
here all night with his family. Nothing at all. 

Except — 

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“So — back again, Harry?” 

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He 
looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the 
wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry 
must have walked straight past him, so desperate to 
get to the mirror he hadn’t noticed him. 

“I — I didn’t see you, sir.” 

“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make 
you,” said Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see 
that he was smiling. 

“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on 
the floor with Harry, “you, like hundreds before you, 
have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.” 

“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.” 

“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?” 

“It — well — it shows me my family — ” 

“And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy.” 

“How did you know — ?” 

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said 
Dumbledore gently. “Now, can you think what the 
Mirror of Erised shows us all?” 

Harry shook his head. 

“Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be 
able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, 
that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly 
as he is. Does that help?” 



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Harry thought. Then he said slowly, “It shows us 
what we want ... whatever we want ...” 

“Yes and no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It shows us 
nothing more or less than the deepest, most 
desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never 
known your family, see them standing around you. 
Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed 
by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best 
of all of them. However, this mirror will give us 
neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away 
before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been 
driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or 
even possible. 

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, 
Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If 
you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It 
does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, 
remember that. Now, why don’t you put that 
admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?” 

Harry stood up. 

“Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you 
something?” 

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. 
“You may ask me one more thing, however.” 

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” 

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.” 

Harry stared. 

“One can never have enough socks,” said 
Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone 



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and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on 
giving me books.” 

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck 
Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite 
truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved 
Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal 
question. 



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NICHOLAS FLAMBL 

Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking 
for the Mirror of Erised again, and for the rest of the 
Christmas holidays the Invisibility Cloak stayed 
folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he 
could forget what he’d seen in the mirror as easily, 
but he couldn’t. He started having nightmares. Over 
and over again he dreamed about his parents 
disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high 
voice cackled with laughter. 

“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could 
drive you mad,” said Ron, when Harry told him about 
these dreams. 

Hermione, who came back the day before term 
started, took a different view of things. She was torn 
between horror at the idea of Harry being out of bed, 
roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had 
caught you!”), and disappointment that he hadn’t at 
least found out who Nicolas Flamel was. 



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They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel 
in a library book, even though Harry was still sure 
he’d read the name somewhere. Once term had 
started, they were back to skimming through books 
for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had even 
less time than the other two, because Quidditch 
practice had started again. 

Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even 
the endless rain that had replaced the snow couldn’t 
dampen his spirits. The Weasleys complained that 
Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on 
Wood’s side. If they won their next match, against 
Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in the 
House Championship for the first time in seven years. 
Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found that he 
had fewer nightmares when he was tired out after 
training. 

Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice 
session, Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He’d 
just gotten very angry with the Weasleys, who kept 
dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off 
their brooms. 

“Will you stop messing around!” he yelled. “That’s 
exactly the sort of thing that’ll lose us the match! 
Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking for 
any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!” 

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these 
words. 

“ Snape’s refereeing?” he spluttered through a 
mouthful of mud. “When’s he ever refereed a 
Quidditch match? He’s not going to be fair if we might 
overtake Slytherin.” 



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The rest of the team landed next to George to 
complain, too. 

“It’s not my fault,” said Wood. “We’ve just got to make 
sure we play a clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an 
excuse to pick on us.” 

Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had 
another reason for not wanting Snape near him while 
he was playing Quidditch. ... 

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another 
as usual at the end of practice, but Harry headed 
straight back to the Gryffindor common room, where 
he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was 
the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry 
and Ron thought was very good for her. 

“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harry 
sat down next to him, “I need to concern” He caught 
sight of Harry’s face. “What’s the matter with you? 

You look terrible.” 

Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, 

Harry told the other two about Snape ’s sudden, 
sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee. 

“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once. 

“Say you’re ill,” said Ron. 

“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested. 

“ Really break your leg,” said Ron. 

“I can’t,” said Harry. “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I 
back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.” 



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At that moment Neville toppled into the common 
room. How he had managed to climb through the 
portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his legs 
had been stuck together with what they recognized at 
once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to 
bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor Tower. 

Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who 
leapt up and performed the countercurse. Neville’s 
legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling. 

“What happened?” Hermione asked him, leading him 
over to sit with Harry and Ron. 

“Malfoy,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the 
library. He said he’d been looking for someone to 
practice that on.” 

“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged 
Neville. “Report him!” 

Neville shook his head. 

“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbled. 

“You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!” said Ron. 
“He’s used to walking all over people, but that’s no 
reason to lie down in front of him and make it easier.” 

“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be 
in Gryffindor, Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville 
choked out. 

Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a 
Chocolate Frog, the very last one from the box 
Hermione had given him for Christmas. He gave it to 
Neville, who looked as though he might cry. 



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“You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harry said. “The 
Sorting Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And 
where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.” 

Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he 
unwrapped the frog. 

“Thanks, Harry ... I think I’ll go to bed. ... D’you want 
the card, you collect them, don’t you?” 

As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous 
Wizard card. 

“Dumbledore again,” he said, “He was the first one I 
ever — ” 

He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he 
looked up at Ron and Hermione. 

“I’ve found him\” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I 
told you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it 
on the train coming here — listen to this: 

‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of 
the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the 
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his 
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’V’ 

Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so 
excited since they’d gotten back the marks for their 
very first piece of homework. 

“Stay there!” she said, and she sprinted up the stairs 
to the girls’ dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had 
time to exchange mystified looks before she was 
dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms. 

“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered 
excitedly. “I got this out of the library weeks ago for a 
bit of light reading.” 

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“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet 
until she’d looked something up, and started flicking 
frantically through the pages, muttering to herself. 

At last she found what she was looking for. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” 

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily. 
Hermione ignored him. 

“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the 
only known maker of the Sorcerer’s Stone\” 

This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected. 

“The what?” said Harry and Ron. 

“Oh, honestly , don’t you two read? Look — read that, 
there.” 

She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and 
Ron read: 

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with 
making the Sorcerer’s Stone, a legendary substance 
with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform 
any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of 
Life, which will make the drinker immortal. 

There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone 
over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in 
existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted 
alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated 
his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, 
enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle 
(six hundred and fifty-eight). 



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“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had 
finished. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s 
Sorcerer’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep 
it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew 
someone was after it, that’s why he wanted the Stone 
moved out of Gringotts!” 

“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever 
dying!” said Harry. “No wonder Snape’s after it! 

Anyone would want it.” 

“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study 
of Recent Developments in Wizardry,” said Ron. “He’s 
not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is 
he?” 

The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
while copying down different ways of treating werewolf 
bites, Harry and Ron were still discussing what they’d 
do with a Sorcerer’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t 
until Ron said he’d buy his own Quidditch team that 
Harry remembered about Snape and the coming 
match. 

“I’m going to play,” he told Ron and Hermione. “If I 
don’t, all the Slytherins will think I’m just too scared 
to face Snape. I’ll show them ... it’ll really wipe the 
smiles off their faces if we win.” 

“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,” 
said Hermione. 

As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became 
more and more nervous, whatever he told Ron and 
Hermione. The rest of the team wasn’t too calm, 
either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the House 
Championship was wonderful, no one had done it for 
seven years, but would they be allowed to, with such 
a biased referee? 

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Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, 
but he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever 
he went. At times, he even wondered whether Snape 
was following him, trying to catch him on his own. 
Potions lessons were turning into a sort of weekly 
torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape 
possibly know they’d found out about the Sorcerer’s 
Stone? Harry didn’t see how he could — yet he 
sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape could 
read minds. 

Harry knew, when they wished him good luck 
outside the locker rooms the next afternoon, that Ron 
and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever 
see him alive again. This wasn’t what you’d call 
comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood’s pep 
talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked 
up his Nimbus Two Thousand. 

Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in 
the stands next to Neville, who couldn’t understand 
why they looked so grim and worried, or why they had 
both brought their wands to the match. Little did 
Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been secretly 
practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They’d gotten the 
idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready 
to use it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to 
hurt Harry. 

“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione 
muttered as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve. 

“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.” 

Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry 
aside. 

“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever 
need an early capture of the Snitch it’s now. Finish 

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the game before Snape can favor Hufflepuff too 
much.” 

“The whole school’s out there!” said Fred Weasley, 
peering out of the door. “Even — blimey — 
Dumbledore’s come to watch!” 

Harry’s heart did a somersault. 

“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make 
sure. Fred was right. There was no mistaking that 
silver beard. 

Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was 
safe. There was simply no way that Snape would dare 
to try to hurt him if Dumbledore was watching. 

Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as 
the teams marched onto the field, something that Ron 
noticed, too. 

“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told 
Hermione. “Look — they’re off. Ouch!” 

Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It 
was Malfoy. 

“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.” 

Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom 
this time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, 
Weasley?” 

Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded 
Hufflepuff a penalty because George Weasley had hit 
a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers 
crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, 

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who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the 
Snitch. 

“You know how I think they choose people for the 
Gryffindor team?” said Malfoy loudly a few minutes 
later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty 
for no reason at all. “It’s people they feel sorry for. 

See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s 
the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you should be 
on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.” 

Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face 
Malfoy. 

“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered. 

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but 
Ron, still not daring to take his eyes from the game, 
said, “You tell him, Neville.” 

“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than 
Weasley, and that’s saying something.” 

Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking 
point with anxiety about Harry. 

“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word — ” 

“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry — !” 

“What? Where?” 

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, 
which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. 
Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth, 
as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet. 

“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted 
some money on the ground!” said Malfoy. 

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Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was 
happening, Ron was on top of him, wrestling him to 
the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the 
back of his seat to help. 

“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto 
her seat to watch as Harry sped straight at Snape — 
she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling around 
under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from 
the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle. 

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in 
time to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing 
him by inches — the next second, Harry had pulled 
out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch 
clasped in his hand. 

The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one 
could ever remember the Snitch being caught so 
quickly. 

“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s 
won! We’ve won! Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked 
Hermione, dancing up and down on her seat and 
hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front. 

Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. 
He couldn’t believe it. He’d done it — the game was 
over; it had barely lasted five minutes. As Gryffindors 
came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land 
nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped — then Harry felt 
a hand on his shoulder and looked up into 
Dumbledore’s smiling face. 

“Well done,” said Dumbledore quietly, so that only 
Harry could hear. “Nice to see you haven’t been 
brooding about that mirror . . . been keeping busy . . . 
excellent ...” 



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Snape spat bitterly on the ground. 



Jc Jc Jc 



Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to 
take his Nimbus Two Thousand back to the 
broomshed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling 
happier. He’d really done something to be proud of 
now — no one could say he was just a famous name 
any more. The evening air had never smelled so 
sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the 
last hour in his head, which was a happy blur: 
Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders; 
Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and 
down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed. 

Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the 
wooden door and looked up at Hogwarts, with its 
windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor in 
the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Snape. ... 

And speaking of Snape . . . 

A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of 
the castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked 
as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest. 
Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he watched. 
He recognized the figure’s prowling walk. Snape, 
sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at 
dinner — what was going on? 

Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand 
and took off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw 
Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed. 

The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape 
had gone. He flew in circles, lower and lower, 
brushing the top branches of trees until he heard 



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voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly 
in a towering beech tree. 

He climbed carefully along one of the branches, 
holding tight to his broomstick, trying to see through 
the leaves. 

Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he 
wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t 
make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering 
worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they 
were saying. 

"... d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of 
all p-places, Severus ...” 

“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his 
voice icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about 
the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.” 

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling 
something. Snape interrupted him. 

“Have you found out how to get past that beast of 
Hagrid’s yet?” 

“B-b-but Severus, I — ” 

“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said 
Snape, taking a step toward him. 

“I-I don’t know what you — ” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean.” 

An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the 
tree. He steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, 

“ — your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.” 



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“B-but I d-d-don’t — ” 



“Very well,” Snape cut in. “Well have another little 
chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over 
and decided where your loyalties lie.” 

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the 
clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see 
Quirrell, standing quite still as though he was 
petrified. 



Jc Jc Jc 



“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked. 

“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Ron, thumping 
Harry on the back. “And I gave Malfoy a black eye, 
and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single- 
handed! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says 
he’ll be all right — talk about showing Slytherin! 
Everyone’s waiting for you in the common room, we’re 
having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and 
stuff from the kitchens.” 

