Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Harry Potter, #1)

by J.K. Rowling

and blonde

When Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest 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 goodbye 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 realise 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 to...

‘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 lot.’ 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 ...

All not in the film!

‘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 rumours.’ 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. ‘...

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!’

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 future – there will be books written about Harry –

‘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.

‘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?’

‘Hagrid,’ said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. ‘At last. And where did you get that motorbike?’ ‘Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,’ said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. ‘Young Sirius Black lent it 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.’

‘Is that where –?’ whispered Professor McGonagall. ‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore. ‘He’ll have that scar for ever.’ ‘Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?’ ‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well – give him here, Hagrid – we’d better get this over with.’

‘Could I – could I say goodbye 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

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 on to the motorbike 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.

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!’

blond boy

‘Up!’ she screeched. Harry heard her walking towards the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the cooker. He rolled on to his back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorbike 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.

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 favourite punch-bag was Harry, but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very fast.

The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead which 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 got 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.

‘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 Mummy 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 cine-camera, a remote-control aeroplane, sixteen new computer games and a video recorder. 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 hear...

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 barber’s 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 fringe, 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 Sellotaped glasses. Next morning, however, he had got 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 jumper of Dudley’s (brown with orange bobbles). The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a glove 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 got into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens...

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 towards 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 WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!’ Dudley came waddling towards 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.

Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.

‘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 apologised 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 ...

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 cine-camera, crashed his remote-control aeroplane and, first time 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 favourite 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 a place at Uncle Vernon’s old school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there, too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local comprehensive. Dudley thought this was very funny. ‘They stuff people’s heads down the toilet first day at Stonewall,’ he told Harry. ‘Want to come upstairs and practise?’ ‘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 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’s got something!’

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 greyish 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 Smeltings 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...

‘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 moustache 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 moustache 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 towards the motorway. 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, video 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 turning 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 programmes 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 ...

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. ‘Where’s the cannon?’ he said stupidly.

‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. ‘I warn you – I’m armed!’ There was a pause. Then – SMASH!

‘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 mum’s eyes.’ Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

‘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.

Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.

‘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 shrivelled crisp packets in it and he snorted.

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 which 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’ any more, 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.

‘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 maths 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 mum and dad,’ he said. ‘I mean, they’re famous. You’re famous.’ ‘What? My – my mum 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, D...

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:

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July. Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress

‘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 which Harry could read upside-down: Dear Mr 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 realised 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 non-magic 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 kne...

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.

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, a...

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 realising 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,

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.

‘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.’

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 on to 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, mint humbugs, tea-bags … ...

1 wand

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PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS