Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone hp-1

by J. K. Rowling

  “Give that here, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch.

  Malfoy smiled nastily.

  “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about—up a tree?”

  “Give it here!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it, Potter!”

  Harry grabbed his broom.

  “No!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told us not to move—you’ll get us all into trouble.”

  Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he’d found something he could do without being taught—this was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron.

  He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned.

  “Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.

  Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfay like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.

  “No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,” Harry called.

  The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.

  “Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.

  Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down—next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball—wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching—he stretched out his hand—a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

  “HARRY POTTER!”

  His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling.

  “Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—”

  Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “—how dare you—might have broken your neck—”

  “It wasn’t his fault, Professor—”

  “Be quiet, Miss Patil.”

  “But Malfoy—”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.”

  Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall’s wake as she strode toward the castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it. He wanted to say something to defend himself, but there seemed to be something wrong with his voice. Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now he’d done it. He hadn’t even lasted two weeks. He’d be packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep?

  Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Professor McGonagall didn’t say a word to him. She wrenched open doors and marched along corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid’s assistant. His stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron and the others becoming wizards, while he stumped around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag.

  Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and poked her head inside.

  “Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?”

  Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane she was going to use on him?

  But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth year boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking confused.

  “Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry.

  “In here.”

  Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom that was empty except for Peeves, who was busy writing rude words on the blackboard.

  “Out, Peeves!” she barked. Peeves threw the chalk into a bin, which clanged loudly, and he swooped out cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door behind him and turned to face the two boys.

  “Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood—I’ve found you a Seeker.”

  Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to delight.

  “Are you serious, Professor?”

  “Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The boy’s a natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?”

  Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but he didn’t seem to be being expelled, and some of the feeling started coming back to his legs.

  “He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty foot dive,” Professor McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it.”

  Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true at once.

  “Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked excitedly.

  “Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor McGonagall explained.

  “He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now walking around Harry and staring at him. “Light—speedy—we’ll have to get him a decent broom, Professor—a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.”

  “I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can’t bend the first year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks. . . .”

  Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses at Harry.

  “I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you.”

  Then she suddenly smiled.

  “Your father would have been proud,” she said. “He was an excellent Quidditch player himself.”

  * * *

  “You’re joking.”

  It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron what had happened when he’d left the grounds with Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all about it.

  “Seeker?” he said. “But first years never—you must be the youngest house player in about—”

  “—a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.”

  Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at Harry.

  “I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret.”

  Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, spotted Harry, and hurried over.

  “Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us. We’re on the team too—Beaters.”

  “I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch cup for sure this year,” said Fred. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us.”

  “Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s found a new secret passageway out of the school.”

  “Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you.”

  Fred and George had hardly disappeared when someone far less welcome turned up: Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

  “Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?”


  “You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you,” said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing at all little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table was full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.

  “I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy. “Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only—no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of a wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”

  “Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m his second, who’s yours?”

  Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

  “Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; that’s always unlocked.”

  When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each other. “What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do you mean, you’re my second?”

  “Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said Ron casually, getting started at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added quickly, “But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway.”

  “And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?”

  “Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron suggested.

  “Excuse me.”

  They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.

  “Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron.

  Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying—”

  “Bet you could,” Ron muttered.

  “—and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s really very selfish of you.”

  “And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry.

  “Good-bye,” said Ron.

  All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Dean and Seamus falling asleep (Neville wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent all evening giving him advice such as “If he tries to curse you, you’d better dodge it, because I can’t remember how to block them.” There was a very good chance they were going to get caught by Filch or Mrs. Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck, breaking another school rule today. On the other hand, Malfoy’s sneering face kept looming up out of the darkness—this was his big chance to beat Malfoy face to face. He couldn’t miss it.

  “Half past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better go.”

  They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their wands, and crept across the tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning all the armchairs into hunched black shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.”

  A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown.

  “You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!”

  “I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, “Percy—he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.”

  Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.

  “Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole.

  Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She followed Ron through the portrait hole, hissing at them like an angry goose.

  “Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I don’t want Slytherin to win the house cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells.”

  “Go away.”

  “All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow, you’re so—”

  But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an empty painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor tower.

  “Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly.

  “That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go, we’re going to be late.”

  They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor when Hermione caught up with them.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  “You are not.”

  “D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us I’ll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you can back me up.”

  “You’ve got some nerve—” said Ron loudly.

  “Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard something.”

  It was a sort of snuffling.

  “Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the dark.

  It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer.

  “Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for hours, I couldn’t remember the new password to get in to bed.”

  “Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig snout’ but it won’t help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone off somewhere.”

  “How’s your arm?” said Harry.

  “Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute.”

  “Good—well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be somewhere, we’ll see you later—”

  “Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet, “I don’t want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron’s been past twice already.”

  Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and Neville.

  “If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you.”

  Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron exactly how to use the Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all forward.

  They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high windows. At every turn Harry expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed toward the trophy room.

  Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry took out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in and started at once. The minutes crept by.

  “He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered.

  Then a noise in the next room made them jump. Harry had only just raised his wand when they heard someone speak and it wasn’t Malfoy.

  “Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner.”

  It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror struck, Harry waved madly at the other three to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurried silently toward the door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had barely whipped round the corner when they heard Filch enter the trophy room.

  “They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter, “probably hiding.”

  “This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and, petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak and broke into a run he tripped, grabbed Ron around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right into a suit of armor.

  The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.

  “RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted down the gallery, not looking b
ack to see whether Filch was following—they swung around the doorpost and galloped down one corridor then another, Harry in the lead, without any idea where they were or where they were going—they ripped through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtled along it and came out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from the trophy room.

  “I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and spluttering.

  “I—told—you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the stitch in her chest, “I—told—you.”

  “We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor tower,” said Ron, “quickly as possible.”

  “Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You realize that, don’t you? He was never going to meet you—Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.”

  Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  “Let’s go.”

  It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when a doorknob rattled and something came shooting out of a classroom in front of them.

  It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a squeal of delight.

  “Shut up, Peeves—please—you’ll get us thrown out.”

  Peeves cackled.

  “Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you’ll get caughty.”

  “Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”

  “Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes glittered wickedly. “It’s for your own good, you know.”

  “Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves this was a big mistake.

  “STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, “STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR—”

  Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a door—and it was locked.

  “This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at the door, “We’re done for! This is the end!” They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could toward Peeves’s shouts.

  “Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry’s wand, tapped the lock, and whispered, “Alohomora!”