“Never mind that now,” said Harry breathlessly. “Let’s 
find an empty room, you wait ’til you hear this. ...” 

He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting 
the door behind them, then he told them what he’d 
seen and heard. 

“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and 
Snape’s trying to force Quirrell to help him get it. He 
asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and he said 
something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus’ — I reckon 
there are other things guarding the stone apart from 
Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell 



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would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that 
Snape needs to break through — ” 

“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell 
stands up to Snape?” said Hermione in alarm. 

“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” said Ron. 



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NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN 
RIDGEBACK 

Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they’d 
thought. In the weeks that followed he did seem to be 
getting paler and thinner, but it didn’t look as though 
he’d cracked yet. 

Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, 
Ron, and Hermione would press their ears to the door 
to check that Fluffy was still growling inside. Snape 
was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which 
surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever 
Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an 
encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling 
people off for laughing at Quirrell’s stutter. 

Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the 
Sorcerer’s Stone. She had started drawing up study 
schedules and color-coding all her notes. Harry and 
Ron wouldn’t have minded, but she kept nagging 
them to do the same. 



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“Hermione, the exams are ages away.” 

“Ten weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages, 
that’s like a second to Nicolas Flamel.” 

“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminded 
her. “Anyway, what are you studying for, you already 
know it all.” 

“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize 
we need to pass these exams to get into the second 
year? They’re very important, I should have started 
studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s gotten into 
me.” 

Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking 
along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so 
much homework on them that the Easter holidays 
weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It 
was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting 
the twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing wand 
movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron 
spent most of their free time in the library with her, 
trying to get through all their extra work. 

“I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out one 
afternoon, throwing down his quill and looking 
longingly out of the library window. It was the first 
really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a 
clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in 
the air of summer coming. 

Harry, who was looking up “Dittany” in One Thousand 
Magical Herbs and Fungi, didn’t look up until he 
heard Ron say, “Hagrid! What are you doing in the 
library?” 



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Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind 
his back. He looked very out of place in his moleskin 
overcoat. 

“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got their 
interest at once. “An’ what’re you lot up ter?” He 
looked suddenly suspicious. “Yer not still lookin’ fer 
Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?” 

“Oh, we found out who he is ages ago,” said Ron 
impressively. “And we know what that dog’s guarding, 
it’s a Sorcerer’s St — ” 

“Shhhh\” Hagrid looked around quickly to see if 
anyone was listening. “Don’ go shoutin’ about it, 
what’s the matter with yeh?” 

“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a 
matter of fact,” said Harry, “about what’s guarding 
the Stone apart from Fluffy — ” 

“SHHHH!” said Hagrid again. “Listen — come an’ see 
me later, I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, 
but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’ 
s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh — ” 

“See you later, then,” said Harry. 

Hagrid shuffled off. 

“What was he hiding behind his back?” said 
Hermione thoughtfully. 

“Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?” 

“I’m going to see what section he was in,” said Ron, 
who’d had enough of working. He came back a 
minute later with a pile of books in his arms and 
slammed them down on the table. 

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“Dragons'.” he whispered. “Hagrid was looking up stuff 
about dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great 
Britain and Ireland; From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon 
Keeper’s Guide.” 

“Hagrid ’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the 
first time I ever met him,” said Harry. 

“But it’s against our laws,” said Ron. “Dragon 
breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention 
of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop 
Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in 
the back garden — anyway, you can’t tame dragons, 
it’s dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie’s got 
off wild ones in Romania.” 

“But there aren’t wild dragons in Britain?” said Harry. 

“Of course there are,” said Ron. “Common Welsh 
Green and Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic 
has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind 
have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted 
them, to make them forget.” 

“So what on earth’s Hagrid up to?” said Hermione. 

When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper’s 
hut an hour later, they were surprised to see that all 
the curtains were closed. Hagrid called “Who is it?” 
before he let them in, and then shut the door quickly 
behind them. 

It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a 
warm day, there was a blazing fire in the grate. 

Hagrid made them tea and offered them stoat 
sandwiches, which they refused. 

“So — yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?” 



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“Yes,” said Harry. There was no point beating around 
the bush. “We were wondering if you could tell us 
what’s guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone apart from 
Fluffy.” 

Hagrid frowned at him. 

“O’ course I can’t,” he said. “Number one, I don’ know 
meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I 
wouldn’ tell yeh if I could. That Stone’s here fer a good 
reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts — I 
s’ppose yeh’ve worked that out an’ all? Beats me how 
yeh even know abou’ Fluffy.” 

“Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, 
but you do know, you know everything that goes on 
round here,” said Hermione in a warm, flattering 
voice. Hagrid ’s beard twitched and they could tell he 
was smiling. “We only wondered who had done the 
guarding, really.” Hermione went on. “We wondered 
who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, 
apart from you.” 

Hagrid ’s chest swelled at these last words. Harry and 
Ron beamed at Hermione. 

“Well, I don’ s’pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that ... 
let’s see ... he borrowed Fluffy from me ... then some 
o’ the teachers did enchantments ... Professor Sprout 
— Professor Flitwick — Professor McGonagall — ” he 
ticked them off on his fingers, “Professor Quirrell — 
an’ Dumbledore himself did somethin’, o’ course. 

Hang on, I’ve forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor 
Snape.” 

“Snape?” 



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“Yeah — yer not still on abou’ that, are yeh? Look, 
Snape helped protect the Stone, he’s not about ter 
steal it.” 

Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the 
same as he was. If Snape had been in on protecting 
the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how the 
other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew 
everything — except, it seemed, Quirrell’s spell and 
how to get past Fluffy. 

“You’re the only one who knows how to get past 
Fluffy, aren’t you, Hagrid?” said Harry anxiously. 

“And you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you? Not even 
one of the teachers?” 

“Not a soul knows except me an’ Dumbledore,” said 
Hagrid proudly. 

“Well, that’s something,” Harry muttered to the 
others. “Hagrid, can we have a window open? I’m 
boiling.” 

“Can’t, Harry, sorry,” said Hagrid. Harry noticed him 
glance at the fire. Harry looked at it, too. 

“Hagrid — what’s that?” 

But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of 
the fire, underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg. 

“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, 
“That’s — er ...” 

“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” said Ron, crouching 
over the fire to get a closer look at the egg. “It must’ve 
cost you a fortune.” 



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“Won it,” said Hagrid. “Las’ night. I was down in the 
village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards 
with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of 
it, ter be honest.” 

“But what are you going to do with it when it’s 
hatched?” said Hermione. 

“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling 
a large book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the 
library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit — 
it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep 
the egg in the fire, ’cause their mothers breathe on 
’em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o’ 
brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’ 
see here — how ter recognize diff’rent eggs — what I 
got there’s a Norwegian Ridge-back. They’re rare, 
them.” 

He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione 
didn’t. 

“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,” she said. 

But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He was humming merrily 
as he stoked the fire. 

So now they had something else to worry about: what 
might happen to Hagrid if anyone found out he was 
hiding an illegal dragon in his hut. 

“Wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful life,” Ron 
sighed, as evening after evening they struggled 
through all the extra homework they were getting. 
Hermione had now started making study schedules 
for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts. 



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Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry 
another note from Hagrid. He had written only two 
words: It’s hatching. 

Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to 
the hut. Hermione wouldn’t hear of it. 

“Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going 
to see a dragon hatching?” 

“We’ve got lessons, we’ll get into trouble, and that’s 
nothing to what Hagrid ’s going to be in when someone 
finds out what he’s doing — ” 

“Shut up!” Harry whispered. 

Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped 
dead to listen. How much had he heard? Harry didn’t 
like the look on Malfoy’s face at all. 

Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology 
and in the end, Hermione agreed to run down to 
Hagrid’s with the other two during morning break. 
When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of 
their lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels 
at once and hurried through the grounds to the edge 
of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed 
and excited. 

“It’s nearly out.” He ushered them inside. 

The egg was lying on the table. There were deep 
cracks in it. Something was moving inside; a funny 
clicking noise was coming from it. 

They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched 
with bated breath. 



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All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg 
split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It 
wasn’t exactly pretty; Harry thought it looked like a 
crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge 
compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout 
with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging, 
orange eyes. 

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout. 

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured. He reached 
out a hand to stroke the dragon’s head. It snapped at 
his fingers, showing pointed fangs. 

“Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!” said Hagrid. 

“Hagrid,” said Hermione, “how fast do Norwegian 
Ridgebacks grow, exactly?” 

Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly 
drained from his face — he leapt to his feet and ran to 
the window. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains 
— it’s a kid — he’s runnin’ back up ter the school.” 

Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a 
distance there was no mistaking him. 

Malfoy had seen the dragon. 

Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy’s face 
during the next week made Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
very nervous. They spent most of their free time in 
Hagrid ’s darkened hut, trying to reason with him. 

“Just let him go,” Harry urged. “Set him free.” 

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“I can’t,” said Hagrid. “He’s too little. He’d die.” 



They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times 
in length in just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its 
nostrils. Hagrid hadn’t been doing his gamekeeping 
duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy. 
There were empty brandy bottles and chicken 
feathers all over the floor. 

“I’ve decided to call him Norbert,” said Hagrid, looking 
at the dragon with misty eyes. “He really knows me 
now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where’s Mommy?” 

“He’s lost his marbles,” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear. 

“Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, “give it two weeks and 
Norbert’s going to be as long as your house. Malfoy 
could go to Dumbledore at any moment.” 

Hagrid bit his lip. 

“I — I know I can’t keep him forever, but I can’t jus’ 
dump him, can’t.” 

Harry suddenly turned to Ron. 

“Charlie,” he said. 

“You’re losing it, too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?” 

“No — Charlie — your brother, Charlie. In Romania. 
Studying dragons. We could send Norbert to him. 
Charlie can take care of him and then put him back 
in the wild!” 

“Brilliant!” said Ron. “How about it, Hagrid?” 

And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send 
an owl to Charlie to ask him. 

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The following week dragged by. Wednesday night 
found Hermione and Harry sitting alone in the 
common room, long after everyone else had gone to 
bed. The clock on the wall had just chimed midnight 
when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared out 
of nowhere as he pulled off Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. 
He had been down at Hagrid’s hut, helping him feed 
Norbert, who was now eating dead rats by the crate. 

“It bit me!” he said, showing them his hand, which 
was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. “I’m not going 
to be able to hold a quill for a week. I tell you, that 
dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but 
the way Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a 
fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off 
for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a 
lullaby.” 

There was a tap on the dark window. 

“It’s Hedwig!” said Harry, hurrying to let her in. “She’ll 
have Charlie’s answer!” 

The three of them put their heads together to read the 
note. 

Dear Ron, 

How are you? Thanks for the letter — I’d be glad to 
take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy 
getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send 
him over with some friends of mine who are coming to 
visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be seen 
carrying an illegal dragon. 

Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at 
midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and 
take him away while it’s still dark. 



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Send me an answer as soon as possible. 



Love, 

Charlie 

They looked at one another. 

“We’ve got the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It 
shouldn’t be too difficult — I think the cloak’s big 
enough to cover two of us and Norbert.” 

It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that 
the other two agreed with him. Anything to get rid of 
Norbert — and Malfoy. 

There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten 
hand had swollen to twice its usual size. He didn’t 
know whether it was safe to go to Madam Pomfrey — 
would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, 
though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty 
shade of green. It looked as if Norbert’s fangs were 
poisonous. 

Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing 
at the end of the day to find Ron in a terrible state in 
bed. 

“It’s not just my hand,” he whispered, “although that 
feels like it’s about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam 
Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books so he 
could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept 
threatening to tell her what really bit me — I’ve told 
her it was a dog, but I don’t think she believes me — I 
shouldn’t have hit him at the Quidditch match, that’s 
why he’s doing this.” 

Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down. 

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“It’ll all be over at midnight on Saturday,” said 
Hermione, but this didn’t soothe Ron at all. On the 
contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat. 

“Midnight on Saturday!” he said in a hoarse voice. 

“Oh no — oh no — I’ve just remembered — Charlie’s 
letter was in that book Malfoy took, he’s going to 
know we’re getting rid of Norbert.” 

Harry and Hermione didn’t get a chance to answer. 
Madam Pomfrey came over at that moment and made 
them leave, saying Ron needed sleep. 

