Harry Potter and the Sorcerer

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

    CHAPTER ONE

    THE BOY WHO LIVED

    Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud

to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They

were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange

or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

    Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which

made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although

he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde

and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very

useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences,

spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley

and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

    The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a

secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover

it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about

the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't

met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't

have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband

were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered

to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the

street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too,

but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason

for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with

a child like that.

    When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday

our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to

suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening

all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most

boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she

wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

    None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

    At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked

Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but

missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his

cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left

the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

    It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first

sign of something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second,

Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his

head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the

corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What

could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of

the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared

back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he

watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that

said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read

maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the

cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing

except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

    But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind

by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he

couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely

dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear

people who dressed in funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young

people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his

fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these

weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly

together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them

weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was,

and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it

struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt -- these

people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would

be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley

arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

    Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office

on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to

concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing

past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they

pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most

of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley,

however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at

five different people. He made several important telephone calls

and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime,

when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to

buy himself a bun from the bakery.

    He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed

a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he

passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were

whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting

tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut

in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

    "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their

son, Harry"

    Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back

at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but

thought better of it.

    He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office,

snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone,

and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed

his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,

thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual

name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a

son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew

was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been

Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley;

she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't

blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same,

those people in cloaks...

    He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon

and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so

worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

    "Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost

fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man

was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being

almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into

a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby

stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me

today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles

like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

    And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and

walked off.

    Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by

a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle,

whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set

off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never

hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

    As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing

he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd

spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was

sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

    "Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just

gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley

wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the

house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

    Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over

dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and

how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried

to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the

living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

    "And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the

nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although

owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight,

there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every

direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls

have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed

himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin

with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

    "Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but

it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers

as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to

tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had

a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating

Bonfire Night early -- it's not until next week, folks! But I can

promise a wet night tonight."

    Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over

Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all

over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

    Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of

tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared

his throat nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard

from your sister lately, have you?"

    As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After

all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

    "No," she said sharply. "Why?"

    "Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting

stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town

today..."

    "So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

    "Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do

with... you know... her crowd."

    Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley

wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He

decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,

"Their son -- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

    "I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

    "What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

    "Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

    "Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes,

I quite agree."

    He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs

to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept

to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The

cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it

were waiting for something.

    Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with

the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to

a pair of -- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

    The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly

but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His

last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the

Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him

and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia

thought about them and their kind.... He couldn't see how he and

Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on --

he yawned and turned over -- it couldn't affect them....

    How very wrong he was.

    Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but

the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was

sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far

corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door

slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In

fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

    A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared

so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out

of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

    Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He

was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair

and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He

was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground,

and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright,

and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very

long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This

man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

    Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just

arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots

was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for

something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because

he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from

the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat

seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

    He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed

to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up

in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with

a little pop. He clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into

darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only

lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the

distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone

looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley,

they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on

the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his

cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat

down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after

a moment he spoke to it.

    "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

    He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he

was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square

glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around

its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black

hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

    "How did you know it was me?" she asked.

    "My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

    "You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day,"

said Professor McGonagall.

    "All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have

passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

    Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

    "Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said

impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but

no -- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It

was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys'

dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting

stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to

notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet that was

Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

    "You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had

precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

    "I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's

no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless,

out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle

clothes, swapping rumors."

    She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though

hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she

went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who

seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us

all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

    "It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be

thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

    "A what?"

    "A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"

    "No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though

she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say,

even if You-Know-Who has gone -"

    "My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can

call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven

years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper

name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore,

who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all

gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never

seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

    "I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding

half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone

knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort,

was frightened of."

    "You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers

I will never have."

    "Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

    "It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam

Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

    Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said,

"The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You

know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what

finally stopped him?"

    It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she

was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on

a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had

she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It

was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going

to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore,

however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

    "What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night

Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the

Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are -- are --

that they're -- dead. "

    Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

    "Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to

believe it... Oh, Albus..."

    Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I

know... I know..." he said heavily.

    Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's

not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But

-- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why,

or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter,

Voldemort's power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.

    Dumbledore nodded glumly.

    "It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all

he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little

boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but

how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

    "We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

    Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed

at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff

as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a

very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little

planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to

Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said,

"Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here,

by the way?"

    "Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're

going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

    "I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the

only family he has left now."

    "You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live

here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing

at number four. "Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them

all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And

they've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up

the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

    "It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His

aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's

older. I've written them a letter."

    "A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back

down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all

this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be

famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known

as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written

about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!"

    "Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the

top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's

head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he

won't even remember! CarA you see how much better off he'll be,

growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

    Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind,

swallowed, and then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But

how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly

as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

    "Hagrid's bringing him."

    "You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as

important as this?"

    I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

    "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said

Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not

careless. He does tend to -- what was that?"

    A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew

steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign

of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the

sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the

road in front of them.

    If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting

astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at

least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed,

and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of

his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in

their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular

arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

    "Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And

where did you get that motorcycle?"

    "Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant,

climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius

Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

    "No problems, were there?"

    "No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all

right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep

as we was flyin' over Bristol."

    Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle

of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under

a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously

shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

    "Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

    "Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

    "Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

    "Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have

one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London

Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this

over with."

    Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys'

house.

    "Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He

bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have

been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let

out a howl like a wounded dog.

    "Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

    "S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted

handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it

-- Lily an' James dead -- an' poor little Harry off ter live with

Muggles -"

    "Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid,

or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid

gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall

and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep,

took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets,

and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of

them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook,

Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light

that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

    "Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business

staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

    "Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin'

Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor

Dumbledore, sir."

    Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung

himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with

a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

    "I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said

Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose

in reply.

    Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner

he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once,

and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that

Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby

cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He

could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

    "Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with

a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

    A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay

silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would

expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over

inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on

the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special,

not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few

hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door

to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few

weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't

know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the

country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices:

"To Harry Potter -- the boy who lived!"

    CHAPTER TWO

    THE VANISHING GLASS

    Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to

find their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly

changed at all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and

lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept

into their living room, which was almost exactly the same as it

had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news

report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantelpiece really

showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots

of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing

different-colored bonnets -- but Dudley Dursley was no longer a

baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his

first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game

with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room

held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

    Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not

for long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice

that made the first noise of the day.

    "Up! Get up! Now!"

    Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

    "Up!" she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen

and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He

rolled onto his back and tried to remember the dream he had been

having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle

in it. He had a funny feeling he'd had the same dream before.

    His aunt was back outside the door.

    "Are you up yet?" she demanded.

    "Nearly," said Harry.

    "Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And

don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's

birthday."

    Harry groaned.

    "What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

    "Nothing, nothing..."

    Dudley's birthday -- how could he have forgotten? Harry got

slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair

under his bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them

on. Harry was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs

was full of them, and that was where he slept.

    When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The

table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It

looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted,

not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Exactly

why Dudley wanted a racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley

was very fat and hated exercise -- unless of course it involved

punching somebody. Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry, but he

couldn't often catch him. Harry didn't look it, but he was very fast.

    Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard,

but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked

even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he had to

wear were old clothes of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times

bigger than he was. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair,

and bright green eyes. He wore round glasses held together with a

lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley had punched him

on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own appearance

was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt

of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the

first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was

how he had gotten it.

    "In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And

don't ask questions."

    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

    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. "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 Tibbles,

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?"

    "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

listening.

    "I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia

slowly, "... and leave him in the car...."

    "That car's 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 anything

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 mother's 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

sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley,

on the 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 before 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 barbers

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 Petunia had

sheared it off He had been given a week in his cupboard for this,

even though he had tried to explain that he 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 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.

    It winked.

    Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was

watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

    The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then

raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said

quite plainly:

    "I get that all the time.

    "I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't

sure the snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

    The snake nodded vigorously.

    "Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

    The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the

glass. Harry peered at it.

    Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

    "Was it nice there?"

    The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and

Harry read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see --

so you've never been to Brazil?"

    As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry

made both of them jump.

    "DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T

BELIEVE WHAT IT'S DOING!"

    Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

    "Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the

ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What

came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second,

Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next,

they had leapt back with howls of horror.

    Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's

tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly,

slithering out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house

screamed and started running for the exits.

    As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low,

hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come.... Thanksss, amigo."

    The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

    "But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

    The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong,

sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and

Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake

hadn't done anything except snap playfully at their heels as it

passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car,

Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg, while

Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst

of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say,

"Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?"

    Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house

before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He

managed to say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he

collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a

large brandy.

    Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a

watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the

Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking

to the kitchen for some food.

    He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable

years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby

and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember

being in the car when his parents had died. Sometimes, when he

strained his memory during long hours in his cupboard, he came up

with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burn-

ing pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though

he couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn't

remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about

them, and of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were

no photographs of them in the house.

    When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some

unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened;

the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe

hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange

strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed

to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After

asking Harry furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed

them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old

woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A

bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in

the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The

weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to

vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

    At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang

hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken

glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.

    CHAPTER THREE

    THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

    The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his

longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his

cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had

already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control

airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old

Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

    Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping

Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis,

Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was

the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest

of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport:

Harry Hunting.

