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

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 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 

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Dudley 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. 
“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.