“It’s too late to change the plan now,” Harry told 
Hermione. “We haven’t got time to send Charlie 
another owl, and this could be our only chance to get 
rid of Norbert. We’ll have to risk it. And we have got 
the Invisibility Cloak, Malfoy doesn’t know about 
that.” 

They found Fang the boarhound sitting outside with a 
bandaged tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who 
opened a window to talk to them. 

“I won’t let you in,” he puffed. “Norbert’s at a tricky 
stage — nothin’ I can’t handle.” 

When they told him about Charlie’s letter, his eyes 
filled with tears, although that might have been 
because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg. 

“Aargh! It’s all right, he only got my boot — jus’ 
playin’ — he’s only a baby, after all.” 

The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the 
windows rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to 
the castle feeling Saturday couldn’t come quickly 
enough. 



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They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time 
came for him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn’t 
been so worried about what they had to do. It was a 
very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late 
arriving at Hagrid ’s hut because they’d had to wait for 
Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall, 
where he’d been playing tennis against the wall. 

Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate. 

“He’s got lots o’ rats an’ some brandy fer the journey,” 
said Hagrid in a muffled voice. “An’ I’ve packed his 
teddy bear in case he gets lonely.” 

From inside the crate came ripping noises that 
sounded to Harry as though the teddy was having his 
head torn off. 

“Bye-bye, Norbert!” Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and 
Hermione covered the crate with the Invisibility Cloak 
and stepped underneath it themselves. “Mommy will 
never forget you!” 

How they managed to get the crate back up to the 
castle, they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as 
they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the 
entrance hall and along the dark corridors. Up 
another staircase, then another — even one of Harry’s 
shortcuts didn’t make the work much easier. 

“Nearly there!” Harry panted as they reached the 
corridor beneath the tallest tower. 

Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them 
almost drop the crate. Forgetting that they were 
already invisible, they shrank into the shadows, 
staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling 
with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared. 



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Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair 
net, had Malfoy by the ear. 



“Detention!” she shouted. “And twenty points from 
Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the 
night, how dare you — ” 

“You don’t understand, Professor. Harry Potter’s 
coming — he’s got a dragon!” 

“What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! 
Come on — I shall see Professor Snape about you, 
Malfoy!” 

The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower 
seemed the easiest thing in the world after that. Not 
until they’d stepped out into the cold night air did 
they throw off the cloak, glad to be able to breathe 
properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig. 

“Malfoy’s got detention! I could sing!” 

“Don’t,” Harry advised her. 

Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert 
thrashing about in his crate. About ten minutes later, 
four broomsticks came swooping down out of the 
darkness. 

Charlie’s friends were a cheery lot. They showed 
Harry and Hermione the harness they’d rigged up, so 
they could suspend Norbert between them. They all 
helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry 
and Hermione shook hands with the others and 
thanked them very much. 

At last, Norbert was going ... going ... gone. 



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They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their 
hearts as light as their hands, now that Norbert was 
off them. No more dragon — Malfoy in detention — 
what could spoil their happiness? 

The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the 
stairs. As they stepped into the corridor, Filch’s face 
loomed suddenly out of the darkness. 

“Well, well, well,” he whispered, “we are in trouble.” 

They’d left the Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower. 



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THE FORBIDDEN FOREST 

Things couldn’t have been worse. 

Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall’s 
study on the first floor, where they sat and waited 
without saying a word to each other. Hermione was 
trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover-up stories 
chased each other around Harry’s brain, each more 
feeble than the last. He couldn’t see how they were 
going to get out of trouble this time. They were 
cornered. How could they have been so stupid as to 
forget the cloak? There was no reason on earth that 
Professor McGonagall would accept for their being out 
of bed and creeping around the school in the dead of 
night, let alone being up the tallest Astronomy Tower, 
which was out-of-bounds except for classes. Add 
Norbert and the Invisibility Cloak, and they might as 
well be packing their bags already. 

Had Harry thought that things couldn’t have been 
worse? He was wrong. When Professor McGonagall 
appeared, she was leading Neville. 



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“Harry!” Neville burst out, the moment he saw the 
other two. “I was trying to find you to warn you, I 
heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you, he 
said you had a drag — ” 

Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but 
Professor McGonagall had seen. She looked more 
likely to breathe fire than Norbert as she towered over 
the three of them. 

“I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch 
says you were up in the Astronomy Tower. It’s one 
o’clock in the morning. Explain yourselves.” 

It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to 
answer a teacher’s question. She was staring at her 
slippers, as still as a statue. 

“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,” 
said Professor McGonagall. “It doesn’t take a genius 
to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy some cock-and- 
bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed 
and into trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose 
you think it’s funny that Longbottom here heard the 
story and believed it, too?” 

Harry caught Neville’s eye and tried to tell him 
without words that this wasn’t true, because Neville 
was looking stunned and hurt. Poor, blundering 
Neville — Harry knew what it must have cost him to 
try and find them in the dark, to warn them. 

“I’m disgusted,” said Professor McGonagall. “Four 
students out of bed in one night! I’ve never heard of 
such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I thought you 
had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter, I thought 
Gryffindor meant more to you than this. All three of 
you will receive detentions — yes, you too, Mr. 
Longbottom, nothing gives you the right to walk 
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around school at night, especially these days, it’s very 
dangerous — and fifty points will be taken from 
Gryffindor.” 

“Fifty?” Harry gasped — they would lose the lead, the 
lead he’d won in the last Quidditch match. 

“Fifty points each,” said Professor McGonagall, 
breathing heavily through her long, pointed nose. 

“Professor — please — ” 

“You can’t—” 

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter. Now get 
back to bed, all of you. I’ve never been more ashamed 
of Gryffindor students.” 

A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in 
last place. In one night, they’d ruined any chance 
Gryffindor had had for the House Cup. Harry felt as 
though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. 
How could they ever make up for this? 

Harry didn’t sleep all night. He could hear Neville 
sobbing into his pillow for what seemed like hours. 
Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort 
him. He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the 
dawn. What would happen when the rest of 
Gryffindor found out what they’d done? 

At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses 
that recorded the House points the next day thought 
there ’d been a mistake. How could they suddenly 
have a hundred and fifty points fewer than yesterday? 
And then the story started to spread: Harry Potter, 
the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two Quidditch 
matches, had lost them all those points, him and a 
couple of other stupid first years. 

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From being one of the most popular and admired 
people at the school, Harry was suddenly the most 
hated. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned on 
him, because everyone had been longing to see 
Slytherin lose the House Cup. Everywhere Harry 
went, people pointed and didn’t trouble to lower their 
voices as they insulted him. Slytherins, on the other 
hand, clapped as he walked past them, whistling and 
cheering, “Thanks Potter, we owe you one!” 

Only Ron stood by him. 

“They’ll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George 
have lost loads of points in all the time they’ve been 
here, and people still like them.” 

“They’ve never lost a hundred and fifty points in one 
go, though, have they?” said Harry miserably. 

“Well — no,” Ron admitted. 

It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry 
swore to himself not to meddle in things that weren’t 
his business from now on. He’d had it with sneaking 
around and spying. He felt so ashamed of himself that 
he went to Wood and offered to resign from the 
Quidditch team. 

“Resign?” Wood thundered. “What good’ll that do? 

How are we going to get any points back if we can’t 
win at Quidditch?” 

But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the 
team wouldn’t speak to Harry during practice, and if 
they had to speak about him, they called him “the 
Seeker.” 

Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn’t 
have as bad a time as Harry, because they weren’t as 

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well-known, but nobody would speak to them, either. 
Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself in 
class, keeping her head down and working in silence. 

Harry was almost glad that the exams weren’t far 
away. All the studying he had to do kept his mind off 
his misery. He, Ron, and Hermione kept to 
themselves, working late into the night, trying to 
remember the ingredients in complicated potions, 
learn charms and spells by heart, memorize the dates 
of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions. ... 

Then, about a week before the exams were due to 
start, Harry’s new resolution not to interfere in 
anything that didn’t concern him was put to an 
unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his 
own one afternoon, he heard somebody whimpering 
from a classroom up ahead. As he drew closer, he 
heard Quirrell’s voice. 

“No — no — not again, please — ” 

It sounded as though someone was threatening him. 
Harry moved closer. 

“All right — all right — ” he heard Quirrell sob. 

Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the 
classroom straightening his turban. He was pale and 
looked as though he was about to cry. He strode out 
of sight; Harry didn’t think Quirrell had even noticed 
him. He waited until Quirrell’s footsteps had 
disappeared, then peered into the classroom. It was 
empty, but a door stood ajar at the other end. Harry 
was halfway toward it before he remembered what 
he’d promised himself about not meddling. 

All the same, he’d have gambled twelve Sorcerer’s 
Stones that Snape had just left the room, and from 

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what Harry had just heard, Snape would be walking 
with a new spring in his step — Quirrell seemed to 
have given in at last. 

Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was 
testing Ron on Astronomy. Harry told them what he’d 
heard. 

“Snape’s done it, then!” said Ron. “If Quirrell’s told 
him how to break his Anti-Dark Force spell — ” 

“There’s still Fluffy, though,” said Hermione. 

“Maybe Snape’s found out how to get past him 
without asking Hagrid,” said Ron, looking up at the 
thousands of books surrounding them. “I bet there’s a 
book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a 
giant three-headed dog. So what do we do, Harry?” 

The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron’s 
eyes, but Hermione answered before Harry could. 

“Go to Dumbledore. That’s what we should have done 
ages ago. If we try anything ourselves we’ll be thrown 
out for sure.” 

“But we’ve got no proof.” said Harry. “Quirrell’s too 
scared to back us up. Snape’s only got to say he 
doesn’t know how the troll got in at Halloween and 
that he was nowhere near the third floor — who do 
you think they’ll believe, him or us? It’s not exactly a 
secret we hate him, Dumbledore ’ll think we made it 
up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn’t help us if his life 
depended on it, he’s too friendly with Snape, and the 
more students get thrown out, the better, he’ll think. 
And don’t forget, we’re not supposed to know about 
the Stone or Fluffy. That’ll take a lot of explaining.” 

Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn’t. 

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“If we just do a bit of poking around — ” 



“No,” said Harry flatly, “we’ve done enough poking 
around.” 

He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to 
learn the names of its moons. 

The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry, 
Hermione, and Neville at the breakfast table. They 
were all the same: 

Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock 
tonight. 

Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall. 

Professor M. McGonagall 

Harry had forgotten they still had detentions to do in 
the furor over the points they’d lost. He half expected 
Hermione to complain that this was a whole night of 
studying lost, but she didn’t say a word. Like Harry, 
she felt they deserved what they’d got. 

At eleven o’clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron 
in the common room and went down to the entrance 
hall with Neville. Filch was already there — and so 
was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten that Malfoy had 
gotten a detention, too. 

“Follow me,” said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading 
them outside. 

“I bet you’ll think twice about breaking a school rule 
again, won’t you, eh?” he said, leering at them. “Oh 
yes . . . hard work and pain are the best teachers if you 
ask me. ... It’s just a pity they let the old 
punishments die out . . . hang you by your wrists from 
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the ceiling for a few days, I’ve got the chains still in 
my office, keep ’em well oiled in case they’re ever 
needed. ... Right, off we go, and don’t think of running 
off, now, it’ll be worse for you if you do.” 

They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville 
kept sniffing. Harry wondered what their punishment 
was going to be. It must be something really horrible, 
or Filch wouldn’t be sounding so delighted. 

The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it 
kept throwing them into darkness. Ahead, Harry 
could see the lighted windows of Hagrid’s hut. Then 
they heard a distant shout. 

“Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.” 

Harry’s heart rose; if they were going to be working 
with Hagrid it wouldn’t be so bad. His relief must 
have showed in his face, because Filch said, “I 
suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with 
that oaf? Well, think again, boy — it’s into the forest 
you’re going and I’m much mistaken if you’ll all come 
out in one piece.” 

At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy 
stopped dead in his tracks. 

“The forest?” he repeated, and he didn’t sound quite 
as cool as usual. “We can’t go in there at night — 
there’s all sorts of things in there — werewolves, I 
heard.” 

Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry’s robe and made a 
choking noise. 

“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” said Filch, his voice 
cracking with glee. “Should’ve thought of them 
werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn’t you?” 