    This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the

house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays,

where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would

be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his

life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle

Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going

there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High,

the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.

    "They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at

Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

    "No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything

as horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran,

before Dudley could work out what he'd said.

    One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his

Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn

't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping

over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them

as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of

chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.

    That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the

family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon

tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called

boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each

other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be

good training for later life.

    As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon

said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt

Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her

Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't

trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already

have cracked from trying not to laugh.

    There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when

Harry went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large

metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of

what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water.

    "What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as

they always did if he dared to ask a question.

    "Your new school uniform," she said.

    Harry looked in the bowl again.

    "Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

    "DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of

Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone

else's when I've finished."

    Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to

argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about how

he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High -- like he

was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

    Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses

because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened

his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which

he carried everywhere, on the table.

    They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on

the doormat.

    "Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

    "Make Harry get it."

    "Get the mail, Harry."

    "Make Dudley get it."

    "Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."

    Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three

things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister

Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope

that looked like a bill, and -- 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. 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 want him in there... I need that room... make him get out...."

    Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have

given anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his

cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

    Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was

in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick,

been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise

through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room

back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly

wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt

Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

    When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to

be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging

things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he

shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom,

4 Privet Drive --'"

    With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and

ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to

wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which

was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon

around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting,

in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon

straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched

in his hand.

    "Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at

Harry. "Dudley -- go -- just go."

    Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had

moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received

his first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time

he'd make sure they didn't fail. He had a plan.

    The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next

morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He

mustn't wake the Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on

any of the lights.

    He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet

Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered

as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door --

    Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and

squashy on the doormat -- something alive!

    Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that

the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon

had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag,

clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been

trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then

told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably

off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had

arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Harry could see three

letters addressed in green ink.

    I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters

into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that

day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

    "See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails,

"if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

    "I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

    "Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're

not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail

with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

    On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As

they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under

the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through

the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

    Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the

letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks

around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed

"Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

    On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters

to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside

each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had

handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle

Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the

dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded

the letters in her food processor.

    "Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked

Harry in amazement.

    On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table

looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

    "No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread

marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today --"

    Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and

caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or

forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The

Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.

    "Out! OUT!"

    Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into

the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms

over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could

hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the

walls and floor.

    "That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but

pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you

all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just

pack some clothes. No arguments!"

    He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that

no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way

through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward

the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had

hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack

his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.

    They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask

where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a

sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em

off... shake 'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

    They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was

howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry,

he'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd

never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

    Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on

the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with

twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed

awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of

passing cars and wondering....

    They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast

for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner

of the hotel came over to their table.

    "'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an

'undred of these at the front desk."

    She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

    Mr. H. Potter

    Room 17

    Railview Hotel

    Cokeworth

    Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his

hand out of the way. The woman stared.

    "I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and

following her from the dining room.

    Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia

suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to

hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He

drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around,

shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The

same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across

a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

    "Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully

late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked

them all inside the car, and disappeared.

    It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud

ley sniveled.

    "It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on

tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television. "

    Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday --

and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week,

because of television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh

birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last

year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle

Vernon's old socks. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

    Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying

a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked

what he'd bought.

    "Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

    It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing

at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of

the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One

thing was certain, there was no television in there.

    "Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully,

clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed

to lend us his boat!"

    A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with

a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray

water below them.

    "I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so

all aboard!"

    It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down

their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed

like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and

sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

    The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed,

the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the

fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

    Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and

four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just

smoked and shriveled up.

    "Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said

cheerfully.

    He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood

a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry

privately agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

    As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray

from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce

wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy

blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the

moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed

next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he

could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

    The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went

on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get

comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were

drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The

lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of

the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes'

time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the

Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer

was now.

    Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped

the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if

it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would

be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal

one somehow.

    Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock

like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching

noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

    One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty

... ten... nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him --

three... two... one...

    BOOM.

    The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring

at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

    CHAPTER FOUR

    THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS

    BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the

cannon?" he said stupidly.

    There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding

into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands -- now they knew

what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them.

    "Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you -- I'm armed!"

    There was a pause. Then --

    SMASH!

    The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its

hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

    A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was

almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild,

tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black

beetles under all the hair.

    The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his

head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door,

and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm

outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

    "Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an

easy journey..."

    He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

    "Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger.

    Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was

crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

    "An' here's Harry!" said the giant.

    Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw

that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

    "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh

look a lot like yet dad, but yeh've got yet mom's eyes."

    Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

    I demand that you leave at once, sit!" he said. "You are breaking

and entering!"

    "Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he

reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle

Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been

made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

    Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being

trodden on.

    "Anyway -- Harry," said the giant, turning his back on the

Dursleys, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here --

I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

    From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly

squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a

large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on

it in green icing.

    Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the

words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was,

"Who are you?"

    The giant chuckled.

    "True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of

Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

    He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.

    "What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands

together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it,

mind."

    His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in

it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see

what he was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was

a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering

light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk

into a hot bath.

    The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his

weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of

his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker,

a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid

that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut

was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a

thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat,

juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a

little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives

you, Dudley."

    The giant chuckled darkly.

    "Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley,

don' worry."

    He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never

tasted anything so wonderful, but he still couldn't take his eyes

off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything,

he said, "I'm sorry, but I still don't really know who you are."

    The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back

of his hand.

    "Call me Hagrid," he said, "everyone does. An' like I told yeh,

I'm Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts -- yeh'll know all about Hogwarts,

o' course.

    "Er -- no," said Harry.

    Hagrid looked shocked.

    "Sorry," Harry said quickly.

    "Sony?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who

shrank back into the shadows. "It' s them as should be sorry! I knew

yeh weren't gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't

even know abou' Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder

where yet parents learned it all?"

    "All what?" asked Harry.

    "ALL WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!"

    He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the

whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

    "Do you mean ter tell me," he growled at the Dursleys, "that

this boy -- this boy! -- knows nothin' abou' -- about ANYTHING?"

    Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school,

after all, and his marks weren't bad.

    "I know some things," he said. "I can, you know, do math and

stuff." But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, "About our world,

I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents' world."

    "What world?"

    Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

    "DURSLEY!" he boomed.

    Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that

sounded like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.

    "But yeh must know about yet mom and dad," he said. "I mean,

they're famous. You're famous."

    "What? My -- my mom and dad weren't famous, were they?"

    "Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran his fingers

through his hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.

    "Yeh don' know what yeh are?" he said finally.

    Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

    "Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sit! I forbid you to

tell the boy anything!"

    A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the

furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every

syllable trembled with rage.

    "You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter

Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it,

Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?"

    "Kept what from me?" said Harry eagerly.

    "STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

    Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

    "Ah, go boil yet heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry --

yet a wizard."

    There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling

wind could be heard.

    "-- a what?" gasped Harry.

    "A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the

sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un,

I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad

like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time

yeh read yer letter."

    Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish

envelope, addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor,

Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:

    HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

    Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

    (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

    Dear Mr. Potter,

    We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed

a list of all necessary books and equipment.

    Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than

July 31. Yours sincerely,

    Minerva McGonagall,

    Deputy Headmistress

    Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and he

couldn't decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered,

"What does it mean, they await my owl?"

    "Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a

hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse,

and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl --

a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl -- a long quill, and a

roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled

a note that Harry could read upside down:

    Dear Professor Dumbledore,

    Given Harry his letter.

    Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

    Weather's horrible. Hope you're Well.

    Hagrid

    Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped

it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the

storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal

as talking on the telephone.

    Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.

    "Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon,

still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

    "He's not going," he said.

    Hagrid grunted.

    "I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said.

    "A what?" said Harry, interested.

    "A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like

thern. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest

Muggles I ever laid eyes on."

    "We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish,"

said Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!"

    "You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a -- a wizard?"

    "Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course we

knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh,

she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that

school-and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog

spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her

for what she was -- a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no,

it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch

in the family!"

    She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It

seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

    "Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married

and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just

as strange, just as -- as -- abnormal -- and then, if you please,

she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

    Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said,

"Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!"

    "CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the

Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill

Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter

not knowin' his own story when every kid in our world knows his

name!" "But why? What happened?" Harry asked urgently.

    The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious.

    "I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I

had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin'

hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know

if I'm the right person ter tell yeh -- but someone 3 s gotta --

yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'."

    He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

    "Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh -- mind,

I can't tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it...."

    He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then

said, "It begins, I suppose, with -- with a person called -- but it's

incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows --"

    "Who? "

    "Well -- I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No

one does."

    "Why not?"

    "Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey,

this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As

bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..."

    Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

    "Could you write it down?" Harry suggested.

    "Nah -can't spell it. All right -- Voldemort. " Hagrid

shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this -- this wizard,

about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em,

too -- some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause

he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't

know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or

witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course,

some stood up to him -- an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the

only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only

one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school,

not jus' then, anyway.

    "Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I

ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose

the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side

before... probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want

anythin' ter do with the Dark Side.

    "Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted

'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village

where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just

a year old. He came ter yer house an' -- an' --"

    Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief

and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

    "Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad -- knew yer mum an' dad,

an' nicer people yeh couldn't find -- anyway..."

    "You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then -- an' this is the real

myst'ry of the thing -- he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter

make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin'

by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that

mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get

when a Powerful, evil curse touches yeh -- took care of yer mum an'

dad an' yer house, even -- but it didn't work on you, an' that's why

yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em,

no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an'

wizards of the age -- the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts --

an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

    Something very painful was going on in Harry's mind. As Hagrid's

story came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green

light, more clearly than he had ever remembered it before -- and he

remembered something else, for the first time in his life: a high,

cold, cruel laugh.

    Hagrid was watching him sadly.

    "Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's

orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."

    "Load of old tosh," said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had

almost forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly

seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and

his fists were clenched.

    "Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's

something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating

wouldn't have cured -- and as for all this about your parents,

well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off

without them in my opinion -- asked for all they got, getting mixed

up with these wizarding types -- just what I expected, always knew

they'd come to a sticky end --"

    But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a

battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle

Vernon like a sword, he said, "I'm warning you, Dursley -I'm warning

you -- one more word... "

    In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a

bearded giant, Uncle Vernon's courage failed again; he flattened

himself against the wall and fell silent.

    "That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back

down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

    Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

    "But what happened to Vol--, sorry -- I mean, You-Know-Who?"

    "Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he

tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest

myst'ry, see... he was gettin' more an' more powerful -- why'd he go?

    "Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had

enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there,

bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his

side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don~

reckon they could've done if he was comin' back.

    "Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his

powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished

him, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't

counted on -- I dunno what it was, no one does -- but somethin'

about you stumped him, all right."

    Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in

his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt

quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How

could he possibly be? He'd spent his life being clouted by Dudley,

and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a

wizard, why hadn't they been turned into warty toads every time

they'd tried to lock him in his cupboard? If he'd once defeated

the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had always been

able to kick him around like a football?

    "Hagrid," he said quietly, "I think you must have made a

mistake. I don't think I can be a wizard."

    To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

    "Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared

or angry?"

    Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about

it... every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle

furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or

angry... chased by Dudley's gang, he had somehow found himself out

of their reach... dreading going to school with that ridiculous

haircut, he'd managed to make it grow back... and the very last

time Dudley had hit him, hadn't he got his revenge, without even

realizing he was doing it? Hadn't he set a boa constrictor on him?

    Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was

positively beaming at him.

    "See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a wizard -- you wait,

you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

    But Uncle Vernon wasn't going to give in without a fight.

    "Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to

Stonewall High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters

and he needs all sorts of rubbish -- spell books and wands and --"

    "If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop

him," growled Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter' s son goin'

ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was

born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in

the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be

with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under

the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had Albus Dumbled--"

    "I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL To TEACH HIM MAGIC

TRICKS!" yelled Uncle Vernon.

    But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and

whirled it over his head, "NEVER," he thundered, "- INSULT- ALBUS-

DUMBLEDORE- IN- FRONT- OF- ME!"

    He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point

at Dudley -- there was a flash of violet light, a sound like

a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was

dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom,

howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry saw a curly

pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

    Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the

other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed

the door behind them.

    Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

    "Shouldn'ta lost me temper," he said ruefully, "but it didn't

work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was

so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do."

    He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.

    "Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at

Hogwarts," he said. "I'm -- er -- not supposed ter do magic,

strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an'

get yer letters to yeh an' stuff -- one o' the reasons I was so

keen ter take on the job

    "Why aren't you supposed to do magic?" asked Harry.

    "Oh, well -- I was at Hogwarts meself but I -- er -- got

expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped

me wand in half an' everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as

gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore." "Why were you expelled?"

    "It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," said

Hagrid loudly. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that."

    He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.

    "You can kip under that," he said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a

bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

    CHAPTER FIVE

    DIAGON ALLEY

    Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it

was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.

    "It was a dream, he told himself firmly. "I dreamed a

giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for

wizards. When I open my eyes I'll be at home in my cupboard."

    There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

    And there's Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought,

his heart sinking. But he still didn't open his eyes. It had been

such a good dream.

    Tap. Tap. Tap.

    "All right," Harry mumbled, "I'm getting up."

    He sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full

of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the

collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window,

a newspaper held in its beak.

    Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large

balloon was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window

and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper

on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto

the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat.

    "Don't do that."

    Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its

beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

    "Hagrid!" said Harry loudly. "There's an owl

    "Pay him," Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

    "What?"

    "He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the

pockets." Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets --

bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs,

teabags... finally, Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking

coins.

    "Give him five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily.

    "Knuts?"

    "The little bronze ones."

    Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held

out his leg so Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch

tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

    Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

    "Best be Off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London

an' buy all yer stuff fer school."

    Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He

had just thought of something that made him feel as though the

happy balloon inside him had got a puncture.

    "Um -- Hagrid?"

    "Mm?" said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.

    "I haven't got any money -- and you heard Uncle Vernon last

night ... he won't pay for me to go and learn magic."

    "Don't worry about that," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching

his head. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

    "But if their house was destroyed --"

    "They didn' keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop

fer us is Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Have a sausage, they're not

bad cold -- an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake,

neither."

    "Wizards have banks?"

    "Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins."

    Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.

    "Goblins?"

    "Yeah -- so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh

that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place

in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe -- 'cept maybe

Hogwarts. As a matter o' fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer

Dumbledore. Hogwarts business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "He

usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin' you gettin'

things from Gringotts -- knows he can trust me, see.

    "Got everythin'? Come on, then."

    Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite

clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon

had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after

the storm.

    "How did you get here?" Harry asked, looking around for another

boat. "Flew," said Hagrid.

    "Flew?"

    "Yeah -- but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic

now I've got yeh."

    They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid,

trying to imagine him flying.

    "Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Harry

another of his sideways looks. "If I was ter -- er -- speed things

up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

    "Of course not," said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid

pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of

the boat, and they sped off toward land.

    "Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?" Harry asked.

    "Spells -- enchantments," said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper

as he spoke. "They say there's dragons guardin' the highsecurity

vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way -- Gringotts is hundreds

of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh'd die

of hunger tryin' ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer

hands on summat."

    Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his

newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon

that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was

very difficult, he'd never had so many questions in his life.

    "Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered,

turning the page.

    "There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked, before he could

stop himself.

    "'Course," said Hagrid. "They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister,

0 ' course, but he'd never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge

got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore

with owls every morning, askin' fer advice."

    "But what does a Ministry of Magic do?"

    "Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that

there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country."

    "Why?"

    "Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to

their problems. Nah, we're best left alone."

    At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor

wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the

stone steps onto the street.

    Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the

little town to the station. Harry couldn't blame them. Not only was

Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly

ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that,

Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?"

    "Hagrid," said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up,

"did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?"

    "Well, so they say," said Hagrid. "Crikey, I'd like a dragon."

    "You'd like one?"

    "Wanted one ever since I was a kid -- here we go."

    They had reached the station. There was a train to London in

five minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand "Muggle money," as

he called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.

    People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two

seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

    "Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as he counted

stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

    "Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything

yeh need."

    Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the

night before, and read:

    HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

    UNIFORM

    First-year students will require:

    1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

    2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

    3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

    4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

    Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

    COURSE BOOKS

    All students should have a copy of each of the following:

    The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

    A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

    Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

    A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

    One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

    Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

    Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

    The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

    OTHER EQUIPMENT

    wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

    glass or crystal phials

    telescope set

    brass scales

    Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

    PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR

OWN BROOMSTICKS

    "Can we buy all this in London?" Harry wondered aloud.

    "If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.

    Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed

to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting

there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the

Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small

and the trains too slow.

    "I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," he said

as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling

road lined with shops.

    Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Harry had

to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music

stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked

as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary

street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of

wizard gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops

that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some

huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn't known

that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, he might have thought so;

yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told him so far was

unbelievable, Harry couldn't help trusting him.

    "This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky

Cauldron. It's a famous place."

    It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it

out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying

by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on

one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the

Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling

that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this,

Hagrid had steered him inside.

    For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women

were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One

of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was

talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a

toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked

in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him,

and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"

    "Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping

his great hand on Harry's shoulder and making Harry's knees buckle.

    "Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this --

can this be --?"

    The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

    "Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry

Potter... what an honor."

    He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and

seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

    "Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

    Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The

old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had

gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

    Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment,

Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky

Cauldron.

    "Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you

at last."

    "So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

    "Always wanted to shake your hand -- I'm all of a flutter."

    "Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name,

Dedalus Diggle."

    "I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle's top

hat fell off in his excitement. "You bowed to me once in a shop."

    "He remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at

everyone. "Did you hear that? He remembers me!" Harry shook hands

again and again -- Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

    A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of

his eyes was twitching.

    "Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell

will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

    "P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's

hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you."

    "What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

    "D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor

Quirrell, as though he'd rather not think about it. "N-not that

you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously. "You'll be

g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up

a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the

very thought.

    But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to

himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At

last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.

    "Must get on -- lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."

    Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Hagrid

led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard,

where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

    Hagrid grinned at Harry.

    "Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor

Quirrell was tremblin' ter meet yeh -- mind you, he's usually

tremblin'."

    "Is he always that nervous?"

    "Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was

    studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some

firsthand experience.... They say he met vampires in the Black

Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag -- never

been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own

subject now, where's me umbrella?"

    Vampires? Hags? Harry's head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile,

was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

    "Three up... two across he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry."

    He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

    The brick he had touched quivered -- it wriggled -- in the

middle, a small hole appeared -- it grew wider and wider -- a second

later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an

archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

    "Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley."

    He grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the

archway. Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway

shrink instantly back into solid wall.

    The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the

nearest shop. Cauldrons -- All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver

-- Self-Stirring -- Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

    "Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get

yer money first."

    Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head

in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at

everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people

doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was

shaking her head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen

Sickles an ounce, they're mad...."

    A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign

saying Eeylops Owl Emporium -- Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and

Snowy. Several boys of about Harry's age had their noses pressed

against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard

one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand -- fastest ever --"

There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange

silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with

barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell

books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of

the moon....

    "Gringotts," said Hagrid.

    They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the

other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors,

wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was -

    "Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked

up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head

shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard

and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they

walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver

this time, with words engraved upon them:

    Enter, stranger, but take heed

    Of what awaits the sin of greed,

    For those who take, but do not earn,

    Must pay most dearly in their turn.

    So if you seek beneath our floors

    A treasure that was never yours,

    Thief, you have been warned, beware

    Of finding more than treasure there.

    "Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.

    A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they

were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting

on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers,

weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through

eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall,

and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid

and Harry made for the counter.

    "Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take

some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

    "You have his key, Sir?"

    "Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying

his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog

biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled

his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile

of rubies as big as glowing coals.

    "Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

    The goblin looked at it closely.

    "That seems to be in order."

    "An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,"

said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the

YouKnow-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

    The goblin read the letter carefully.

    "Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have

Someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

    Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all

the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed

Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

    "What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and

thirteen?" Harry asked.

    "Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very

secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's

worth ter tell yeh that."

    Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected

more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway

lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were

little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small

cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in --

Hagrid with some difficulty -- and were off.

    At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting

passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle

fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed

to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering.

    Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept

them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end

of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too

late - - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where

huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

    I never know," Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart,

"what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"

    "Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it," said Hagrid. "An' don' ask me

questions just now, I think I'm gonna be sick."

    He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside

a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean

against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.

    Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing

out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold

coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

    "All yours," smiled Hagrid.

    All Harry's -- it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't

have known about this or they'd have had it from him faster than

blinking. How often had they complained how much Harry cost them

to keep? And all the time there had been a small fortune belonging

to him, buried deep under London.

    Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.

    "The gold ones are Galleons," he explained. "Seventeen silver

Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy

enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll

keep the rest safe for yeh." He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven

hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

    "One speed only," said Griphook.

    They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air

became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They

went rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over

the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid

groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

    Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

    "Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door

gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

    "If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked

through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.

    "How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked.

    "About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather

nasty grin.

    Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security

vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to

see fabulous jewels at the very least -- but at first he thought

it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up

in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked

it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to know what it was, but knew

better than to ask.

    "Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on

the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid.

    One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight

outside Gringotts. Harry didn't know where to run first now that he

had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many Galleons

there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than

he'd had in his whole life -- more money than even Dudley had

ever had.

    "Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh

mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I

hate them Gringotts carts." He did still look a bit sick, so Harry

entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.

    Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

    "Hogwarts, clear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got

the lot here -- another young man being fitted up just now, in

fact. "

    In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was

standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black

robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him) slipped a

long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

    "Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

    "Yes," said Harry.

    "My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the

street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling

voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I

don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully

father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

    Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.

    "Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

    "No," said Harry.

    "Play Quidditch at all?"

    "No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch

could be.

    "I do -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for

my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

    "No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.

    "Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I

know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been -- imagine being

in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" "Mmm," said Harry,

wishing he could say something a bit more interesting.

    "I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward

the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and

pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

    "That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy

didn't. "He works at Hogwarts."

    "Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant,

isn't he?"

    "He's the gamekeeper," said Harry. He was liking the boy less

and less every second.

    "Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage -- lives in a

hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk,

tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

    "I think he's brilliant," said Harry coldly.

    "Do you?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with

you? Where are your parents?"

    "They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like

going into the matter with this boy.

    "Oh, sorry," said the other,. not sounding sorry at all. "But

they were our kind, weren't they?"

    "They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

    "I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do

you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to

know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until

they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the

old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"

    But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you

done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking

to the boy, hopped down from the footstool.

    "Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling

boy.

    Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought

him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

    "What's up?" said Hagrid.

    "Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and

quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that

changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said,

"Hagrid, what's Quidditch?"

    "Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know -- not

knowin' about Quidditch!"

    "Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about

the pate boy in Madam Malkin's.

    "--and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be

allowed in."

    "Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were

-- he's grown up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin'

folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when

they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o' the best

I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line 0'

Muggles -- look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

    "So what is Quidditch?"

    "It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like -- like soccer in the

Muggle world -- everyone follows Quidditch -- played up in the air

on broomsticks and there's four balls -- sorta hard ter explain

the rules." "And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

    "School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a

lot o' duffers, but --"

    "I bet I'm in Hufflepuff" said Harry gloomily.

    "Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's

not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in

Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

    "Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"

    "Years an' years ago," said Hagrid.

    They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish

and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with

books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the

size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar

symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley,

who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on

some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from Curses and

Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with

the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue- Tying and Much,

Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

    "I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley."

    "I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use

magic in the Muggle world except in very special circumstances,"

said Hagrid. "An' anyway, yeh couldn' work any of them curses yet,

yeh'll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level."

    Hagrid wouldn't let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either

("It says pewter on yer list"), but they got a nice set of

scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass

telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating

enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs

and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor;

jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls;

bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from

the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a

supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself

examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and

minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

    Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry's list again.

    "Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a

birthday present."

    Harry felt himself go red.

    "You don't have to --"

    "I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not

a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an'

I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the

kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

    Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which

had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright

eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy

owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn't stop

stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell.

    "Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had

a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now -

only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

    A magic wand... this was what Harry had been really looking

forward to.

    The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over

the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A

single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

    A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they

stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single,

spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as

though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot

of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead

at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the

ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very

dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

    "Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must

have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he

got quickly off the spindly chair.

    An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining

like moons through the gloom of the shop.

    "Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

    "Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing

you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your

mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself,

buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy,

made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

    Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would

blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

    "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany

wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for

transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it -- it's really

the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

    Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost

nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

    "And that's where..."

    Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead

with a long, white finger.

    "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said

softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very

powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that

wand was going out into the world to do...."

    He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid.

    "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again.... Oak,

sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

    "It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

    "Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half

when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

    "Er -- yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his

feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

    "But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply.

    "Oh, no, sit," said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped

his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

    "Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing

look. "Well, now -- Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape

measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your

wand arm?"

    "Er -- well, I'm right-handed," said Harry.

    "Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder

to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit

and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander

wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We

use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings

of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two

unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course,

you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

    Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which

was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its

own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down

boxes.

    "That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a

heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood

and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take

it and give it a wave."

    Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit,

but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

    "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try --"

    Harry tried -- but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too,

was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

    "No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches,

springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

    Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was

waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher

on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from

the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

    "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect

match here somewhere -- I wonder, now - - yes, why not -- unusual

combination -- holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice

and supple."

    Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He

raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the

dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like

a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid

whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes,

indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very

curious... "

    He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown

paper, still muttering, "Curious... curious..

    "Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

    Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

    "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single

wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your

wand, gave another feather -- just one other. It is very curious

indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother

why, its brother gave you that scar."

    Harry swallowed.

    "Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these

things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember.... I think

we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter.... After all, He-

Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things -- terrible, yes, but great."

    Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too

much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander

bowed them from his shop.

    The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid

made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back

through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all

as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people

were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all

their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on

Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry

only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

    "Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said.

    He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats

to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange,

somehow.

    "You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.

    Harry wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best

birthday of his life -- and yet -- he chewed his hamburger, trying

to find the words.

    "Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people

in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander... but I

don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great

things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I

don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry -- I mean, the night my

parents died."

    Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and

eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.

    "Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone

starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. just

be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's

always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts -- I did --

still do, 'smatter of fact."

    Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back

to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.

    "Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " he said. "First o' September --

King's Cross -- it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the

Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find

me.... See yeh soon, Harry."

    The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch

Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed

his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.

    CHAPTER SIX

    THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS

    Harry's last month with the Dursleys wasn't fun. True, Dudley was

now so scared of Harry he wouldn't stay in the same room, while Aunt

Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, force

him to do anything, or shout at him -- in fact, they didn't speak to

him at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any

chair with Harry in it were empty. Although this was an improvement

in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.

    Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for company. He had

decided to call her Hedwig, a name he had found in A History of

Magic. His school books were very interesting. He lay on his bed

reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the

open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't

come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept bringing back dead

mice. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked off another

day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, counting down

to September the first.

    On the last day of August he thought he'd better speak to his

aunt and uncle about getting to King's Cross station the next day,

so he went down to the living room where they were watching a quiz

show on television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was

there, and Dudley screamed and ran from the room.

    "Er -- Uncle Vernon?"

    Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

    "Er -- I need to be at King's Cross tomorrow to -- to go to

Hogwarts."

    Uncle Vernon grunted again.

    "Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?"

    Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.

