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

“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 

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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…
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 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 

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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 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.” 
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. 

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“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 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: