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J. K. Rowling «Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone» / Chapter I. The Boy Who Lived
J. K. Rowling «Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone»
Chapter I. The Boy Who Lived
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they
were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect
to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold
with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings,
which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did
have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice
the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her
time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small
son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their
greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could
bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's
sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended
she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband
were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think
what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys
knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him.
This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want
Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up
on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy
sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening
all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie
for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley
into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past
the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked
Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little
tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and
backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that
he noticed the first sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a
second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head
around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive,
but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must
have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It
stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched
the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no,
looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself
a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought
of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else.
As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there
seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley
couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young
people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on
the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite
close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to
see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older
than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these people were
obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved
on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot,
his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window
in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder
to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing past in
broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-
mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even
at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning.
He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls
and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought
he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them
next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but
they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't
see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large
doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as
if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed
back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to
disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number
when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,
thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was
sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come
to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even
seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying
Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't
blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people
in cloaks...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon
and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he
walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry,"
he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds
before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't
seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his
face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby
stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice,
for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating,
this happy, happy day!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around
the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had
been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle,
whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home,
hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't
approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four,
the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat
he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure
it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!"
said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was
this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together,
he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything
to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over
dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When
Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the
last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere
have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today.
Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there
have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since
sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their
sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious.
And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of
owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I
don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly
today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in
to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour
of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early --
it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."
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 YouKnow-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 Potter's
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! CarA 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, sit," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as
he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir -- house was almost
destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around.
He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor
McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was
a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they
could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
"Is that
where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore.
"He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something
about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can
come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the
London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over
with."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys'
house.
"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid.
He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very
scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded
dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the
Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large,
spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it
-- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll
be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the
arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.
He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it
inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute
the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook,
Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone
from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
"Well," said
Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may
as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid
in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor
McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes
on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the
engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore,
nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore
turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out
the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back
to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could
make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street.
He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good
luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his
cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which
lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing
things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking
up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing
he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a
few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out
the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and
pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people
meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying
in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"
Contents:
Chapter I. The Boy Who Lived
Chapter II. The Vanishing Glass
Chapter III. The Letters From No One
Chapter IV. The Keeper Of The Keys
Chapter V. Diagon Alley
Chapter VI. The Journey From Platform Nine And Three-Quarters
Chapter VII. The Sorting Hat
Chapter VIII. The Potions Master
Chapter IX. The Midnight Duel
Chapter X. Halloween
Chapter XI. Quidditch
Chapter XII. The Mirror Of Erised
Chapter XIII. Nicolas Flamel
Chapter XIV. Norbert The Norwegian Ridgeback
Chapter XV. The Forbidden Forest
Chapter XVI. Through The Trapdoor
Chapter XVII. The Man With Two Faces
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