    "Thank you."

    He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually

spoke.

    "Funny way to get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets

all got punctures, have they?"

    Harry didn't say anything.

    "Where is this school, anyway?"

    "I don't know," said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He

pulled the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket.

    "I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters

at eleven o'clock," he read.

    His aunt and uncle stared.

    "Platform what?"

    "Nine and three-quarters."

    "Don't talk rubbish," said Uncle Vernon. "There is no platform

nine and three-quarters."

    "It's on my ticket."

    "Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of

them. You'll see. You just wait. All right, we'll take you to

King's Cross. We're going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I

wouldn't bother."

    "Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to keep

things friendly.

    "Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to

have that ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings."

    Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited

and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans

because he didn't want to walk into the station in his wizard's

robes -- he'd change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet

again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was

shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the

Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had

been loaded into the Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley

into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off.

    They reached King's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon

dumped Harry's trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station

for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon

stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

    "Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine -- platform ten. Your

platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to

have built it yet, do they?"

    He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number

nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one

next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

    "Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier

smile. He left without another word. Harry turned and saw the

Dursleys drive away. All three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth

went rather dry. What on earth was he going to do? He was starting

to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He'd have to

ask someone.

    He stopped a passing guard, but didn't dare mention platform

nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and

when Harry couldn't even tell him what part of the country it was

in, he started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on

purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at

eleven o'clock, but the guard said there wasn't one. In the end

the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Harry was

now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over

the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to

Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the

middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket

full of wizard money, and a large owl.

    Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do,

like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He

wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket

inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten.

    At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he

caught a few words of what they were saying.

    "-- packed with Muggles, of course --"

    Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking

to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing

a trunk like Harry's in front of him -- and they had an owl.

    Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped

and so did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

    "Now, what's the platform number?" said the boys' mother.

    "Nine and three-quarters!" piped a small girl, also red-headed,

who was holding her hand, "Mom, can't I go... "

    "You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy,

you go first."

    What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine

and ten. Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it

-- but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the

two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front

of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy

had vanished.

    "Fred, you next," the plump woman said.

    "I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman,

you call yourself our mother? CarA you tell I'm George?"

    "Sorry, George, dear."

    "Only joking, I am Fred," said the boy, and off he went. His

twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so,

because a second later, he had gone -- but how had he done it?

    Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier

he was almost there -- and then, quite suddenly, he wasn't anywhere.

    There was nothing else for it.

    "Excuse me," Harry said to the plump woman.

    "Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new,

too."

    She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall,

thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a

long nose.

    "Yes," said Harry. "The thing is -- the thing is, I don't know

how to --"

    "How to get onto the platform?" she said kindly, and Harry

nodded.

    "Not to worry," she said. "All you have to do is walk straight

at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't

be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it

at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

    "Er -- okay," said Harry.

    He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It

looked very solid.

    He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way

to platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going

to smash right into that barrier and then he'd be in trouble --

leaning forward on his cart, he broke into a heavy run -- the

barrier was coming nearer and nearer -- he wouldn't be able to stop

-- the cart was out of control -- he was a foot away -- he closed

his eyes ready for the crash --

    It didn't come... he kept on running... he opened his eyes. A

scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with

people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven O'clock. Harry

looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier

had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it,

He had done it.

    Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering

crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their

legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over

the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

    The first few carriages were already packed with students,

some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some

fighting over seats. Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in

search of an empty seat. He passed a round-faced boy who was saying,

"Gran, I've lost my toad again."

    "Oh, Neville," he heard the old woman sigh.

    A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

    "Give us a look, Lee, go on."

    The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people

around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long,

hairy leg.

    Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty

compartment near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first

and then started to shove and heave his trunk toward the train

door. He tried to lift it up the steps but could hardly raise one

end and twice he dropped it painfully on his foot.

    "Want a hand?" It was one of the red-haired twins he'd followed

through the barrier.

    "Yes, please," Harry panted.

    "Oy, Fred! C'mere and help!"

    With the twins' help, Harry's trunk was at last tucked away in

a corner of the compartment.

    "Thanks," said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

    "What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at

Harry's lightning scar.

    "Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you

    "He is," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.

    "What?" said Harry.

    "Harry Potter, "chorused the twins.

    "Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am."

    The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning

red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating in through the

train's open door.

    "Fred? George? Are you there?"

    "Coming, Mom."

    With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.

    Harry sat down next to the window where, half hidden, he could

watch the red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were

saying. Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

    "Ron, you've got something on your nose."

    The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed

him and began rubbing the end of his nose.

    "Mom -- geroff" He wriggled free.

    "Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?" said one

of the twins.

    "Shut up," said Ron.

    "Where's Percy?" said their mother.

    "He's coming now."

    The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had already changed

into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny

silver badge on his chest with the letter P on it.

    "Can't stay long, Mother," he said. "I'm up front, the prefects

have got two compartments to themselves --"

    "Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" said one of the twins, with

an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had

no idea."

    "Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it,"

said the other twin. "Once --"

    "Or twice --"

    "A minute --"

    "All summer --"

    "Oh, shut up," said Percy the Prefect.

    "How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?" said one of the twins.

    "Because he's a prefect," said their mother fondly. "All right,

dear, well, have a good term -- send me an owl when you get there."

    She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to

the twins.

    "Now, you two -- this year, you behave yourselves. If I get

one more owl telling me you've -- you've blown up a toilet or --"

    "Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

    "Great idea though, thanks, Mom."

    "It's not funny. And look after Ron."

    "Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."

    "Shut up," said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins

already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

    "Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?"

    Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn't see him looking.

    "You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the

station? Know who he is?"

    "Who?"

    "Harry Potter!"

    Harry heard the little girl's voice.

    "Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, eh please...."

    "You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something

you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"

    "Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there - like lightning."

    "Poor dear - no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever

so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform."

    "Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who

looks like?"

    Their mother suddenly became very stern.

    "I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though

he needs reminding of that on his first day at school."

    "All right, keep your hair on."

    A whistle sounded.

    "Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered

onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them

good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry.

    "Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls."

    "We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat."

    "George!"

    "Only joking, Mom."

    The train began to move. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and

their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the

train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.

    Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train

rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a

great leap of excitement. He didn't know what he was going to but

it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.

    The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded

boy came in.

    "Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite

Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

    Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry

and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't

looked. Harry saw he still had a black mark on his nose.

    "Hey, Ron."

    The twins were back.

    "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train -- Lee Jordan's

got a giant tarantula down there."

    "Right," mumbled Ron.

    "Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred

and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later,

then.

    "Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door

shut behind them.

    "Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

    Harry nodded.

    "Oh -well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes,"

said Ron. "And have you really got -- you know..."

    He pointed at Harry's forehead.

    Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron

stared.

    "So that's where You-Know-Who

    "Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it."

    "Nothing?" said Ron eagerly.

    "Well -- I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."

    "Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments,

then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he

looked quickly out of the window again.

    "Are all your family wizards?" asked Harry, who found Ron just

as interesting as Ron found him.

    "Er -- Yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mom's got a second

cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

    "So you must know loads of magic already."

    The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families

the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked about.

    "I heard you went to live with Muggles," said Ron. "What are

they like?"

    "Horrible -well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin

are, though. Wish I'd had three wizard brothers."

    "Five," said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. "I'm

the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got

a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left -- Bill

was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's

a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get

really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone

expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big

deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either,

with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand,

and Percy's old rat."

    Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat,

which was asleep.

    "His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes

up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they

couldn't aff -- I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

    Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much,

because he went back to staring out of the window.

    Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being

able to afford an owl. After all, he'd never had any money in his

life until a month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear

Dudley's old clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This

seemed to cheer Ron up.

    "... and until Hagrid told me, I didn't know anything about be

ing a wizard or about my parents or Voldemort"

    Ron gasped.

    "What?" said Harry.

    "You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked

and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people --"

    "I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,"

said Harry, I just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've

got loads to learn.... I bet," he added, voicing for the first time

something that had been worrying him a lot lately, "I bet I'm the

worst in the class."

    "You won't be. There's loads of people who come from Muggle

families and they learn quick enough."

    While they had been talking, the train had carried them out

of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and

sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes

flick past.

    Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside

in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door

and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"

    Harry, who hadn't had any breakfast, leapt to his feet,

but Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought

sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor.

    He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and

now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready

to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry -- but the woman didn't

have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bettie Bott's Every Flavor

Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties,

Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things

Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything,

he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles

and seven bronze Knuts.

    Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment

and tipped it onto an empty seat.

    "Hungry, are you?"

    "Starving," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin

pasty.

    Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There

were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said,

"She always forgets I don't like corned beef."

    "Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go

on --"

    "You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got

much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us."

    "Go on, have a pasty," said Harry, who had never had anything

to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a

nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all

Harry's pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).

    "What are these?" Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate

Frogs. "They're not really frogs, are they?" He was starting to

feel that nothing would surprise him.

    "No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa."

    "What?"

    "Oh, of course, you wouldn't know -- Chocolate Frogs have cards,

inside them, you know, to collect -- famous witches and wizards. I've

got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy."

    Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It

showed a man's face. He wore half- moon glasses, had a long, crooked

nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the

picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

    "So this is Dumbledore!" said Harry.

