Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone By J. K. Rowling chapter one the Boy Who Lived

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 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone 
 
By J.K. Rowling 
CHAPTER ONE 
 
 
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 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 

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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 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 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 

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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…
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 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: