Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Read online

  “First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley . . .”

  Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn.

  “. . . for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”

  Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other prefects, “My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s giant chess set!”

  At last there was silence again.

  “Second — to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”

  Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly suspected she had burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table were beside themselves — they were a hundred points up.

  “Third — to Mr. Harry Potter . . .” said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet. “. . . for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty points.”

  The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and seventy-two points — exactly the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House Cup — if only Dumbledore had given Harry just one more point.

  Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.

  “There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”

  Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought some sort of explosion had taken place, so loud was the noise that erupted from the Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up to yell and cheer as Neville, white with shock, disappeared under a pile of people hugging him. He had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor before. Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have looked more stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind Curse put on him.

  “Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of applause, for even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we need a little change of decoration.”

  He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green hangings became scarlet and the silver became gold; the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking Professor McGonagall’s hand, with a horrible, forced smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at once that Snape’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one jot. This didn’t worry Harry. It seemed as though life would be back to normal next year, or as normal as it ever was at Hogwarts.

  It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than winning at Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out mountain trolls . . . he would never, ever forget tonight.

  Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results were still to come, but come they did. To their great surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks; Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first years. Even Neville scraped through, his good Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as stupid as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said, you couldn’t have everything in life.

  And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their trunks were packed, Neville’s toad was found lurking in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays (“I always hope they’ll forget to give us these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; talking and laughing as the countryside became greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at King’s Cross station.

  It took quite a while for them all to get off the platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos and threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.

  “You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron, “both of you — I’ll send you an owl.”

  “Thanks,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look forward to.”

  People jostled them as they moved forward toward the gateway back to the Muggle world. Some of them called:

  “Bye, Harry!”

  “See you, Potter!”

  “Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him.

  “Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry.

  He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together.

  “There he is, Mum, there he is, look!”

  It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she wasn’t pointing at Ron.

  “Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mum! I can see —”

  “Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.”

  Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.

  “Busy year?” she said.

  “Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”

  “Oh, it was nothing, dear.”

  “Ready, are you?”

  It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley, looking terrified at the very sight of Harry.

  “You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry up, boy, we haven’t got all day.” He walked away.

  Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and Hermione.

  “See you over the summer, then.”

  “Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.

  “Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer. . . .”

  Titles available in the Harry Potter Series (in reading order):

  Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

  Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

  Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

  Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

  Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

  Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

  Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

  Other titles available:

  Quidditch Through the Ages

  Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

  The Tales of Beedle the Bard

  Read on for the first chapter of the next book in the Harry Potter series...

  HARRY POTTER

  AND THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS

  BY

  J.K. ROWLING

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARY GRANDPRÉ

  Text copyright © 1998 by J.K. Rowling.

  Illustrations by Mary GrandPré copyright © 1999 by Warner Bros.

  Harry Potter characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Ent.

  Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K. Rowling.

  This digital edition first published by Pottermore Limited in 2012

  Published in print in the U.S.A. by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-78110-028-8

  www.pottermore.com

  by J.K. Rowling

  The unique online experience built around the Harry Potter books. Share and partici
pate in the stories, showcase your own Potter-related creativity and discover even more about the world of Harry Potter from the author herself.

  Visit pottermore.com

  FOR SEÁN P. F. HARRIS,

  GETAWAY DRIVER AND FOUL-WEATHER FRIEND

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  The Worst Birthday

  TWO

  Dobby's Warning

  THREE

  The Burrow

  FOUR

  At Flourish and Blotts

  FIVE

  The Whomping Willow

  SIX

  Gilderoy Lockhart

  SEVEN

  Mudbloods and Murmurs

  EIGHT

  The Deathday Party

  NINE

  The Writing on the Wall

  TEN

  The Rogue Bludger

  ELEVEN

  The Dueling Club

  TWELVE

  The Polyjuice Potion

  THIRTEEN

  The Very Secret Diary

  FOURTEEN

  Cornelius Fudge

  FIFTEEN

  Aragog

  SIXTEEN

  The Chamber of Secrets

  SEVENTEEN

  The Heir of Slytherin

  EIGHTEEN

  Dobby's Reward

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE WORST BIRTHDAY

  Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry’s room.

  “Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

  Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

  “She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night —”

  “Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

  He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

  Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.

  “I want more bacon.”

  “There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We must build you up while we’ve got the chance. . . . I don’t like the sound of that school food. . . .”

  “Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings,” said Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley gets enough, don’t you, son?”

  Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.

  “Pass the frying pan.”

  “You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry irritably.

  The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

  “I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean —”

  “WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”

  “But I —”

  “HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist.

  “I just —”

  “I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”

  Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

  “All right,” said Harry, “all right . . .”

  Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.

  Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because Harry Potter wasn’t a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he was as not normal as it is possible to be.

  Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.

  He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the Wizarding world (six tall goalposts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).

  All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House Quidditch team because he hadn’t practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the Wizarding world.

  Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.

  It was this scar that made Harry so particularly unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of Harry’s very mysterious past, of the reason he had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years before.

  At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. Harry’s parents had died in Voldemort’s attack, but Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry.

  So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother’s sister and her husband. He had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys’ story that he had got his scar in the car crash that had killed his parents.

  And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry, and the whole story had come out. Harry had taken up his place at wizard school, where he and his scar were famous . . . but now the school year was over, and he was back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like a dog that had rolled in something smelly.

  The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely . . .

  At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”

  Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.

  “This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” said Uncle Vernon.

  Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He’d been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).

  “I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be — ?”r />
  “In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

  “Good, good. And Dudley?”

  “I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

  “They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

  “Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. “And you?”

  “I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Harry tonelessly.

  “Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”

  “I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.

  “And, Dudley, you’ll say —”

  “May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an invisible woman.

  “My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.

  “And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.

  “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Harry dully.

  “Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?”

  “Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason. . . . Do tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason. . . .”

  “Perfect . . . Dudley?”

  “How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and I wrote about you.’”