    "Don't tell me you'd never heard of Dumbledore!" said Ron. "Can

I have a frog? I might get Agrippa -- thanks

    Harry turned over his card and read:

    ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

    CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

    Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times,

Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark

wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of

dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas

Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

    Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment,

that Dumbledore's face had disappeared.

    "He's gone!"

    "Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said

Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about

six of her... do you want it? You can start collecting."

    Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to

be unwrapped.

    "Help yourself," said Harry. "But in, you know, the Muggle world,

people just stay put in photos."

    "Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded

amazed. "weird!"

    Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his

card and gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating

the frogs than looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards,

but Harry couldn't keep his eyes off them. Soon he had not only

Dumbledore and Morgana, but Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion,

Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He finally tore his eyes away from

the druidess Cliodna, who was scratching her nose, to open a bag

of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

    "You want to be careful with those," Ron warned Harry. "When

they say every flavor, they mean every flavor -- you know, you

get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and mar-

malade, but then you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George

reckons he had a booger- flavored one once."

    Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit

into a corner.

    "Bleaaargh -- see? Sprouts."

    They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry

got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee,

sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny

gray one Ron wouldn't touch, which turned out to be pepper.

    The countryside now flying past the window was becoming

wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting

rivers, and dark green hills.

    There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the

round-faced boy Harry had passed on platform nine and threequarters

came in. He looked tearful.

    "Sorry," he said, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

    When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He

keeps getting away from me!"

    "He'll turn up," said Harry.

    "Yes," said the boy miserably. "Well, if you see him..."

    He left.

    "Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a

toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers,

so I can't talk."

    The rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap.

    "He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said

Ron in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him

more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."

    He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very

battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white

was glinting at the end.

    "Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway

    He had just raised his 'wand when the compartment door slid

open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl

with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

    "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had

a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large

front teeth.

    "We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron, but the

girl wasn't listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

    "Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

    She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

    "Er -- all right."

    He cleared his throat.

    "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat

yellow."

    He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray

and fast asleep.

    "Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well,

it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just

for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's

magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter,

but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best

school of witchcraft there is, I've heard -- I've learned all our

course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough --

I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you.

    She said all this very fast.

    Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned

face that he hadn't learned all the course books by heart either.

    "I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered.

    "Harry Potter," said Harry.

    "Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course

-- I got a few extra books. for background reading, and you're in

Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and

Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.

    "Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed.

    "Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I

could if it was me," said Hermione. "Do either of you know what house

you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor,

it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but

I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad.... Anyway, we'd better go

and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know,

I expect we'll be there soon."

    And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

    "Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron. He

threw his wand back into his trunk. "Stupid spell -- George gave

it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."

    "What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry.

    "Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him

again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say

if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine

if they put me in Slytherin."

    "That's the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?"

    "Yeah," said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking

depressed.

    "You know, I think the ends of Scabbers' whiskers are a bit

lighter," said Harry, trying to take Ron's mind off houses. "So

what do your oldest brothers do now that they've left, anyway?"

    Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he'd finished school.

    "Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa

doing something for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about

    Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't

suppose you get that with the Muggles -- someone tried to rob a

high security vault."

    Harry stared.

    "Really? What happened to them?"

    "Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been

caught. My dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get

round Gringotts, but they don't think they took anything, that's

what's odd. 'Course, everyone gets scared when something like this

happens in case You-Know-Who's behind it."

    Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to

get a prickle of fear every time You- Know-Who was mentioned. He

supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it

had been a lot more comfortable saying "Voldemort" without worrying.

    "What's your Quidditch team?" Ron asked.

    "Er -- I don't know any," Harry confessed.

    "What!" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best game

in the world --" And he was off, explaining all about the four balls

and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd

been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he

had the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points

of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it

wasn't Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

    Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once:

it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at

Harry with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

    "Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that

Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

    "Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of

them were thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either

side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards.

    "Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy

carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy,

Draco Malfoy."

    Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a

snigget. Draco Malfoy looked at him.

    "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My

father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more

children than they can afford."

    He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding

families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go

making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

    He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it.

    "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,"

he said coolly.

    Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his

pale cheeks.

    "I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless

you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They

didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with

riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off

on you."

    Both Harry and Ron stood up.

    "Say that again," Ron said, his face as red as his hair.

    "Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Malfoy sneered.

    "Unless you get out now," said Harry, more bravely than he felt,

because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron.

    "But we don't feet like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all

our food and you still seem to have some."

    Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron - Ron

leapt forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let

out a horrible yell.

    Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth

sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle - Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as

Goyle swung Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbets

finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared

at once. Perhaps they thought there were more rats lurking among the

sweets, or perhaps they'd heard footsteps, because a second later,

Hermione Granger had come in.

    "What has been going on?" she said, looking at the sweets all

over the floor and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail.

    I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry. He looked

closer at Scabbers. "No -- I don't believe it -- he's gone back

to sleep-"

    And so he had.

    "You've met Malfoy before?"

    Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

    "I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were

some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who

disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe

it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the

Dark Side." He turned to Hermione. "Can we help you with something?"

    "You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been

up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly

there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble

before we even get there!"

    "Scabbers has been fighting, not us," said Ron, scowling at

her. "Would you mind leaving while we change?"

    "All right -- I only came in here because people outside are

behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said

Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose,

by the way, did you know?"

    Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It

was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep

purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

    He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black

robes. Ron's were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers

underneath them.

    A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts

in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train,

it will be taken to the school separately."

    Harry's stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked

pale under his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last

of the sweets and joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

    The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed

their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry

shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the

heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs'

years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"

    Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

    "C'mon, follow me -- any more firs' years? Mind yer step,

now! Firs' years follow me!"

    Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed

to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them

that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke

much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once

or twice.

    "Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid

called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

    There was a loud "Oooooh!"

    The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great

black take. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its

windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many

turrets and towers.

    "No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet

of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron

were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione. "Everyone

in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then --

FORWARD!"

    And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding

across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent,

staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as

they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

    "Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff;

they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a

curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were

carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right

underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground

harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

    "Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking

the boats as people climbed out of them.

    "Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then

they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp,

coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of

the castle.

    They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the

huge, Oak front door.

    "Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

    Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the

castle door.

    CHAPTER SEVEN

    THE SORTING HAT

    The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in

emerald-green robes stood there. She had a very stern face and

Harry's first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

    "The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

    "Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

    She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you

could have fit the whole of the Dursleys' house in it. The stone

walls were lit with flaming torches like the ones at Gringotts,

the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble

staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

    They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone

floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a

doorway to the right -the rest of the school must already be here

-- but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small,

empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer

together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.

    "Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The

start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your

seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The

Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here,

your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You

will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house

dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

    "The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw,

and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has

produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts,

your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking

will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the

most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each

of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

    "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front

of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up

as much as you can while you are waiting."

    Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was

fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry

nervously tried to flatten his hair.

    "I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor

McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."

    She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.

    "How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron.

    "Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I

think he was joking."

    Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole

school? But he didn't know any magic yet -- what on earth would he

have to do? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they

arrived. He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else

looked terrified, too. No one was talking much except Hermione

Granger, who was whispering very fast about all the spells she'd

learned and wondering which one she'd need. Harry tried hard not to

listen to her. He'd never been more nervous, never, not even when

he'd had to take a school report home to the Dursleys saying that

he'd somehow turned his teacher's wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed

on the door. Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come back

and lead him to his doom.

    Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the

air -- several people behind him screamed.

    "What the --?"

    He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts

had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly

transparent, they glided across the room talking to one another and

hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What

looked like a fat little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget,

I say, we ought to give him a second chance --"

    "My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he

deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really

even a ghost -- I say, what are you all doing here?"

    A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the

first years.

    Nobody answered.

    "New students!" said the Fat Friar, smiling around at

them. "About to be Sorted, I suppose?"

    A few people nodded mutely.

    "Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house,

you know."

    "Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's

about to start."

    Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts

floated away through the opposite wall.

    "Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall told the first years,

"and follow me."

    Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got

into line behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and

they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through

a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

    Harry had never even imagined such a strange and splendid

place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that

were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of

the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering

golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long

table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led

the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line

facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The

hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the

flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students,

the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes,

Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with

stars. He heard

    Hermione whisper, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I

read about it in Hogwarts, A History."

    It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and

that the Great Hall didn't simply open on to the heavens.

    Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently

placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the

stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed

and extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it in the house.

    Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry thought

wildly, that seemed the sort of thing -- noticing that everyone in

the hall was now staring at the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few

seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip

near the brim opened wide like a mouth -- and the hat began to sing:

    "Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

    But don't judge on what you see,

    I'll eat myself if you can find

    A smarter hat than me.

    You can keep your bowlers black,

    Your top hats sleek and tall,

    For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

    And I can cap them all.

    There's nothing hidden in your head

    The Sorting Hat can't see,

    So try me on and I will tell you

    Where you ought to be.

    You might belong in Gryffindor,

    Where dwell the brave at heart,

    Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;

    You might belong in Hufflepuff,

    Where they are just and loyal,

    Those patient Hufflepuffis are true And unafraid of toil;

    Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

    if you've a ready mind,

    Where those of wit and learning,

    Will always find their kind;

    Or perhaps in Slytherin

    You'll make your real friends,

    Those cunning folk use any means

    To achieve their ends.

