Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Don’t ask questions 
— that was the first rule for a quiet life with 
the Dursleys. 
Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the 
bacon. 
“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting. 
About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his 
newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must 
have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put

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The Vanishing Glass 
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21 
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together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that 
way — all over the place. 
Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen 
with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a 
large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick 
blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia 
often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel — Harry often said 
that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig. 
Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was 
difficult as there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was 
counting his presents. His face fell. 
“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. 
“That’s two less than last year.” 
“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s 
here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy.” 
“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. 
Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began 
wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned 
the table over. 
Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said 
quickly, “And we’ll buy you another 
two
presents while we’re out 
today. How’s that, popkin? 
Two
more presents. Is that all right?” 
Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally 
he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty . . . thirty . . .” 
“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia. 
“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. 
“All right then.” 
Uncle Vernon chuckled. 

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CHAPTER TWO 
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22 
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“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ’Atta 
boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair. 
At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to 
answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap 
the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen 
new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a 
gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone 
looking both angry and worried. 
“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She 
can’t take him.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction. 
Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart gave a 
leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a 
friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, 
or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a 
mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The 
whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him look at 
photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned. 
“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as 
though he’d planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that 
Mrs. Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded 
himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbies, 
Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again. 
“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested. 
“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy.” 
The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he 
wasn’t there — or rather, as though he was something very nasty 
that couldn’t understand them, like a slug. 
“What about what’s-her-name, your friend — Yvonne?” 

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The Vanishing Glass 
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23 
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“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia. 
“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully (he’d be 
able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe 
even have a go on Dudley’s computer). 
Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a lemon. 
“And come back and find the house in ruins?” she snarled. 
“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they weren’t listen-
ing. 
“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia 
slowly, “. . . and leave him in the car. . . .” 
“That cars new, he’s not sitting in it alone. . . .” 
Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying — it 
had been years since he’d really cried — but he knew that if he 
screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him any-
thing he wanted. 
“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him spoil 
your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him. 
“I . . . don’t . . . want . . . him . . . t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled 
between huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp-spoils everything!” He 
shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mothers arms. 
Just then, the doorbell rang — “Oh, good Lord, they’re here!” 
said Aunt Petunia frantically — and a moment later, Dudley’s best 
friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a 
scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held 
people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley 
stopped pretending to cry at once. 
Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his luck, was sit-
ting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, on the

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CHAPTER TWO 
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24 
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way to the zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle 
hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with him, but be-
fore they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside. 
“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face 
right up close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you now, boy — any funny 
business, anything at all — and you’ll be in that cupboard from 
now until Christmas.” 
I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly . . .” 
But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did. 
The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry 
and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them 
happen. 
Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the bar-
bers looking as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of 
kitchen scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except 
for his bangs, which she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley 
had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night 
imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed at for 
his baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had 
gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petu-
nia had sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard 
for this, even though he had tried to explain that he