Read Online Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Chapter 1 The Male child Who Lived

  Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, cheers very much. They were the last people you lot'd expect to be involved in annihilation strange or mysterious, considering they simply didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a house chosen Grunnings, which fabricated drills. He was a big, beefy human being with hardly any neck, although he did accept a very big mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had most twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her fourth dimension craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small-scale son called Dudley and in their opinion in that location was no effectively boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would detect it. They didn't call back they could behave it if anyone found out virtually the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, just they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't take a sister, because her sis and her good-for-aught married man were equally unDursleyish as information technology 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 pocket-sized son, too, only they had never even seen him. This male child was another expert 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 irksome, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to propose that strange and mysterious things would soon exist happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most tedious tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily every bit 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 upwardly his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to buss Dudley good-bye just missed, because Dudley was at present having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Petty tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his automobile and backed out of number 4's bulldoze.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the get-go sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a 2nd, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to await again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, merely there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a play a joke on of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the true 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 lodge of drills he was hoping to become that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he saturday in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that at that place seemed to exist a lot of strangely dressed people almost. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups yous saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering bike and his optics savage 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 immature at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-greenish cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some empty-headed stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something. . . yes, that would exist information technology. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind dorsum on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his dorsum to the window in his part on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found information technology harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't run into the owls swooping by in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open up-mouthed equally owl subsequently owl sped overhead. Virtually of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-gratis morning. He yelled at v different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them adjacent to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they fabricated him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't run across a single collecting tin can. Information technology was on his mode back by 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'southward what I heard--"

"-- yes, their son, Harry--"

Mr. Dursley stopped expressionless. Fright flooded him. He looked dorsum at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but idea improve of it.

He dashed dorsum across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his phone, and had almost finished dialing his dwelling house number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver dorsum down and stroked his mustache, thinking. . . no, he was existence stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual proper 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 fifty-fifty seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got then upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sis like that. . . but yet, those people in cloaks. . .

He plant information technology 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 directly into someone just outside the door.

"Sad," he grunted, as the tiny quondam human being stumbled and almost roughshod. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the homo 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 exist sad, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for Yous-Know-Who has gone at concluding! Even Muggles like yourself should be jubilant, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the centre and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He likewise thought he had been called a Muggle, whatsoever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his auto and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't corroborate of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first matter he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby true cat he'd spotted that morning. It was at present sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same ane; it had the same markings effectually its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't motion. It simply gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a squeamish, normal solar 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 take hold of the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers eve

rywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls usually hunt at nighttime and are hardly always seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explicate why the owls take all of a sudden changed their sleeping blueprint. " The newscaster allowed himself a grinning. "Most mysterious. And at present, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to exist any more than showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not simply the owls that take been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee take 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 Blaze Dark early on -- it's not until next calendar week, folks! Simply I tin promise a wet night tonight. "

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying past daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper well-nigh the Potters. . .

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dearest -- 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. . . "

"Then?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I only thought. . . maybe. . . information technology was something to practise with. . . you know. . . her oversupply. "

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 cartel. Instead he said, equally casually equally he could, "Their son -- he'd be nearly Dudley'south age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose and then," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common proper name, if you ask me. "

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his middle sinking horribly. "Yeah, I quite agree. "

He didn't say another word on the field of study equally they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The true cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive equally though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this accept anything to practice with the Potters? If it did. . . if information technology 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 cruel comatose quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his listen. His last, comforting thought before he barbarous asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come up 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 annihilation that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't touch on them. . .

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy slumber, but the true cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still every bit a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. Information technology didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when ii 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 and so of a sudden and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing similar this man had e'er been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very erstwhile, judging by the silver of his hair and bristles, which were both long enough to tuck into his chugalug. He was wearing long robes, a imperial cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blueish optics were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon glasses and his nose was very long and crooked, equally though it had been broken at least twice. This human being'southward name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his proper noun to his boots was unwelcome. He was decorated rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, considering he looked up suddenly at the true 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 constitute what he was looking for in his inside pocket. Information technology seemed to exist a silverish cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little popular. He clicked it again -- the adjacent 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 optics of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, fifty-fifty beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't exist able to run across anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer dorsum within his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sabbatum downwardly on the wall adjacent to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you lot here, Professor McGonagall. "

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking adult female who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the true cat had had effectually its eyes. She, besides, was wearing a cloak, an emerald ane. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know information technology was me?" she asked.