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Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark, 
Fang at his heel. He was carrying his large crossbow, 
and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. 

“Abou’ time,” he said. “I bin waitin’ fer half an hour 
already. All right, Harry, Hermione?” 

“I shouldn’t be too friendly to them, Hagrid,” said 
Filch coldly, “they’re here to be punished, after all.” 

“That’s why yer late, is it?” said Hagrid, frowning at 
Filch. “Bin lecturin’ them, eh? ’Snot your place ter do 
that. Yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take over from here.” 

“I’ll be back at dawn,” said Filch, “for what’s left of 
them,” he added nastily, and he turned and started 
back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the 
darkness. 

Malfoy now turned to Hagrid. 

“I’m not going in that forest,” he said, and Harry was 
pleased to hear the note of panic in his voice. 

“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” said 
Hagrid fiercely. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got 
ter pay fer it.” 

“But this is servant stuff, it’s not for students to do. I 
thought we’d be copying lines or something, if my 
father knew I was doing this, he’d — ” 

“ — tell yer that’s how it is at Hogwarts,” Hagrid 
growled. “Copyin’ lines! What good’s that ter anyone? 
Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh think 
yer father’d rather you were expelled, then get back 
off ter the castle an’ pack. Go on!” 



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Malfoy didn’t move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but 
then dropped his gaze. 

“Right then,” said Hagrid, “now, listen carefully, 

’cause it’s dangerous what we’re gonna do tonight, an’ 
I don’ want no one takin’ risks. Follow me over here a 
moment.” 

He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his 
lamp up high, he pointed down a narrow, winding 
earth track that disappeared into the thick black 
trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked 
into the forest. 

“Look there,” said Hagrid, “see that stuff shinin’ on 
the ground? Silvery stuff? That’s unicorn blood. 
There’s a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by summat. 
This is the second time in a week. I found one dead 
last Wednesday. We’re gonna try an’ find the poor 
thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.” 

“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us 
first?” said Malfoy, unable to keep the fear out of his 
voice. 

“There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh 
if yer with me or Fang,” said Hagrid. “An’ keep ter the 
path. Right, now, we’re gonna split inter two parties 
an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood 
all over the place, it must’ve bin staggerin’ around 
since last night at least.” 

“I want Fang,” said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang’s 
long teeth. 

“All right, but I warn yeh, he’s a coward,” said Hagrid. 
“So me, Harry, an’ Hermione’ll go one way an’ Draco, 
Neville, an’ Fang’ll go the other. Now, if any of us 
finds the unicorn, we’ll send up green sparks, right? 

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Get yer wands out an’ practice now — that’s it — an’ 
if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an’ we’ll 
all come an’ find yeh — so, be careful — let’s go.” 

The forest was black and silent. A little way into it 
they reached a fork in the earth path, and Harry, 
Hermione, and Hagrid took the left path while Malfoy, 
Neville, and Fang took the right. 

They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground. 
Every now and then a ray of moonlight through the 
branches above lit a spot of silver-blue blood on the 
fallen leaves. 

Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried. 

“ Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?” Harry 
asked. 

“Not fast enough,” said Hagrid. “It’s not easy ter catch 
a unicorn, they’re powerful magic creatures. I never 
knew one ter be hurt before.” 

They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could 
hear running water; there must be a stream 
somewhere close by. There were still spots of unicorn 
blood here and there along the winding path. 

“You all right, Hermione?” Hagrid whispered. “Don’ 
worry, it can’t’ve gone far if it’s this badly hurt, an’ 
then well be able ter — GET BEHIND THAT TREE!” 

Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them 
off the path behind a towering oak. He pulled out an 
arrow and fitted it into his crossbow, raising it, ready 
to fire. The three of them listened. Something was 
slithering over dead leaves nearby: it sounded like a 
cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was squinting 



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up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound 
faded away. 

“I knew it,” he murmured. “There’s summat in here 
that shouldn’ be.” 

“A werewolf?” Harry suggested. 

“That wasn’ no werewolf an’ it wasn’ no unicorn, 
neither,” said Hagrid grimly. “Right, follow me, but 
careful, now.” 

They walked more slowly, ears straining for the 
faintest sound. Suddenly, in a clearing ahead, 
something definitely moved. 

“Who’s there?” Hagrid called. “Show yerself — I’m 
armed!” 

And into the clearing came — was it a man, or a 
horse? To the waist, a man, with red hair and beard, 
but below that was a horse’s gleaming chestnut body 
with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione’s jaws 
dropped. 

“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” said Hagrid in relief. “How are 
yeh?” 

He walked forward and shook the centaur’s hand. 

“Good evening to you, Hagrid,” said Ronan. He had a 
deep, sorrowful voice. “Were you going to shoot me?” 

“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” said Hagrid, patting his 
crossbow. “There’s summat bad loose in this forest. 
This is Harry Potter an’ Hermione Granger, by the 
way. Students up at the school. An’ this is Ronan, 
you two. He’s a centaur.” 



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“We’d noticed,” said Hermione faintly. 



“Good evening,” said Ronan. “Students, are you? And 
do you learn much, up at the school?” 

“Erm — ” 

“A bit,” said Hermione timidly. 

“A bit. Well, that’s something.” Ronan sighed. He 
flung back his head and stared at the sky. “Mars is 
bright tonight.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, glancing up, too. “Listen, I’m glad 
we’ve run inter yeh, Ronan, ’cause there’s a unicorn 
bin hurt — you seen anythin’?” 

Ronan didn’t answer immediately. He stared 
unblinkingly upward, then sighed again. 

“Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said. 

“So it has been for ages past, so it is now.” 

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “but have yeh seen anythin’, 
Ronan? Anythin’ unusual?” 

“Mars is bright tonight,” Ronan repeated, while 
Hagrid watched him impatiently. “Unusually bright.” 

“Yeah, but I was meanin’ anythin’ unusual a bit 
nearer home,” said Hagrid. “So yeh haven’t noticed 
anythin’ strange?” 

Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he 
said, “The forest hides many secrets.” 

A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid 
raise his bow again, but it was only a second centaur, 

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black-haired and -bodied and wilder-looking than 
Ronan. 



“Hullo, Bane,” said Hagrid. “All right?” 

“Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?” 

“Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ bin askin’ Ronan, you 
seen anythin’ odd in here lately? There’s a unicorn 
bin injured — would yeh know anythin’ about it?” 

Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked 
skyward. 

“Mars is bright tonight,” he said simply. 

“We’ve heard,” said Hagrid grumpily. “Well, if either of 
you do see anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh? We’ll be 
off, then.” 

Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing, 
staring over their shoulders at Ronan and Bane until 
the trees blocked their view. 

“Never,” said Hagrid irritably, “try an’ get a straight 
answer out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not 
interested in anythin’ closer’n the moon.” 

“Are there many of them in here?” asked Hermione. 

“Oh, a fair few. . . . Keep themselves to themselves 
mostly, but they’re good enough about turnin’ up if 
ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind, centaurs ... 
they know things ... jus’ don’ let on much.” 

“D’you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?” 
said Harry. 



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“Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask 
me, that was what’s bin killin’ the unicorns — never 
heard anythin’ like it before.” 

They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry 
kept looking nervously over his shoulder. He had the 
nasty feeling they were being watched. He was very 
glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow with them. 
They had just passed a bend in the path when 
Hermione grabbed Hagrid ’s arm. 

“Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!” 

“You two wait here!” Hagrid shouted. “Stay on the 
path, I’ll come back for yeh!” 

They heard him crashing away through the 
undergrowth and stood looking at each other, very 
scared, until they couldn’t hear anything but the 
rustling of leaves around them. 

“You don’t think they’ve been hurt, do you?” 
whispered Hermione. 

“I don’t care if Malfoy has, but if something’s got 
Neville ... it’s our fault he’s here in the first place.” 

The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper 
than usual. Harry’s seemed to be picking up every 
sigh of the wind, every cracking twig. What was going 
on? Where were the others? 

At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid’s 
return. Malfoy, Neville, and Fang were with him. 
Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had sneaked 
up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville 
had panicked and sent up the sparks. 



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“Well be lucky ter catch anythin’ now, with the racket 
you two were makin’. Right, we’re changin’ groups — 
Neville, you stay with me an’ Hermione, Harry, you go 
with Fang an’ this idiot. I’m sorry,” Hagrid added in a 
whisper to Harry, “but he’ll have a harder time 
frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve gotta get this done.” 

So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with 
Malfoy and Fang. They walked for nearly half an 
hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path 
became almost impossible to follow because the trees 
were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be 
getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a 
tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing 
around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing 
ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient 
oak. 

“Look — ” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop 
Malfoy. 

Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. 
They inched closer. 

It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry 
had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its 
long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where 
it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on 
the dark leaves. 

Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering 
sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on 
the edge of the clearing quivered. ... Then, out of the 
shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the 
ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and 
Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the 
unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the 
animals side, and began to drink its blood. 



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“AAAAAAAAAAARGH ! ” 



Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted — so did 
Fang. The hooded figure raised its head and looked 
right at Harry — unicorn blood was dribbling down its 
front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry 
— he couldn’t move for fear. 

Then a pain like he’d never felt before pierced his 
head; it was as though his scar were on fire. Half 
blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves 
behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean 
over Harry, charging at the figure. 

The pain in Harry’s head was so bad he fell to his 
knees. It took a minute or two to pass. When he 
looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur was 
standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one 
looked younger; he had white-blond hair and a 
palomino body. 

“Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling Harry to 
his feet. 

“Yes — thank you — what was that?” 

The centaur didn’t answer. He had astonishingly blue 
eyes, like pale sapphires. He looked carefully at 
Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar that stood out, 
livid, on Harry’s forehead. 

“You are the Potter boy,” he said. “You had better get 
back to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time — 
especially for you. Can you ride? It will be quicker 
this way. 

“My name is Firenze,” he added, as he lowered 
himself on to his front legs so that Harry could 
clamber onto his back. 

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There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from 
the other side of the clearing. Ronan and Bane came 
bursting through the trees, their flanks heaving and 
sweaty. 

“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? You 
have a human on your back! Have you no shame? Are 
you a common mule?” 

“Do you realize who this is?” said Firenze. “This is the 
Potter boy. The quicker he leaves this forest, the 
better.” 

“What have you been telling him?” growled Bane. 
“Remember, Firenze, we are sworn not to set 
ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what 
is to come in the movements of the planets?” 

Ronan pawed the ground nervously. “I’m sure Firenze 
thought he was acting for the best,” he said in his 
gloomy voice. 

Bane kicked his back legs in anger. 

“For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs 
are concerned with what has been foretold! It is not 
our business to run around like donkeys after stray 
humans in our forest!” 

Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger, 
so that Harry had to grab his shoulders to stay on. 

“Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed at 
Bane. “Do you not understand why it was killed? Or 
have the planets not let you in on that secret? I set 
myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, 
yes, with humans alongside me if I must.” 



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And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on 
as best he could, they plunged off into the trees, 
leaving Ronan and Bane behind them. 

Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on. 

“Why’s Bane so angry?” he asked. “What was that 
thing you saved me from, anyway?” 

Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his 
head bowed in case of low-hanging branches, but did 
not answer Harry’s question. They made their way 
through the trees in silence for so long that Harry 
thought Firenze didn’t want to talk to him anymore. 
They were passing through a particularly dense patch 
of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stopped. 

“Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is 
used for?” 

“No,” said Harry, startled by the odd question. “We’ve 
only used the horn and tail hair in Potions.” 

“That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a 
unicorn,” said Firenze. “Only one who has nothing to 
lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a 
crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even 
if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. 
You have slain something pure and defenseless to 
save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a 
cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your 
lips.” 

Harry stared at the back of Firenze’s head, which was 
dappled silver in the moonlight. 

“But who’d be that desperate?” he wondered aloud. “If 
you’re going to be cursed forever, death’s better, isn’t 
it?” 

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“It is,” Firenze agreed, “unless all you need is to stay 
alive long enough to drink something else — 
something that will bring you back to full strength 
and power — something that will mean you can never 
die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the 
school at this very moment?” 

“The Sorcerer’s Stone! Of course — the Elixir of Life! 
But I don’t understand who — ” 

“Can you think of nobody who has waited many years 
to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting 
their chance?” 

It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly 
around Harry’s heart. Over the rustling of the trees, 
he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had told 
him on the night they had met: “Some say he died. 
Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough 
human left in him to die.” 

“Do you mean,” Harry croaked, “that was VoZ — ” 

“Harry! Harry, are you all right?” 

Hermione was running toward them down the path, 
Hagrid puffing along behind her. 

“I’m fine,” said Harry, hardly knowing what he was 
saying. “The unicorn’s dead, Hagrid, it’s in that 
clearing back there.” 

“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as 
Hagrid hurried off to examine the unicorn. “You are 
safe now.” 

Harry slid off his back. 



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“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Firenze. “The planets 
have been read wrongly before now, even by centaurs. 
I hope this is one of those times.” 

He turned and cantered back into the depths of the 
forest, leaving Harry shivering behind him. 

Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room, 
waiting for them to return. He shouted something 
about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly shook him 
awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide- 
eyed as Harry began to tell him and Hermione what 
had happened in the forest. 

Harry couldn’t sit down. He paced up and down in 
front of the fire. He was still shaking. 

“Snape wants the Stone for Voldemort ... and 
Voldemort’s waiting in the forest ... and all this time 
we thought Snape just wanted to get rich. ...” 

“Stop saying the name!” said Ron in a terrified 
whisper, as if he thought Voldemort could hear them. 

Harry wasn’t listening. 

“Firenze saved me, but he shouldn’t have done so. ... 
Bane was furious ... he was talking about interfering 
with what the planets say is going to happen. ... They 
must show that Voldemort’s coming back. ... Bane 
thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me. ... I 
suppose that’s written in the stars as well.” 

“Will you stop saying the name\” Ron hissed. 

“So all I’ve got to wait for now is Snape to steal the 
Stone,” Harry went on feverishly, “then Voldemort will 
be able to come and finish me off. ... Well, I suppose 
Bane 11 be happy.” 

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Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word 
of comfort. 

“Harry, everyone says Dumbledore’s the only one 
You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. With Dumbledore 
around, You-Know-Who won’t touch you. Anyway, 
who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like 
fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says 
that’s a very imprecise branch of magic.” 

The sky had turned light before they stopped talking. 
They went to bed exhausted, their throats sore. But 
the night’s surprises weren’t over. 

When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his 
Invisibility Cloak folded neatly underneath them. 
There was a note pinned to it: 

Just in case. 



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THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR 

In years to come, Harry would never quite remember 
how he had managed to get through his exams when 
he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through 
the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and 
there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and 
well behind the locked door. 

It was sweltering hot, especially in the large 
classroom where they did their written papers. They 
had been given special, new quills for the exams, 
which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating 
spell. 

They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick 
called them one by one into his class to see if they 
could make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk. 
Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse 
into a snuffbox — points were given for how pretty the 
snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers. 
Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their 
necks while they tried to remember how to make a 
Forgetfulness potion. 

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Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the 
stabbing pains in his forehead, which had been 
bothering him ever since his trip into the forest. 
Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves 
because Harry couldn’t sleep, but the truth was that 
Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare, except 
that it was now worse than ever because there was a 
hooded figure dripping blood in it. 

Maybe it was because they hadn’t seen what Harry 
had seen in the forest, or because they didn’t have 
scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and 
Hermione didn’t seem as worried about the Stone as 
Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them, 
but he didn’t keep visiting them in dreams, and they 
were so busy with their studying they didn’t have 
much time to fret about what Snape or anyone else 
might be up to. 

Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour 
of answering questions about batty old wizards who’d 
invented self-stirring cauldrons and they’d be free, 
free for a whole wonderful week until their exam 
results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns 
told them to put down their quills and roll up their 
parchment, Harry couldn’t help cheering with the 
rest. 

“That was far easier than I thought it would be,” said 
Hermione as they joined the crowds flocking out onto 
the sunny grounds. “I needn’t have learned about the 
1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of 
Elfric the Eager.” 

Hermione always liked to go through their exam 
papers afterward, but Ron said this made him feel ill, 
so they wandered down to the lake and flopped under 
a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were 



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tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was 
basking in the warm shallows. 



“No more studying,” Ron sighed happily, stretching 
out on the grass. “You could look more cheerful, 

Harry, we’ve got a week before we find out how badly 
we’ve done, there’s no need to worry yet.” 

Harry was rubbing his forehead. 

“I wish I knew what this means\” he burst out angrily. 
“My scar keeps hurting — it’s happened before, but 
never as often as this.” 

“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested. 

“I’m not ill,” said Harry. “I think it’s a warning ... it 
means danger’s coming. ...” 

Ron couldn’t get worked up, it was too hot. 

“Harry, relax, Hermione ’s right, the Stone’s safe as 
long as Dumbledore’s around. Anyway, we’ve never 
had any proof Snape found out how to get past Fluffy. 
He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he’s not going to 
try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch 
for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down.” 

Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake off a lurking 
feeling that there was something he’d forgotten to do, 
something important. When he tried to explain this, 
Hermione said, “That’s just the exams. I woke up last 
night and was halfway through my Transfiguration 
notes before I remembered we’d done that one.” 

Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have 
anything to do with work, though. He watched an owl 
flutter toward the school across the bright blue sky, a 
note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one 

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who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray 
Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to 
get past Fluffy . . . never . . . but — 

Harry suddenly jumped to his feet. 

“Where ’re you going?” said Ron sleepily. 

“I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had 
turned white. “We’ve got to go and see Hagrid, now.” 

“Why?” panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said Harry, 
scrambling up the grassy slope, “that what Hagrid 
wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a 
stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in 
his pocket? How many people wander around with 
dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they 
found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it 
before?” 

“What are you talking about?” said Ron, but Harry, 
sprinting across the grounds toward the forest, didn’t 
answer. 

Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house; 
his trousers and sleeves were rolled up, and he was 
shelling peas into a large bowl. 

“Hullo,” he said, smiling. “Finished yer exams? Got 
time fer a drink?” 

“Yes, please,” said Ron, but Harry cut him off. 

“No, we’re in a hurry. Hagrid, I’ve got to ask you 
something. You know that night you won Norbert? 
What did the stranger you were playing cards with 
look like?” 

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“Dunno said Hagrid casually, “he wouldn’ take his 
cloak off.” 



He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his 
eyebrows. 

“It’s not that unusual, yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in 
the Hog’s Head — that’s one o’ the pubs down in the 
village. Mighta bin a dragon dealer, mightn’ he? I 
never saw his face, he kept his hood up.” 

Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas. 

“What did you talk to him about, Hagrid? Did you 
mention Hogwarts at all?” 

“Mighta come up,” said Hagrid, frowning as he tried 
to remember. “Yeah ... he asked what I did, an’ I told 
him I was gamekeeper here. ... He asked a bit about 
the sorta creatures I look after ... so I told him ... an’ I 
said what I’d always really wanted was a dragon ... 
an’ then ... I can’ remember too well, ’cause he kept 
buyin’ me drinks. ... Let’s see ... yeah, then he said he 
had the dragon egg an’ we could play cards fer it if I 
wanted . . . but he had ter be sure I could handle it, he 
didn’ want it ter go ter any old home. ... So I told him, 
after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. ...” 

“And did he — did he seem interested in Fluffy?” 

Harry asked, trying to keep his voice calm. 

“Well — yeah — how many three-headed dogs d’yeh 
meet, even around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a 
piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm him down, jus’ 
play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter 
sleep — ” 

Hagrid suddenly looked horrified. 

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“I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I 
said it! Hey — where’re yeh goin’?” 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t speak to each other 
at all until they came to a halt in the entrance hall, 
which seemed very cold and gloomy after the 
grounds. 

“We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Hagrid 
told that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was 
either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak — it 
must’ve been easy, once he’d got Hagrid drunk. I just 
hope Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might back us 
up if Bane doesn’t stop him. Where’s Dumbledore’s 
office?” 

They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign 
pointing them in the right direction. They had never 
been told where Dumbledore lived, nor did they know 
anyone who had been sent to see him. 

“Well just have to — ” Harry began, but a voice 
suddenly rang across the hall. 

“What are you three doing inside?” 

It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of 
books. 

“We want to see Professor Dumbledore,” said 
Hermione, rather bravely, Harry and Ron thought. 

“See Professor Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall 
repeated, as though this was a very fishy thing to 
want to do. “Why?” 

Harry swallowed — now what? 



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“It’s sort of secret,” he said, but he wished at once he 
hadn’t, because Professor McGonagall’s nostrils 
flared. 

“Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago,” she said 
coldly. “He received an urgent owl from the Ministry 
of Magic and flew off for London at once.” 

“He’s gone?” said Harry frantically. “Now?” 

“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter, 
he has many demands on his time — ” 

“But this is important.” 

“Something you have to say is more important than 
the Ministry of Magic, Potter?” 

“Look,” said Harry, throwing caution to the winds, 
“Professor — it’s about the Sorcerer’s Stone — ” 

Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it 
wasn’t that. The books she was carrying tumbled out 
of her arms, but she didn’t pick them up. 

“How do you know — ?” she spluttered. 

“Professor, I think — I know — that Sn — that 
someone’s going to try and steal the Stone. I’ve got to 
talk to Professor Dumbledore.” 

She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion. 

“Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow,” she 
said finally. “I don’t know how you found out about 
the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal 
it, it’s too well protected.” 

“But Professor — ” 

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“Potter, I know what I’m talking about,” she said 
shortly. She bent down and gathered up the fallen 
books. “I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy 
the sunshine.” 

But they didn’t. 

“It’s tonight,” said Harry, once he was sure Professor 
McGonagall was out of earshot. “Snape’s going 
through the trapdoor tonight. He’s found out 
everything he needs, and now he’s got Dumbledore 
out of the way. He sent that note, I bet the Ministry of 
Magic will get a real shock when Dumbledore turns 
up.” 

“But what can we — ” 

Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round. 
Snape was standing there. 

“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly. 

They stared at him. 

“You shouldn’t be inside on a day like this,” he said, 
with an odd, twisted smile. 

“We were — ” Harry began, without any idea what he 
was going to say. 

“You want to be more careful,” said Snape. “Hanging 
around like this, people will think you’re up to 
something. And Gryffindor really can’t afford to lose 
any more points, can it?” 

Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape 
called them back. 



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“Be warned, Potter — any more nighttime wanderings 
and I will personally make sure you are expelled. 

Good day to you.” 

He strode off in the direction of the staffroom. 

Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others. 

“Right, here’s what we’ve got to do,” he whispered 
urgently. “One of us has got to keep an eye on Snape 
— wait outside the staffroom and follow him if he 
leaves it. Hermione, you’d better do that.” 

“Why me?” 

“It’s obvious,” said Ron. “You can pretend to be 
waiting for Professor Flitwick, you know.” He put on a 
high voice, “ ‘Oh Professor Flitwick, I’m so worried, I 
think I got question fourteen b wrong. . . . ’ ” 

“Oh, shut up,” said Hermione, but she agreed to go 
and watch out for Snape. 

“And we’d better stay outside the third-floor corridor,” 
Harry told Ron. “Come on.” 

But that part of the plan didn’t work. No sooner had 
they reached the door separating Fluffy from the rest 
of the school than Professor McGonagall turned up 
again and this time, she lost her temper. 

“I suppose you think you’re harder to get past than a 
pack of enchantments!” she stormed. “Enough of this 
nonsense! If I hear you’ve come anywhere near here 
again, I’ll take another fifty points from Gryffindor! 

Yes, Weasley, from my own House!” 

Harry and Ron went back to the common room. Harry 
had just said, “At least Hermione’s on Snape’s tail,” 

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when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and 
Hermione came in. 

“I’m sorry, Harry!” she wailed. “Snape came out and 
asked me what I was doing, so I said I was waiting for 
Flitwick, and Snape went to get him, and I’ve only 
just got away, I don’t know where Snape went.” 

“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” Harry said. 

The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes 
were glittering. 

“I’m going out of here tonight and I’m going to try and 
get to the Stone first.” 

“You’re mad!” said Ron. 

“You can’t!” said Hermione. “After what McGonagall 
and Snape have said? You’ll be expelled!” 

