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

a letter for Harry
. 
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in 
his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t 
belong to the library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a 
letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: 
Mr. H. Potter 
 

The Cupboard under the Stairs 

---

 
 4 Privet Drive 
 
 
 Little Whinging 
 
 Surrey 
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in 
emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. 
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of 
arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter 
H
. 
“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for 
letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke. 
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the 
postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope. 
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. 
“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk…” 
“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got something!” 
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment 
as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon. 
“That’s 
mine
!” said Harry, trying to snatch it back. 
“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and 
glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop 
there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge. 
“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped. 
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt 
Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might 
faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise. 
“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the 
room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his 
Smelting stick. 
“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly. 

---

“
I 
want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s 
mine
.” 
“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope. 
Harry didn’t move. 
“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted. 
“Let 
me
see it!” demanded Dudley. 
“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks 
and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley 
promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so 
Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between 
door and floor. 
“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the address — how could they 
possibly know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?” 
“Watching — spying — might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. 
“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want —” 
Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen. 
“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… Yes, that’s best… we 
won’t do anything…” 
“But —” 
“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took him in we’d stamp out 
that dangerous nonsense?” 
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; 
he visited Harry in his cupboard. 
“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. 
“Who’s writing to me?” 
“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.” 
“It was 
not
a mistake,” said Harry angrily, “it had my cupboard on it.” 
“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few 
deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful. 

---

“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking… you’re really 
getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom. 
“Why?” said Harry. 
“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.” 
The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for 
visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley 
kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip 
upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed 
and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was 
lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog; 
in the corner was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his 
favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot 
that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all 
bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in 
the room that looked as though they’d never been touched. 
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, “I don’t