"My beloved Professor, I've never seen a true cat sit so stiffly. "

"Yous'd be stiff if yous'd been sitting on a brick wall all solar day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All twenty-four hour period? When y'all could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here. "

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, I've celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- fifty-fifty the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news. " She jerked her caput dorsum at the Dursleys' night living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls. . . shooting stars. . . Well, they're not completely stupid. They were leap to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense. "

"Y'all can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to gloat for eleven years. "

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright devil-may-care, out on the streets in broad daylight, not fifty-fifty dressed in Muggle wearing apparel, swapping rumors. "

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, simply he didn't, and so she went on. "A fine matter it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at final, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "Nosotros have much to be thankful for. Would you lot care for a lemon drib?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather addicted of. "

"No, thank you lot," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "Equally I say, fifty-fifty if You-Know-Who has gone--"

"My honey Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I accept 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 then confusing if we keep proverb 'You-Know-Who. ' I take never seen any reason to be frightened of maxim Voldemort's

name. "

"I know y'all haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding one-half exasperated, half admiring. "But you lot're different. Anybody knows you're the only i Yous-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of. "

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have. "

"Only because yous're too -- well -- noble to utilise them. "

"Information technology'south lucky it's dark. I oasis't blushed and 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 effectually. You know what they're proverb? About why he's disappeared? Nearly what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the betoken she was near anxious to hash out, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, difficult wall all twenty-four hours, for neither as a cat nor equally a adult female had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did at present. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, nonetheless, was choosing some other lemon drop and did non answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last nighttime Voldemort turned up in Godric'southward 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 information technology. . . Oh, Albus. . . "

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know. . . I know. . . " he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall'southward voice trembled as she went on. "That'southward not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter'due south son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that lilliputian boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't impale Harry Potter, Voldemort's ability somehow bankrupt -- and that's why he's gone. "

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It'south -- it's true ?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done. . . all the people he's killed. . . he couldn't kill a trivial boy? It'due south just astounding. . . of all the things to stop him. . . but how in the name of sky did Harry survive?"

"Nosotros can only gauge," said Dumbledore. "Nosotros may never know. "

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a bang-up sniff as he took a aureate spotter from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd sentry. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, petty planets were moving effectually the edge. It must accept made sense to Dumbledore, though, considering he put information technology back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid'southward tardily. I suppose it was he who told you I'd exist here, by the mode?"

"Yep," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're hither, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the but family he has left now. "

"You don't hateful - you tin can't mean the people who live hither ?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her anxiety and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore -- y'all can't. I've been watching them all day. Y'all couldn't find two people who are less like united states. And they've got this son -- I saw him kick his mother all the style upwards the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It'due south the all-time 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 lot think yous can explicate 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 mean solar day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our globe volition know his proper noun!"

"Exactly. " said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the pinnacle of his half-moon glasses. "It would exist enough to plow whatever boy'due south head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't fifty-fifty remember! Can 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 oral cavity, changed her mind, swallowed, and and then said, "Yeah -- aye, you're correct, of course. But how is the male child getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she idea he might be hiding Harry underneath information technology.

"Hagrid's bringing him. "

"You recall information technology -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'one thousand non maxim his eye isn't in the correct identify," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's non careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

A depression rumbling audio had cleaved the silence effectually them. It grew steadily louder equally they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked upwardly at the heaven -- and a huge motorcycle brutal out of the air and landed on the route in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, information technology was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was near twice as tall as a normal human and at to the lowest degree five times every bit wide. He looked merely 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 parcel of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you lot go that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Blackness 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 correct before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell comatose every bit we was flyin' over Bristol. "

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent frontwards over the bundle of blankets. Within, but visible, was a baby male child, fast asleep. Nether 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 take that scar forever. "

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I take one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Secret. Well -- give him hither, Hagrid -- we'd better become this over with. "

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' business firm.

"Could I -- could I say good-farewell to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must take been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, of a sudden, Hagrid allow out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You lot'll wake the Muggles!"

"South-due south-pitiful," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a big, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "Merely I c-c-tin't stand it -- Lily an' James expressionless -- an' poor petty Harry off ter alive with Muggles--"

"Aye, yes, it's all very lamentable, but become a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be establish," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the depression garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry'south blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a total 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 unremarkably shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to take gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that'south that. Nosotros've no business concern staying here. We may likewise go and join the celebrations. "

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled vocalism, "I'll exist takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir. "

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcy

cle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the dark.

"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 downward the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the argent Put-Outer. He clicked information technology in one case, and twelve balls of light sped dorsum to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby true cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could merely see the bundle of blankets on the pace of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A cakewalk ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky heaven, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking upwardly. I small hand airtight on the letter beside him and he slept on, non knowing he was special, non 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 existence 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 upwardly their glasses and proverb in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

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