“SO WHAT?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand? 
If Snape gets hold of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming 
back! Haven’t you heard what it was like when he was 
trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to 
get expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a 
school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn’t matter 
anymore, can’t you see? D’you think he’ll leave you 
and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the House 
Cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well, 
I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait for 
Voldemort to find me there, it’s only dying a bit later 
than I would have, because I’m never going over to 
the Dark Side! I’m going through that trapdoor 
tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! 
Voldemort killed my parents, remember?” 

He glared at them. 



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“You’re right, Harry,” said Hermione in a small voice. 



“I’ll use the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just 
lucky I got it back.” 

“But will it cover all three of us?” said Ron. 

“All — all three of us?” 

“Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go 
alone?” 

“Of course not,” said Hermione briskly. “How do you 
think you’d get to the Stone without us? I’d better go 
and look through my books, there might be 
something useful. ...” 

“But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too.” 

“Not if I can help it,” said Hermione grimly. “Flitwick 
told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve 
percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me out 
after that.” 

After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in 
the common room. Nobody bothered them; none of 
the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry any 
more, after all. This was the first night he hadn’t been 
upset by it. Hermione was skimming through all her 
notes, hoping to come across one of the 
enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry 
and Ron didn’t talk much. Both of them were 
thinking about what they were about to do. 

Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed. 

“Better get the cloak,” Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan 
finally left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran 
upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the 

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cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had 
given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on 
Fluffy — he didn’t feel much like singing. 

He ran back down to the common room. 

“We’d better put the cloak on here, and make sure it 
covers all three of us — if Filch spots one of our feet 
wandering along on its own — ” 

“What are you doing?” said a voice from the corner of 
the room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair, 
clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as though he’d 
been making another bid for freedom. 

“Nothing, Neville, nothing,” said Harry, hurriedly 
putting the cloak behind his back. 

Neville stared at their guilty faces. 

“You’re going out again,” he said. 

“No, no, no,” said Hermione. “No, we’re not. Why don’t 
you go to bed, Neville?” 

Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. 
They couldn’t afford to waste any more time, Snape 
might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep. 

“You can’t go out,” said Neville, “you’ll be caught 
again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Harry, “this is 
important.” 

But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do 
something desperate. 



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“I won’t let you do it,” he said, hurrying to stand in 
front of the portrait hole. “I’ll — I’ll fight you!” 

“Neville,” Ron exploded, “get away from that hole and 
don’t be an idiot — ” 

“Don’t you call me an idiot!” said Neville. “I don’t 
think you should be breaking any more rules! And 
you were the one who told me to stand up to people!” 

“Yes, but not to us,” said Ron in exasperation. 

“Neville, you don’t know what you’re doing.” 

He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the 
toad, who leapt out of sight. 

“Go on then, try and hit me!” said Neville, raising his 
fists. “I’m ready!” 

Harry turned to Hermione. 

“Do something,” he said desperately. 

Hermione stepped forward. 

“Neville,” she said, “I’m really, really sorry about this.” 
She raised her wand. 

“Petrificus Totalusl” she cried, pointing it at Neville. 

Neville’s arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang 
together. His whole body rigid, he swayed where he 
stood and then fell flat on his face, stiff as a board. 

Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville’s jaws were 
jammed together so he couldn’t speak. Only his eyes 
were moving, looking at them in horror. 



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“What’ve you done to him?” Harry whispered. 



“It’s the full Body-Bind,” said Hermione miserably. 
“Oh, Neville, I’m so sorry.” 

“We had to, Neville, no time to explain,” said Harry. 

“You’ll understand later, Neville,” said Ron as they 
stepped over him and pulled on the Invisibility Cloak. 

But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn’t 
feel like a very good omen. In their nervous state, 
every statue’s shadow looked like Filch, every distant 
breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping down on 
them. 

At the foot of the first set of stairs, they spotted Mrs. 
Norris skulking near the top. 

“Oh, let’s kick her, just this once,” Ron whispered in 
Harry’s ear, but Harry shook his head. As they 
climbed carefully around her, Mrs. Norris turned her 
lamplike eyes on them, but didn’t do anything. 

They didn’t meet anyone else until they reached the 
staircase up to the third floor. Peeves was bobbing 
halfway up, loosening the carpet so that people would 
trip. 

“Who’s there?” he said suddenly as they climbed 
toward him. He narrowed his wicked black eyes. 
“Know you’re there, even if I can’t see you. Are you 
ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?” 

He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at 
them. 

“Should call Filch, I should, if something’s a-creeping 
around unseen.” 

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Harry had a sudden idea. 



“Peeves,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the Bloody 
Baron has his own reasons for being invisible.” 

Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught 
himself in time and hovered about a foot off the 
stairs. 

“So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, sir,” he said 
greasily. “My mistake, my mistake — I didn’t see you 
— of course I didn’t, you’re invisible — forgive old 
Peevsie his little joke, sir.” 

“I have business here, Peeves,” croaked Harry. “Stay 
away from this place tonight.” 

“I will, sir, I most certainly will,” said Peeves, rising up 
in the air again. “Hope your business goes well, 

Baron, I’ll not bother you.” 

And he scooted off. 

“Brilliant, Harry!” whispered Ron. 

A few seconds later, they were there, outside the 
third-floor corridor — and the door was already ajar. 

“Well, there you are,” Harry said quietly, “Snape’s 
already got past Fluffy.” 

Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress 
upon all three of them what was facing them. 
Underneath the cloak, Harry turned to the other two. 

“If you want to go back, I won’t blame you,” he said. 
“You can take the cloak, I won’t need it now.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron. 

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“We’re coming,” said Hermione. 

Harry pushed the door open. 

As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their 
ears. All three of the dog’s noses sniffed madly in their 
direction, even though it couldn’t see them. 

“What’s that at its feet?” Hermione whispered. 

“Looks like a harp,” said Ron. “Snape must have left it 
there.” 

“It must wake up the moment you stop playing,” said 
Harry. “Well, here goes ...” 

He put Hagrid’s flute to his lips and blew. It wasn’t 
really a tune, but from the first note the beast’s eyes 
began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath. Slowly, the 
dog’s growls ceased — it tottered on its paws and fell 
to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast 
asleep. 

“Keep playing,” Ron warned Harry as they slipped out 
of the cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They 
could feel the dog’s hot, smelly breath as they 
approached the giant heads. 

“I think we’ll be able to pull the door open,” said Ron, 
peering over the dog’s back. “Want to go first, 
Hermione?” 

“No, I don’t!” 

“All right.” Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully 
over the dog’s legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the 
trapdoor, which swung up and open. 

“What can you see?” Hermione said anxiously. 

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“Nothing — just black — there’s no way of climbing 
down, we’ll just have to drop.” 

Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to 
get his attention and pointed at himself. 

“You want to go first? Are you sure?” said Ron. “I 
don’t know how deep this thing goes. Give the flute to 
Hermione so she can keep him asleep.” 

Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds’ 
silence, the dog growled and twitched, but the 
moment Hermione began to play, it fell back into its 
deep sleep. 

Harry climbed over it and looked down through the 
trapdoor. There was no sign of the bottom. 

He lowered himself through the hole until he was 
hanging on by his fingertips. Then he looked up at 
Ron and said, “If anything happens to me, don’t 
follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to 
Dumbledore, right?” 

“Right,” said Ron. 

“See you in a minute, I hope. ...” 

And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as 
he fell down, down, down and — 

FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he 
landed on something soft. He sat up and felt around, 
his eyes not used to the gloom. It felt as though he 
was sitting on some sort of plant. 

“It’s okay!” he called up to the light the size of a 
postage stamp, which was the open trapdoor, “it’s a 
soft landing, you can jump!” 

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Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to 
Harry. 

“What’s this stuff?” were his first words. 

“Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it’s here 
to break the fall. Come on, Hermione!” 

The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark 
from the dog, but Hermione had already jumped. She 
landed on Harry’s other side. 

“We must be miles under the school,” she said. 

“Lucky this plant thing’s here, really,” said Ron. 

“Lucky\” shrieked Hermione. “Look at you both!” 

She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She 
had to struggle because the moment she had landed, 
the plant had started to twist snakelike tendrils 
around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron, their legs 
had already been bound tightly in long creepers 
without their noticing. 

Hermione had managed to free herself before the 
plant got a firm grip on her. Now she watched in 
horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant off 
them, but the more they strained against it, the 
tighter and faster the plant wound around them. 

“Stop moving!” Hermione ordered them. “I know what 
this is — it’s Devil’s Snare!” 

“Oh, I’m so glad we know what it’s called, that’s a 
great help,” snarled Ron, leaning back, trying to stop 
the plant from curling around his neck. 



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“Shut up, I’m trying to remember how to kill it!” said 
Hermione. 

“Well, hurry up, I can’t breathe!” Harry gasped, 
wrestling with it as it curled around his chest. 

“Devil’s Snare, Devil’s Snare ... what did Professor 
Sprout say? — it likes the dark and the damp — ” 

“So light a fire!” Harry choked. 

“Yes — of course — but there’s no wood!” Hermione 
cried, wringing her hands. 

“HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ron bellowed. “ARE YOU A 
WITCH OR NOT?” 

“Oh, right!” said Hermione, and she whipped out her 
wand, waved it, muttered something, and sent a jet of 
the same bluebell flames she had used on Snape at 
the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it 
loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light 
and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself 
from their bodies, and they were able to pull free. 

“Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione,” 
said Harry as he joined her by the wall, wiping sweat 
off his face. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, “and lucky Harry doesn’t lose his 
head in a crisis — ‘there’s no wood,’ honestly.” 

“This way,” said Harry, pointing down a stone 
passageway, which was the only way forward. 

All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the 
gentle drip of water trickling down the walls. The 
passageway sloped downward, and Harry was 
reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant jolt of the 

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heart, he remembered the dragons said to be 
guarding vaults in the wizards’ bank. If they met a 
dragon, a fully-grown dragon — Norbert had been bad 
enough ... 

“Can you hear something?” Ron whispered. 

Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to 
be coming from up ahead. 

“Do you think it’s a ghost?” 

“I don’t know ... sounds like wings to me.” 

“There’s light ahead — I can see something moving.” 

They reached the end of the passageway and saw 
before them a brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling 
arching high above them. It was full of small, jewel- 
bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the 
room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a 
heavy wooden door. 

“Do you think they’ll attack us if we cross the room?” 
said Ron. 

“Probably,” said Harry. “They don’t look very vicious, 
but I suppose if they all swooped down at once . . . 
well, there’s no other choice ... I’ll run.” 

He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms, 
and sprinted across the room. He expected to feel 
sharp beaks and claws tearing at him any second, 
but nothing happened. He reached the door 
untouched. He pulled the handle, but it was locked. 

The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved 
at the door, but it wouldn’t budge, not even when 
Hermione tried her Alohomora Charm. 

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“Now what?” said Ron. 



“These birds ... they can’t be here just for decoration,” 
said Hermione. 

They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering — 
glittering? 

“They’re not birds!” Harry said suddenly. “They’re 
keys\ Winged keys — look carefully. So that must 
mean ...” he looked around the chamber while the 
other two squinted up at the flock of keys. "... yes — 
look! Broomsticks! We’ve got to catch the key to the 
door!” 

“But there are hundreds of them!” 

Ron examined the lock on the door. 

“We’re looking for a big, old-fashioned one — probably 
silver, like the handle.” 

They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the 
air, soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. They 
grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched keys darted 
and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to 
catch one. 

Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest 
Seeker in a century. He had a knack for spotting 
things other people didn’t. After a minute’s weaving 
about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, he 
noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as if it 
had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the 
keyhole. 

“That one!” he called to the others. “That big one — 
there — no, there — with bright blue wings — the 
feathers are all crumpled on one side.” 

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Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was 
pointing, crashed into the ceiling, and nearly fell off 
his broom. 

“We’ve got to close in on it!” Harry called, not taking 
his eyes off the key with the damaged wing. “Ron, you 
come at it from above — Hermione, stay below and 
stop it from going down — and I’ll try and catch it. 
Right, NOW!” 

Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key 
dodged them both, and Harry streaked after it; it sped 
toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and with a 
nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone 
with one hand. Ron and Hermione ’s cheers echoed 
around the high chamber. 

They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the 
key struggling in his hand. He rammed it into the lock 
and turned — it worked. The moment the lock had 
clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very 
battered now that it had been caught twice. 

“Ready?” Harry asked the other two, his hand on the 
door handle. They nodded. He pulled the door open. 

