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

by J.K. Rowling

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.

Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

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.

The giant chuckled. “True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head, “NEVER —” he thundered, “— INSULT — ALBUS — DUMBLEDORE — IN — FRONT — OF — ME!”

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.

“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.”

“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?” “Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron suggested. “Excuse me.”

“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.”

They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched with bated breath.

After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.

the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.”

“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.