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

by J.K. Rowling

There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight.

The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

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!”

“Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

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.

the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

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!”

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.

i actually LOLED

Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Not J.K Rowling rosting a fake person

He didn’t know what he was going to — but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.

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

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.

His heart skipped. He felt braver.

Such good friends :')

It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever.

He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.

“Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said. “So it has been for ages past, so it is now.”

“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!”

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,