The next chamber was so dark they couldn’t see 
anything at all. But as they stepped into it, light 
suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing 
sight. 

They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, 
behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than 
they were and carved from what looked like black 
stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were 
the white pieces. Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered 
slightly — the towering white chessmen had no faces. 

“Now what do we do?” Harry whispered. 

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“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Ron. “We’ve got to play our 
way across the room.” 



Behind the white pieces they could see another door. 

“How?” said Hermione nervously. 

“I think,” said Ron, “we’re going to have to be 
chessmen.” 

He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out 
to touch the knights horse. At once, the stone sprang 
to life. The horse pawed the ground and the knight 
turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron. 

“Do we — er — have to join you to get across?” 

The black knight nodded. Ron turned to the other 
two. 

“This needs thinking about. ...” he said. “I suppose 
we’ve got to take the place of three of the black pieces. 



Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron 
think. Finally he said, “Now, don’t be offended or 
anything, but neither of you are that good at chess — 



“We’re not offended,” said Harry quickly. “Just tell us 
what to do.” 

“Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and 
Hermione, you go there instead of that castle.” 

“What about you?” 

“I’m going to be a knight,” said Ron. 

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The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because 
at these words a knight, a bishop, and a castle turned 
their backs on the white pieces and walked off the 
board, leaving three empty squares that Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione took. 

“White always plays first in chess,” said Ron, peering 
across the board. “Yes ... look ...” 

A white pawn had moved forward two squares. 

Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved 
silently wherever he sent them. Harry’s knees were 
trembling. What if they lost? 

“Harry — move diagonally four squares to the right.” 

Their first real shock came when their other knight 
was taken. The white queen smashed him to the floor 
and dragged him off the board, where he lay quite 
still, facedown. 

“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, looking shaken. 
“Leaves you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go 
on.” 

Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces 
showed no mercy. Soon there was a huddle of limp 
black players slumped along the wall. Twice, Ron only 
just noticed in time that Harry and Hermione were in 
danger. He himself darted around the board, taking 
almost as many white pieces as they had lost black 
ones. 

“We’re nearly there,” he muttered suddenly. “Let me 
think — let me think ...” 

The white queen turned her blank face toward him. 



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“Yes ...” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way ... I’ve got 
to be taken.” 



“NO!” Harry and Hermione shouted. 

“That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make 
some sacrifices! I make my move and she’ll take me — 
that leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!” 

“But — ” 

“Do you want to stop Snape or not?” 

“Ron — ” 

“Look, if you don’t hurry up, hell already have the 
Stone!” 

There was no alternative. 

“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined. 
“Here I go — now, don’t hang around once you’ve 
won.” 

He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. 
She struck Ron hard across the head with her stone 
arm, and he crashed to the floor — Hermione 
screamed but stayed on her square — the white 
queen dragged Ron to one side. He looked as if he’d 
been knocked out. 

Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left. 

The white king took off his crown and threw it at 
Harry’s feet. They had won. The chessmen parted and 
bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. With one last 
desperate look back at Ron, Harry and Hermione 
charged through the door and up the next 
passageway. 

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“What if he’s — ?” 



“He’ll be all right,” said Harry, trying to convince 
himself. “What do you reckon’s next?” 

“We’ve had Sprout’s, that was the Devil’s Snare; 
Flitwick must’ve put charms on the keys; McGonagall 
transfigured the chessmen to make them alive; that 
leaves Quirrell’s spell, and Snape’s ...” 

They had reached another door. 

“All right?” Harry whispered. 

“Go on.” 

Harry pushed it open. 

A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of 
them pull their robes up over their noses. Eyes 
watering, they saw, flat on the floor in front of them, a 
troll even larger than the one they had tackled, out 
cold with a bloody lump on its head. 

“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Harry 
whispered as they stepped carefully over one of its 
massive legs. “Come on, I can’t breathe.” 

He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly 
daring to look at what came next — but there was 
nothing very frightening in here, just a table with 
seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a 
line. 

“Snape’s,” said Harry. “What do we have to do?” 

They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a 
fire sprang up behind them in the doorway. It wasn’t 
ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same 

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instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading 
onward. They were trapped. 

“Look!” Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to 
the bottles. Harry looked over her shoulder to read it: 

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, 

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find, 

One among us seven will let you move ahead, 

Another will transport the drinker back instead, 

Two among our number hold only nettle wine, 

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. 

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, 

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues 
four: 

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide 

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side; 

Second, different are those who stand at either end, 

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend; 

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size, 

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides; 

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right 

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first 
sight 

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Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw 
that she was smiling, the very last thing he felt like 
doing. 

“Brilliant,” said Hermione. “This isn’t magic — it’s 
logic — a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven’t 
got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.” 

“But so will we, won’t we?” 

“Of course not,” said Hermione. “Everything we need 
is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison; 
two are wine; one will get us safely through the black 
fire, and one will get us back through the purple.” 

“But how do we know which to drink?” 

“Give me a minute.” 

Hermione read the paper several times. Then she 
walked up and down the line of bottles, muttering to 
herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped her 
hands. 

“Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us 
through the black fire — toward the Stone.” 

Harry looked at the tiny bottle. 

“There’s only enough there for one of us,” he said. 
“That’s hardly one swallow.” 

They looked at each other. 

“Which one will get you back through the purple 
flames?” 

Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end 
of the line. 

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“You drink that,” said Harry. “No, listen, get back and 
get Ron. Grab brooms from the flying-key room, 
they’ll get you out of the trapdoor and past Fluffy — 
go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to 
Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold 
Snape off for a while, but I’m no match for him, 
really.” 

“But Harry — what if You-Know- Who’s with him?” 

“Well — I was lucky once, wasn’t I?” said Harry, 
pointing at his scar. “I might get lucky again.” 

Hermione’s lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at 
Harry and threw her arms around him. 

“Hermionel” 

“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.” 

“I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very 
embarrassed, as she let go of him. 

“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There 
are more important things — friendship and bravery 
and — oh Harry — be carefull” 

“You drink first,” said Harry. “You are sure which is 
which, aren’t you?” 

“Positive,” said Hermione. She took a long drink from 
the round bottle at the end, and shuddered. 

“It’s not poison?” said Harry anxiously. 

“No — but it’s like ice.” 

“Quick, go, before it wears off.” 



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“Good luck — take care — ” 



“GO!” 

Hermione turned and walked straight through the 
purple fire. 

Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest 
bottle. He turned to face the black flames. 

“Here I come,” he said, and he drained the little bottle 
in one gulp. 

It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He 
put the bottle down and walked forward; he braced 
himself, saw the black flames licking his body, but 
couldn’t feel them — for a moment he could see 
nothing but dark fire — then he was on the other 
side, in the last chamber. 

There was already someone there — but it wasn’t 
Snape. It wasn’t even Voldemort. 



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THE MAN WITH TWO FACES 

It was Quirrell. 

“You\” gasped Harry. 

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn’t twitching at all. 

“Me,” he said calmly. “I wondered whether I’d be 
meeting you here, Potter.” 

“But I thought — Snape — ” 

“Severus?” Quirrell laughed, and it wasn’t his usual 
quivering treble, either, but cold and sharp. “Yes, 
Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to 
have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. 

Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st- 
stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?” 

Harry couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be true, it 
couldn’t. 

“But Snape tried to kill me!” 

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“No, no, no. / tried to kill you. Your friend Miss 
Granger accidentally knocked me over as she rushed 
to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match. She 
broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds 
and I’d have got you off that broom. I’d have managed 
it before then if Snape hadn’t been muttering a 
countercurse, trying to save you.” 

“Snape was trying to save me?” 

“Of course,” said Quirrell coolly. “Why do you think 
he wanted to referee your next match? He was trying 
to make sure I didn’t do it again. Funny, really ... he 
needn’t have bothered. I couldn’t do anything with 
Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought 
Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he 
did make himself unpopular . . . and what a waste of 
time, when after all that, I’m going to kill you tonight.” 

Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin 
air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry. 

“You’re too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the 
school on Halloween like that, for all I knew you’d 
seen me coming to look at what was guarding the 
Stone.” 

“ You let the troll in?” 

“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must 
have seen what I did to the one in the chamber back 
there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was 
running around looking for it, Snape, who already 
suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head 
me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to 
death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to 
bite Snape ’s leg off properly. 



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“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this 
interesting mirror.” 

It was only then that Harry realized what was 
standing behind Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised. 

“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell 
murmured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust 
Dumbledore to come up with something like this . . . 
but he’s in London ... I’ll be far away by the time he 
gets back. ...” 

All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell 
talking and stop him from concentrating on the 
mirror. 

“I saw you and Snape in the forest — ” he blurted out. 

“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to 
look at the back. “He was on to me by that time, 
trying to find out how far I’d got. He suspected me all 
along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could, 
when I had Lord Voldemort on my side. ...” 

Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and 
stared hungrily into it. 

“I see the Stone ... I’m presenting it to my master ... 
but where is it?” 

Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but 
they didn’t give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving 
his whole attention to the mirror. 

“But Snape always seemed to hate me so much.” 

“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes. 
He was at Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you 



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know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted 
you dead.” 

“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought 
Snape was threatening you. 

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across 
Quirrell’s face. 

“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my 
master’s instructions — he is a great wizard and I am 
weak — ” 

“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” 
Harry gasped. 

“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I 
met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish 
young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about 
good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong 
I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, 
and those too weak to seek it. ... Since then, I have 
served him faithfully, although I have let him down 
many times. He has had to be very hard on me.” 
Quirrell shivered suddenly. “He does not forgive 
mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from 
Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me 
. . . decided he would have to keep a closer watch on 
me. ...” 

Quirrell’s voice trailed away. Harry was remembering 
his trip to Diagon Alley — how could he have been so 
stupid? He’d seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken 
hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron. 

Quirrell cursed under his breath. 

“I don’t understand ... is the Stone inside the mirror? 
Should I break it?” 

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Harry’s mind was racing. 



What I want more than anything else in the world at 
the moment, he thought, is to find the Stone before 
Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see 
my self finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s 
hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing 
what I’m up to? 

He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass 
without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his 
ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell 
ignored him. He was still talking to himself. 

“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help 
me, Master!” 

And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice 
seemed to come from Quirrell himself. 

“Use the boy ... Use the boy ...” 

Quirrell rounded on Harry. 

“Yes — Potter — come here.” 

He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding 
Harry fell off. Harry got slowly to his feet. 

“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror 
and tell me what you see.” 

Harry walked toward him. 

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie 
about what I see, that’s all. 

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in 
the funny smell that seemed to come from Quirrell’s 

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turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the 
mirror, and opened them again. 

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. 
But a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It 
put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood- 
red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its 
pocket — and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy 
drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — 
he’d gotten the Stone. 

“Well?” said Quirrell impatiently. “What do you see?” 
Harry screwed up his courage. 

“I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore,” he 
invented. “I — I’ve won the House Cup for Gryffindor.” 

Quirrell cursed again. 

“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside, 
he felt the Sorcerer’s Stone against his leg. Dare he 
make a break for it? 

But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice 
spoke, though Quirrell wasn’t moving his lips. 

“He lies ... He lies ...” 

“Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me 
the truth! What did you just see?” 

The high voice spoke again. 

“Let me speak to him ... face-to-face. ...” 

“Master, you are not strong enough!” 

“I have strength enough ... for this. ...” 

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Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the 
spot. He couldn’t move a muscle. Petrified, he 
watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap 
his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. 
Quirrell’s head looked strangely small without it. 

Then he turned slowly on the spot. 

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a 
sound. Where there should have been a back to 
Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible 
face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with 
glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. 

“Harry Potter ...” it whispered. 

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs 
wouldn’t move. 

“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere 
shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can 
share another’s body . . . but there have always been 
those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. ... 
Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks 
. . . you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the 
forest ... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be 
able to create a body of my own. ... Now ... why don’t 
you give me that Stone in your pocket?” 

So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into 
Harry’s legs. He stumbled backward. 

“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your 
own life and join me ... or you’ll meet the same end as 
your parents. ... They died begging me for mercy. ...” 

“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly. 



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Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that 
Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now 
smiling. 

“How touching ...” it hissed. “I always value bravery. 