    So put me on! Don't be afraid!

    And don't get in a flap!

    You're in safe hands (though I have none)

    For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

    The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its

song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite

still again.

    "So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to

Harry. "I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

    Harry. smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot better

than having to do a spell, but he did wish they could have tried it

on without everyone watching. The hat seemed to be asking rather

alot; Harry didn't feel brave or quick-witted or any of it at the

moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt

a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him.

    Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll

of parchment.

    "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the

stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

    A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line,

put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A

moments pause --

    "HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

    The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to

sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Fat

Friar waving merrily at her.

    "Bones, Susan!"

    "HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to

sit next to Hannah.

    "Boot, Terry!"

    "RAVENCLAW!"

    The table second from the left clapped this time; several

Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

    " Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw too, but "Brown,

Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the

far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see Ron's twin brothers

catcalling.

    "Bulstrode, Millicent" then became a Slytherin. Perhaps it

was Harry's imagination, after all he'd heard about Slytherin,

but he thought they looked like an unpleasant lot. He was starting

to feel definitely sick now. He remembered being picked for teams

during gym at his old school. He had always been last to be chosen,

not because he was no good, but because no one wanted Dudley to

think they liked him.

    "Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

    "HUFFLEPUFF!"

    Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once,

but at others it took a little while to decide. "Finnigan, Seamus,"

the sandy-haired boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool

for almost a whole minute before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.

    "Granger, Hermione!"

    Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on

her head.

    "GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat. Ron groaned.

    A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts always

do when you're very nervous. What if he wasn't chosen at all? What

if he just sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until

Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had

obviously been a mistake and he'd better get back on the train?

    When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his toad, was

called, he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long

time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted, "GRYFFINDOR,"

Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales

of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag."

    Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his

wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed,

"SLYTHERIN!"

    Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking

pleased with himself.

    There weren't many people left now. "Moon" "Nott" "Parkinson"

then a pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil" then "Perks,

Sally-Anne" and then, at last -- "Potter, Harry!"

    As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like

little hissing fires all over the hall.

    "Potter, did she say?"

    The Harry Potter?"

    The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes

was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next

second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

    Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very

difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's

talent, A my goodness, yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself,

now that's interesting.... So where shall I put you?"

    Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Slytherin,

not Slytherin.

    "Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You

could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin

will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that --

no? Well, if you're sure -- better be GRYFFINDOR!"

    Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He

took off the hat and walked shakily toward the Gryffindor table. He

was so relieved to have been chosen and not put in Slytherin, he

hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy

the Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley

twins yelled, "We got Potter! We got Potter!" Harry sat down opposite

the ghost in the ruff he'd seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm,

giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he'd just plunged it into

a bucket of ice-cold water.

    He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him

sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry

grinned back. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a

large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at

once from the card he'd gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on the

train. Dumbledore's silver hair was the only thing in the whole

hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. Harry spotted Professor

Quirtell, too, the nervous young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He

was looking very peculiar in a large purple turban.

    And now there were only three people left to be sorted. "Thomas,

Dean," a Black boy even taller than Ron, joined Harry at the

Gryffindor table. "Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw and then it

was Ron's turn. He was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers

under the table and a second later the hat had shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

    Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the

chair next to him.

    "Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley Pompously

across Harry as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor

McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

    Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just

realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago.

    Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the

students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased

him more than to see them all there.

    "Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before

we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here

they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

    "Thank you!"

    He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't

know whether to laugh or not.

    "Is he -- a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly.

    "Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the

world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"

    Harry's mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now

piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat

on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops,

sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries,

Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some

strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

    The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he'd never

been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken

anything that Harry really wanted, even if It made him sick. Harry

piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints

and began to eat. It was all delicious.

    "That does look good," said the ghost in the ruff sadly,

watching Harry cut up his steak,

    "Can't you --?"

    I haven't eaten for nearly four hundred years," said the

ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't

think I've in troduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at

your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."

    "I know who you are!" said Ron suddenly. "My brothers told me

about you -- you're Nearly Headless Nick!"

    "I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy --" the

ghost began stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted.

    "Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?"

    Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat

wasn't going at all the way he wanted.

    "Like this," he said irritably. He seized his left ear and

pulled. His whole head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder

as if it was on a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him,

but not done it properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on

their faces, Nearly Headless Nick flipped his head back onto his

neck, coughed, and said, "So -- new Gryffindors! I hope you're going

to help us win the house championship this year? Gryffindors have

never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have got the cup six

years in a row! The Bloody Baron's becoming almost unbearable --

he's the Slytherin ghost."

    Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible

ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and

robes stained with silver blood. He was right next to Malfoy who,

Harry was pleased to see, didn't look too pleased with the seating

arrangements.

    "How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great

interest.

    "I've never asked," said Nearly Headless Nick delicately.

    When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of

the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as

before. A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream

in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts,

chocolate eclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O,

rice pudding -- "

    As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to

their families.

    "I'm half-and-half," said Seamus. "Me dad's a Muggle. Mom

didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit

of a nasty shock for him."

    The others laughed.

    "What about you, Neville?" said Ron.

    "Well, my gran brought me up and she's a witch," said Neville,

"but the family thought I was all- Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle

Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out

of me -- he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly

drowned -- but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie

came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs

window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue

and he accidentally let go. But I bounced -- all the way down the

garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was

crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when

I got in here -- they thought I might not be magic enough to come,

you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad."

    On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking

about lessons ("I do hope they start right away, there's so much

to learn, I'm particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know,

turning something into something else, of course, it's supposed to

be very difficult-"; "You'll be starting small, just matches into

needles and that sort of thing -- ").

    Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at

    the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from

his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor

Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking

to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

    It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past

Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot

pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead.

    "Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.

    "What is it?" asked Percy.

    "N-nothing."

    The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake

off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look --

a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

    "Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked

Percy.

    "Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so

nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't

want to -- everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful

lot about the Dark Arts, Snape."

    Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at

him again.

    At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore

got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

    "Ahern -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and

watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

    "First years should note that the forest on the grounds is

forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do

well to remember that as well."

    Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the

Weasley twins.

    "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to

remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in

the corridors.

    "Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the

term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should

contact Madam Hooch.

    "And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor

corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who

does not wish to die a very painful death."

    Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.

    "He's not serious?" he muttered to Percy.

    "Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd,

because he usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go

somewhere -- the forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows

that. I do think he might have told us prefects, at least."

    "And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school

song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers'

smiles had become rather fixed.

    Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to

get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which

rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

    "Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off

we go!" And the school bellowed:

    "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

    Teach us something please,

    Whether we be old and bald

    Or young with scabby knees,

    Our heads could do with filling

    With some interesting stuff,

    For now they're bare and full of air,

    Dead flies and bits of fluff,

    So teach us things worth knowing,

    Bring back what we've forgot,

    just do your best, we'll do the rest,

    And learn until our brains all rot.

    Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only

the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral

march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and

when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

    "Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we

do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

    The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering

crowds, out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry's

legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and

full of food. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people

in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they

passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind

sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases,

yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how

much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt.

    A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them,

and as Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves

at him.

    "Peeves," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist." He

raised his voice, "Peeves -- show yourself"

    A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon,

answered.

    "Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?"

    There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a

wide mouth appeared, floating cross- legged in the air, clutching

the walking sticks.

    "Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What

fun!"

    He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.

    "Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean

it!" barked Percy.

    Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking

sticks on Neville's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling

coats of armor as he passed.

    "You want to watch out for Peeves," said Percy, as they set

off again. "The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him,

he won't even listen to us prefects. Here we are."

    At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat

woman in a pink silk dress.

    "Password?" she said. "Caput Draconis," said Percy, and the

portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They

all scrambled through it -- Neville needed a leg up -- and found

themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room full

of squashy armchairs.

    Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory

and the boys through another. At the top of a spiral staircase --

they were obviously in one of the towers -- they found their beds at

last: five four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their

trunks had already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they

pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.

    " Great food, isn't it?" Ron muttered to Harry through the

hangings. "Get off, Scabbers! He's chewing my sheets."

    Harry was going to ask Ron if he'd had any of the treacle tart,

but he fell asleep almost at once.

    Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very

strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell's turban, which

kept talking to him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at

once, because it was his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn't

want to be in Slytherin; it got heavier and heavier; he tried to

pull it off but it tightened painfully -- and there was Malfoy,

laughing at him as he struggled with it -then Malfoy turned into the

hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold -- there

was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.

    He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day,

he didn't remember the dream at all.

    CHAPTER EIGHT

    THE POTIONS MASTER

    There, look."

    "Where?"

    "Next to the tall kid with the red hair."

    "Wearing the glasses?"

    "Did you see his face?"

    "Did you see his scar?"

    Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory

the next day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe

to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors

again, staring. Harry wished they wouldn't, because he was trying

to concentrate on finding his way to classes.

    There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts:

wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere

different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that

you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't

open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right

place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls

just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything

was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the

portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the

coats of armor could walk.

