sorcerers-stone.txt

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





met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended
she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her
good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it
was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think
what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in
the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a
small son, too, but they had never even seen him.

This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a
child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray
Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the
cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and
mysterious things would soon be happening all over
the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out
his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming
Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past
the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his
briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and
tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his
cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley
as he left the house. He got into his car and backed
out of number four’s drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the
first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a
map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he
had seen — then he jerked his head around to look
again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner
of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What
could he have been thinking of? It must have been a
trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at





the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around
the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet
Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read
maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake
and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward
town he thought of nothing except a large order of
drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his
mind by something else. As he sat in the usual
morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people
about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear
people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some
stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the
steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these
weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering
excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see
that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that
man had to be older than he was, and wearing an
emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly
stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved
on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the
Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in
his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might
have found it harder to concentrate on drills that
morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in
broad daylight, though people down in the street did;
they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after
owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an
owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a
perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five
different people. He made several important telephone





calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good
mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch
his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a
bun from the bakery.

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he
passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed
them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but
they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering
excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting
tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a
large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words
of what they were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard — ”

“ — yes, their son, Harry — ”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He
looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say
something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his
office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him,
seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing
his home number when he changed his mind. He put
the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,
thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t
such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots
of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew
was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It
might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no
point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so
upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame
her — if he’d had a sister like that ... but all the
same, those people in cloaks ...








He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that
afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock,
he was still so worried that he walked straight into
someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled
and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr.
Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost
knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split
into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that
made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir,
for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-
Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like
yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy
day!”

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the
middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been
hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he
had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was
rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home,
hoping he was imagining things, which he had never
hoped before, because he didn’t approve of
imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the
first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood —
was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was
now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the
same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look.

Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.
Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the






house. He was still determined not to mention
anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told
him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems
with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new
word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.
When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the
living room in time to catch the last report on the
evening news:

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported
that the nation’s owls have been behaving very
unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at
night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have
been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in
every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to
explain why the owls have suddenly changed their
sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a
grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim
McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more
showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about
that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting
oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire,
and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that
instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a
downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have
been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until
next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night
tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars
all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious
people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a
whisper about the Potters . . .








Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two
cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say
something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er
— Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister
lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and
angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t
have a sister.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled.
“Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of
funny-looking people in town today ...”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought ... maybe ... it was something to
do with ... you know ... her crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr.
Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d
heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t dare.
Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son —
he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”

“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking
horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they
went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the
bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window






and peered down into the front garden. The cat was
still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though
it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have
anything to do with the Potters? If it did ... if it got out
that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t
think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep
quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over
in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell
asleep was that even if the Potters were involved,
there was no reason for them to come near him and
Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and
Petunia thought about them and their kind. ... He
couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up
in anything that might be going on — he yawned and
turned over — it couldn’t affect them. ...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy
sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no
sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue,
its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet
Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door
slammed on the next street, 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






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.”








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






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.”






“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.






Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went
on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the
Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He couldn’t
kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but
they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter,
Voldemort’s power somehow broke — and that’s why
he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After
all he’s done ... all the people he’s killed ... he couldn’t
kill a little boy? It’s just astounding ... of all the
things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven
did Harry survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may
never know.”

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief
and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles.
Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden
watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very
odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers;
instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It
must have made sense to Dumbledore, though,
because he put it back in his pocket and said,
“Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be
here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t
suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all
places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle.
They’re the only family he has left now.”

“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who
live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her






feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore — you
can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t
find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got
this son — I saw 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?”








“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said
Professor McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t
pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to — what
was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around
them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and
down the street for some sign of a headlight; it
swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky —
and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed
on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man
sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a
normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked
simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long
tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his
face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his
feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In
his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of
blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At
last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the
giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he
spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him,
sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him
out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’
around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”








Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward
over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a
baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair
over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped
cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “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





doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it
inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the
other two. For a full minute the three of them stood
and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders
shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and
the twinkling light that usually shone from
Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no
business staying here. We may as well go and join the
celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best
get this bike away. G ’night, Professor McGonagall —
Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid
swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the
engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off
into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,”
said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor
McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street.
On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-
Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light
sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive
glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a
tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end
of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets
on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his
heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which
lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last






place you would expect 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!”










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








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.





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.






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?”








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






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. ...”








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








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





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






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.








“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.






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.








“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





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.








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




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








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.






“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.








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.








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?”






“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.








“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.






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






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






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 — ”








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.








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






“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!”








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.






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.






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










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





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.






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.








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






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.








“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.








“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








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.






“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!”








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?”






“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.






“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






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








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,








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






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.”






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.”









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







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








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.








“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






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?”






“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.








“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






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.






“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





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.”






“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.








“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.






“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.








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





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.








“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.”








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.








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.








“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?”








“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.








“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?”








“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.






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).








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.








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.”








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.”






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.








“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.






“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






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.











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







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.






“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.








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.






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.








“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.”






“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.








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.






“ 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








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.”








“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?”






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.”






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.






“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






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








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?”








“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






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.”






“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






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.






“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.








“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.








“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






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.”








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





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.






“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.






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.






“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.








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,




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.








“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






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





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,








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






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!”








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.






“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.






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






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.






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.






“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






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





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.








“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.”






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,






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.”








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






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.










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





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





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








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.








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:








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






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.






“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






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.






“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






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?”








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





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?








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.”





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








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





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.






“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.








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.”








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






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?





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.








“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






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.








“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.








“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








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!”








“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.






“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 — ”








“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.”








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.”








“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.








“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.








“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








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.








“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.








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.





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.






“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?”






“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






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.”








“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








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.”








“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.






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





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.”








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.








“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.








“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.








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.








“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.






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








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.”






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.”








“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.









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.




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.








“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.






“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








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.






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.






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





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.








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.








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 — ”






“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.








“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.”








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








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 ?”








“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.










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







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.”








“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.








“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








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.






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,






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






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.








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:








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.”








“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





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






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.








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





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





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?






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






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.”






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?”








“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.








“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 —






“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?”








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








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.










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.







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.”








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.”








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.








“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.”






“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).








“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?






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






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,






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.






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 ...”








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








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.”








“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








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.










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.







“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?”








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.






“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’?”








“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?”








“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.”








“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.








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.








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.”






“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.






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.








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.






“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.








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.








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.








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.












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.







“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





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.






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






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






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.






“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





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?”






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!”








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?






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








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.”








“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,






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.








“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.








“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.








“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.






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.”








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?”






“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.








“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.”






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.










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.





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








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






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?”






“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.






“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?








“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 — ”






“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.








“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,”






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.








“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






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.








“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.








“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.”






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.






“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.






“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!”






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.








“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






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.






“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.”






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.






“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.






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.








“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.






“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






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






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.






“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.”








“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.










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!”





“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.








“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








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?”






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






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. ...”






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.








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.








“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.








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








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






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. ...”








“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?”








“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 ...”






“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.






“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.”






“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?”








“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.






“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





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.






“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





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





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!”








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.








“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...”