... Yes, boy, your parents were brave. ... I killed your 
father first, and he put up a courageous fight . . . but 
your mother needn’t have died ... she was trying to 
protect you. ... Now give me the Stone, unless you 
want her to have died in vain.” 

“NEVER!” 

Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort 
screamed “SEIZE HIM!” and the next second, Harry 
felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At once, a 
needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; his 
head felt as though it was about to split in two; he 
yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his 
surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head 
lessened — he looked around wildly to see where 
Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, 
looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his 
eyes. 

“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again, 
and Quirrell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, 
landing on top of him, both hands around Harry’s 
neck — Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with 
pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony. 

“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my 
hands!” 

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground 
with his knees, let go of his neck and stared, 
bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they 
looked burned, raw, red, and shiny. 



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“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched 
Voldemort. 

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, 
but Harry, by instinct, reached up and grabbed 
Quirrell’s face — 

“AAAARGH!” 

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and 
then Harry knew: Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare 
skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only 
chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in 
enough pain to stop him from doing a curse. 

Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, 
and hung on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed 
and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry’s 
head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only 
hear Quirrell’s terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells 
of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and other voices, maybe in 
Harry’s own head, crying, “Harry! Harry!” 

He felt Quirrell’s arm wrenched from his grasp, knew 
all was lost, and fell into blackness, down ... down ... 
down ... 

Something gold was glinting just above him. The 
Snitch! He tried to catch it, but his arms were too 
heavy. 

He blinked. It wasn’t the Snitch at all. It was a pair of 
glasses. How strange. 

He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus 
Dumbledore swam into view above him. 

“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore. 



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Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: “Sir! The 
Stone! It was Quirrell! He’s got the Stone! Sir, quick — 



“Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the 
times,” said Dumbledore. “Quirrell does not have the 
Stone.” 

“Then who does? Sir, I — ” 

“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me 
thrown out.” 

Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized 
he must be in the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed 
with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table 
piled high with what looked like half the candy shop. 

“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said 
Dumbledore, beaming. “What happened down in the 
dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a 
complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school 
knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George 
Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a 
toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse 
you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be 
very hygienic, and confiscated it.” 

“How long have I been in here?” 

“Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger 
will be most relieved you have come round, they have 
been extremely worried.” 

“But sir, the Stone — ” 

“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the 
Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it 



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from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although 
you were doing very well on your own, I must say.” 

“You got there? You got Hermione’s owl?” 

“We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I 
reached London than it became clear to me that the 
place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived 
just in time to pull Quirrell off you — ” 

“It was you.” 

“I feared I might be too late.” 

“You nearly were, I couldn’t have kept him off the 
Stone much longer — ” 

“Not the Stone, boy, you — the effort involved nearly 
killed you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid 
it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed.” 

“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend — 
Nicolas Flamel — ” 

“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore, 
sounding quite delighted. “You did do the thing 
properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a 
little chat, and agreed it’s all for the best.” 

“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?” 

“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in 
order and then, yes, they will die.” 

Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on 
Harry’s face. 

“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible, 
but to Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to 

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bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well- 
organized mind, death is but the next great 
adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a 
wonderful thing. As much money and life as you 
could want! The two things most human beings would 
choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a 
knack of choosing precisely those things that are 
worst for them.” 

Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed 
a little and smiled at the ceiling. 

“Sir?” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking ... Sir — even if 
the Stone’s gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who — ” 

“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper 
name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the 
thing itself.” 

“Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort’s going to try other ways of 
coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has 
he?” 

“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there 
somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to 
share ... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He 
left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his 
followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while 
you may only have delayed his return to power, it will 
merely take someone else who is prepared to fight 
what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is 
delayed again, and again, why, he may never return 
to power.” 

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made 
his head hurt. Then he said, “Sir, there are some 
other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me ... 
things I want to know the truth about. ...” 



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“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and 
terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with 
great caution. However, I shall answer your questions 
unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case 
I beg you 11 forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.” 

“Well ... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother 
because she tried to stop him from killing me. But 
why would he want to kill me in the first place?” 

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time. 

“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. 

Not today. Not now. You will know, one day ... put it 
from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older . . . 
I know you hate to hear this . . . when you are ready, 
you will know.” 

And Harry knew it would be no good to argue. 

“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?” 

“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing 
Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t 
realize that love as powerful as your mother’s for you 
leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign ... to 
have been loved so deeply, even though the person 
who loved us is gone, will give us some protection 
forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, 
greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, 
could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to 
touch a person marked by something so good.” 

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out 
on the windowsill, which gave Harry time to dry his 
eyes on the sheet. When he had found his voice again, 
Harry said, “And the Invisibility Cloak — do you know 
who sent it to me?” 



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“Ah — your father happened to leave it in my 
possession, and I thought you might like it.” 
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things ... your 
father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens 
to steal food when he was here.” 

“And there’s something else ...” 

“Fire away.” 

“Quirrell said Snape — ” 

“Professor Snape, Harry.” 

“Yes, him — Quirrell said he hates me because he 
hated my father. Is that true?” 

“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike 
yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did 
something Snape could never forgive.” 

“What?” 

“He saved his life.” 

“What?” 

“Yes ...” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way 
people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape 
couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. ... I do 
believe he worked so hard to protect you this year 
because he felt that would make him and your father 
even. Then he could go back to hating your father’s 
memory in peace. ...” 

Harry tried to understand this but it made his head 
pound, so he stopped. 

“And sir, there’s one more thing ...” 

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“Just the one?” 



“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?” 

“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of 
my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, 
that’s saying something. You see, only one who 
wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — 
would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see 
themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My 
brain surprises even me sometimes. ... Now, enough 
questions. I suggest you make a start on these 
sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans! I was 
unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a 
vomit-flavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve 
rather lost my liking for them — but I think I’ll be safe 
with a nice toffee, don’t you?” 

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his 
mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Ear wax!” 

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but 
very strict. 

“Just five minutes,” Harry pleaded. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“You let Professor Dumbledore in. ...” 

“Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite 
different. You need rest.” 

“I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go 
on, Madam Pomfrey ...” 

“Oh, very well,” she said. “But five minutes only.” 

And she let Ron and Hermione in. 

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“Harryl” 



Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him 
again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his 
head was still very sore. 

“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to — 
Dumbledore was so worried — ” 

“The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What 
really happened?” 

It was one of those rare occasions when the true story 
is even more strange and exciting than the wild 
rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the 
mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione 
were a very good audience; they gasped in all the 
right places, and when Harry told them what was 
under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud. 

“So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally. “Flamel’s just 
going to die?” 

“That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that — 
what was it? — ‘to the well-organized mind, death is 
but the next great adventure.’ ” 

“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron, 
looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was. 

“So what happened to you two?” said Harry. 

“Well, I got back all right,” said Hermione. “I brought 
Ron round — that took a while — and we were 
dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when 
we met him in the entrance hall — he already knew — 
he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and 
hurtled off to the third floor.” 

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“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. 
“Sending you your fathers cloak and everything?” 

“Well,” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say 
— that’s terrible — you could have been killed.” 

“No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny 
man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give 
me a chance. I think he knows more or less 
everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he 
had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and 
instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to 
help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find 
out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought 
I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. ...” 

“Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” said 
Ron proudly. “Listen, you’ve got to be up for the end- 
of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and 
Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last 
Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by 
Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.” 

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over. 

“You’ve had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” she 
said firmly. 



•k k k 



After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to 
normal. 

“I want to go to the feast,” he told Madam Pomfrey as 
she straightened his many candy boxes. “I can, can’t 
I?” 



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“Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to 
go,” she said sniffily, as though in her opinion 
Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts 
could be. “And you have another visitor.” 

“Oh, good,” said Harry. “Who is it?” 

Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual 
when he was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be 
allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one look at 
him, and burst into tears. 

“It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his 
face in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past 
Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t 
know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a 
dragon egg! I’ll never drink again! I should be chucked 
out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!” 

“Hagrid!” said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking 
with grief and remorse, great tears leaking down into 
his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found out somehow, 
this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found 
out even if you hadn’t told him.” 

“Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the 
name!” 

“VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so 
shocked, he stopped crying. “I’ve met him and I’m 
calling him by his name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we 
saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a 
Chocolate Frog, I’ve got loads. ...” 

Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and 
said, “That reminds me. I’ve got yeh a present.” 

“It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry 
anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle. 

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“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter 
fix it. ’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead — 
anyway, got y eh this ...” 

It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. 
Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard 
photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every 
page were his mother and father. 

“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, 
askin’ fer photos ... knew yeh didn’ have any ... d’yeh 
like it?” 

Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood. 

Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast 
alone that night. He had been held up by Madam 
Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving him one 
last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It 
was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and 
silver to celebrate Slytherin ’s winning the House Cup 
for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing 
the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the 
High Table. 

When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and 
then everybody started talking loudly at once. He 
slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione at the 
Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that 
people were standing up to look at him. 

Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The 
babble died away. 

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. 

“And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing 
waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious 
feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads 
are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the 
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whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty 
before next year starts. ... 

“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs 
awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, 
Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in 
third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; 
Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and 
Slytherin, four hundred and seventy- two.” 

A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the 
Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging 
his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight. 

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore. 
“However, recent events must be taken into account.” 

The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded 
a little. 

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute 
points to dish out. Let me see. Yes ... 

“First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley ...” 

Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish 
with a bad sunburn. 

"... for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has 
seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty 
points.” 

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; 
the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be 
heard telling the other prefects, “My brother, you 
know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s 
giant chess set!” 

At last there was silence again. 

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“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of 
cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House 
fifty points.” 

Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly 
suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up 
and down the table were beside themselves — they 
were a hundred points up. 

“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter ...” said Dumbledore. 

The room went deadly quiet. "... for pure nerve and 
outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty 
points.” 

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while 
yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now 
had four hundred and seventy-two points — exactly 
the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House 
Cup — if only Dumbledore had given Harry just one 
more point. 

Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell 
silent. 

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, 
smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up 
to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our 
friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville 
Longbottom.” 

Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well 
have thought some sort of explosion had taken place, 
so loud was the noise that erupted from the 
Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up 
to yell and cheer as Neville, white with shock, 
disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. He 
had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor 
before. Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs 
and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have looked more 
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stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind 
Curse put on him. 

“Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of 
applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were 
celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we need a little 
change of decoration.” 

He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green 
hangings became scarlet and the silver became gold; 
the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering 
Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking 
Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible, forced 
smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once 
that Snape ’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one 
jot. This didn’t worry Harry. It seemed as though life 
would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it 
ever was at Hogwarts. 

It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than 
winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out 
mountain trolls ... he would never, ever forget tonight. 

Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results 
were still to come, but come they did. To their great 
surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks; 
Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first 
years. Even Neville scraped through, his good 
Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions 
one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as 
stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he 
had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said, you 
couldn’t have everything in life. 

And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their 
trunks were packed, Neville’s toad was found lurking 
in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all 
students, warning them not to use magic over the 
holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us 
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these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to 
take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across 
the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; 
talking and laughing as the countryside became 
greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor 
Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off 
their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; 
pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at 
King’s Cross station. 

It took quite a while for them all to get off the 
platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket 
barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and 
threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting 
out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles. 

“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron, 
“both of you — I’ll send you an owl.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look 
forward to.” 

People jostled them as they moved forward toward the 
gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them 
called: 

“Bye, Harry!” 

“See you, Potter!” 

“Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him. 

“Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry. 

He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway 
together. 

“There he is, Mom, there he is, look!” 



Page | 346 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she 
wasn’t pointing at Ron. 

“Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mom! I can see 
“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.” 

Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them. 

“Busy year?” she said. 

“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the 
sweater, Mrs. Weasley.” 

“Oh, it was nothing, dear.” 

“Ready, are you?” 

It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still 
mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, 
carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary 
people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley, 
looking terrified at the very sight of Harry. 

“You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley. 

“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry 
up, boy, we haven’t got all day.” He walked away. 

Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and 
Hermione. 

“See you over the summer, then.” 

“Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said 
Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, 
shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant. 



Page | 347 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling 




“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at 
the grin that was spreading over his face. “ They don’t 
know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m 
going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer...” 



Page | 348 Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone - J.K. Rowling
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