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An Inverse Optimal Stopping Problem for Diffusion Processes Informs Kruse, Thomas, Strack, Philipp Year: 2018 Language: english File: PDF, 459 KB Your tags: 0 / 0

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Dhih Central Institute of Higher Tibetan Studies Samdong Rinpoche, Janardan Pandey Year: 1996 Language: tibetan File: PDF, 30.68 MB Your tags: 0 / 0

        
            
                
            
        

    












 







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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 … 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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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 … 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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.” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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.” 

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“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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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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?” 

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“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.” 

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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 

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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 

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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!” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 









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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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?” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. …” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

…” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 DON’T 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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 









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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs 

might already have cracked from trying not to laugh. 


*   *   * 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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?” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 


*   *   * 

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 —” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 17 

 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. 


*   *   * 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

 “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!” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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

to come in. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 









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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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 

 of WITCHCRAFT  and WIZARDRY 

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 

( Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., 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 

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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. 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

“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!” 

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Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone – J.K. Rowling 

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?” 

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“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. 

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“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 

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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 

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ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’ 

reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ 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 — 

 I 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, 

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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 

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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.” 

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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.” 

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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 

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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 

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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. 

“Um — 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. 

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“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 

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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?” 

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“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. 

“