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

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.” 
“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 they’re 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. 
Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried 
to kill the Potter’s 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 

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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 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 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?” 
“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 

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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.” 
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 

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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 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 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 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!”