    The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock

when one of them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to

open. Nearly Headless Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors

in the right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two

locked doors and a trick staircase if you met him when you were

late for class. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull

rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up

behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"

    Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker,

Argus Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on

their very first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way

through a door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the

out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor. He wouldn't believe they

were lost, was sure they were trying to break into it on purpose,

and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons when they were

rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.

    Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored

creature with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch's. She

patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just

one toe out of line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear,

wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret passageways of

the school better than anyone (except perhaps the Weasley twins)

and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students

all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give

Mrs. Norris a good kick.

    And then, once you had managed to find them, there were the

classes themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly

found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.

    They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every

Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and

the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to

the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy

little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to

take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what

they were used for.

    Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was

the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old

    indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room

fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind

him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and

dates, and got Emetic the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up.

    Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard

who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the

start of their first class he took the roll call, and when he reached

Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.

    Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite

right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she

gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

    "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic

you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in

my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

    Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They

were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but

soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into

animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes,

they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a

needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione Granger had made

any difference to her match; Professor McGonagall showed the class

how it had gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare smile.

    The class everyone had really been looking forward to was

Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to

be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which

everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and

was afraid would be coming back to get him one of these days. His

turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince

as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they

weren't sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus

Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the

zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather;

for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the

turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of

garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.

    Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn't miles behind

everyone else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like

him, hadn't had any idea that they were witches and wizards. There

was so much to learn that even people like Ron didn't have much of

a head start.

    Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally

managed to find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast

without getting lost once.

    "What have we got today?" Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar

on his porridge.

    "Double Potions with the Slytherins," said Ron. "Snape's Head

of Slytherin House. They say he always favors them -- we'll be able

to see if it's true."

    "Wish McGonagall favored us, " said Harry. Professor McGonagall

was head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn't stopped her from giving

them a huge pile of homework the day before.

    Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by

now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning,

when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall

during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners,

and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.

    Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes

flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off

to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls. This morning,

however, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar

bowl and dropped a note onto Harry's plate. Harry tore it open at

once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:

    Dear Harry,

    I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come

and have a cup of tea with me around three?

    I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer

back with Hedwig.

    Hagrid

    Harry borrowed Ron's quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you

later on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.

    It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to,

because the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that

had happened to him so far.

    At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that

Professor Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson,

he knew he'd been wrong. Snape didn't dislike Harry -- he hated him.

    Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was

colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite

creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars

all around the walls.

    Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call,

and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.

    "Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new -- celebrity."

    Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind

their hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at

the class. His eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none

of Hagrid's warmth. They were cold and empty and made you think of

dark tunnels.

    "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of

potionmaking," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper,

but they caught every word -- like Professor McGonagall, Snape had

y caught every word -- like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the

gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little

foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is

magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the

softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate

power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the

mind, ensnaring the senses.... I can teach you how to bottle fame,

brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't as big a bunch of

dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

    More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged

looks with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of

her seat and looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't

a dunderhead.

    "Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added

powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

    Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at

Ron, who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione's hand had shot into

the air.

    "I don't know, sit," said Harry.

    Snape's lips curled into a sneer.

    "Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything."

    He ignored Hermione's hand.

    "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you

to find me a bezoar?"

    Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go

without her leaving her seat, but Harry didn't have the faintest

idea what a bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe,

and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

    "I don't know, sit." "Thought you wouldn't open a book before

coming, eh, Potter?" Harry forced himself to keep looking straight

into those cold eyes. He had looked through his books at the

Dursleys', but did Snape expect him to remember everything in One

Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?

    Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.

    "What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and

wolfsbane?"

    At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the

dungeon ceiling.

    "I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione does,

though, why don't you try her?"

    A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus's eye, and Seamus

winked. Snape, however, was not pleased.

    "Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "For your information,

Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it

is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken

from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As

for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes

by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

    There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over

the noise, Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor

House for your cheek, Potter."

    Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson

continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a

simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak,

watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing

almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just

telling everyone to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his

horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing

filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus's

cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across

the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds,

the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had

been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in

pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

    "Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away

with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills

before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

    Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

    "Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then

he rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.

    "You -- Potter -- why didn't you tell him not to add the

quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did

you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

    This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but

Ron kicked him behind their cauldron.

    "Doi* push it," he muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very

nasty."

    As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later,

Harry's mind was racing and his spirits were low. He'd lost two

points for Gryffindor in his very first week -- why did Snape hate

him so much? "Cheer up," said Ron, "Snape's always taking points

off Fred and George. Can I come and meet Hagrid with you?"

    At five to three they left the castle and made their way across

the grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of

the forbidden forest. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside

the front door.

    When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside

and several booming barks. Then Hagrid's voice rang out, saying,

"Back, Fang -- back."

    Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled

the door open.

    "Hang on," he said. "Back, Fang."

    He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an

enormous black boarhound.

    There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging

from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire,

and in the corner stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

    "Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who

bounded straight at Ron and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid,

Fang was clearly not as fierce as he looked.

    "This is Ron," Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water

into a large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate.

    "Another Weasley, eh?" said Hagrid, glancing at Ron's freckles. I

spent half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest."

    The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost

broke their teeth, but Harry and Ron pretended to be enjoying them

as they told Hagrid all about their first -lessons. Fang rested

his head on Harry's knee and drooled all over his robes.

    Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call Fitch "that

old git."

    "An' as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I'd like ter introduce her

to Fang sometime. D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school,

she follows me everywhere? Can't get rid of her -- Fitch puts her

up to it."

    Harry told Hagrid about Snape's lesson. Hagrid, like Ron,

told Harry not to worry about it, that Snape liked hardly any of

the students.

    "But he seemed to really hate me."

    "Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should he?"

    Yet Harry couldn't help thinking that Hagrid didn't quite meet

his eyes when he said that.

    "How's yer brother Charlie?" Hagrid asked Ron. "I liked him a

lot -- great with animals."

    Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on

purpose. While Ron told Hagrid all about Charlie's work with dragons,

Harry picked up a piece of paper that was lying on the table under

the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the Daily Prophet:

    GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

    Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31

July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches

unknown.

    Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The

vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

    "But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses

out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin

this afternoon.

    Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had

tried to rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn't mentioned the date.

    "Hagrid!" said Harry, "that Gringotts break-in happened on my

birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!"

    There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn't meet

Harry's eyes this time. He grunted and offered him another rock

cake. Harry read the story again. The vault that was searched had in

fact been emptied earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault

seven hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, taking

out that grubby little package. Had that been what the thieves were

looking for?

    As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for dinner, their

pockets weighed down with rock cakes they'd been too polite to

refuse, Harry thought that none of the lessons he'd had so far had

given him as much to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid

collected that package just in time? Where was it now? And did

Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn't want to tell Harry?

    CHAPTER NINE

    THE MIDNIGHT DUEL

    Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than

Dudley, but that was before he met Draco Malfoy.    Still, first-year

Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn't

have to put up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn't until

they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that

made them all groan. Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday --

and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.

    "Typical," said Harry darkly. "Just what I always wanted. To

make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."

    He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than

anything else.

    "You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," said Ron

reasonably. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good

he is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk."

    Malfay certainly did talk about flying a lot. He complained

loudly about first years never getting on the house Quidditch teams

and told long, boastful stories that always seemed to end with him

narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn't the only one,

though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he'd spent most of his

childhood zooming around the countryside on his broomstick. Even

Ron would tell anyone who'd listen about the time he'd almost hit a

hang glider on Charlie's old broom. Everyone from wizarding families

talked about Quidditch constantly. Ron had already had a big argument

with Dean Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about soccer. Ron

couldn't see what was exciting about a game with only one ball where

no one was allowed to fly. Harry had caught Ron prodding Dean's

poster of West Ham soccer team, trying to make the players move.

    Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his

grandmother had never let him near one. Privately, Harry felt she'd

had good reason, because Neville managed to have an extraordinary

number of accidents even with both feet on the ground.

    Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about flying as Neville

was. This was something you couldn't learn by heart out of a book

-- not that she hadn't tried. At breakfast on Thursday she bored

them all stupid with flying tips she'd gotten out of a library

book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Neville was hanging on to

her every word, desperate for anything that might help him hang on

to his broomstick later, but everybody else was very pleased when

Hermione's lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail.

    Harry hadn't had a single letter since Hagrid's note, something

that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of course. Malfoy's eagle

owl was always bringing him packages of sweets from home, which he

opened gloatingly at the Slytherin table.

    A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his

grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed them a glass ball

the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.

    "It's a Remembrall!" he explained. "Gran knows I forget things --

this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look,

you hold it tight like this and if it turns red -- oh..." His face

fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet,

    "You've forgotten something..."

    Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten when Draco

Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall

out of his hand.

    Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half hoping for

a reason to fight Malfay, but Professor McGonagall, who could spot

trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.

    "What's going on?"

    "Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor."

    Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the

table.

    "Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and

Goyle behind him.

    At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other

Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their

first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass

rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns

toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the

forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

    The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks

lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George

Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them

started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly

to the left.

    Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair,

and yellow eyes like a hawk.

    "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone

stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

    Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the

twigs stuck out at odd angles.

    "Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch

at the front, "and say 'Up!"'

    "UPF everyone shouted.

    Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one

of the few that did. Hermione Granger's had simply rolled over

on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms,

like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Harry; there

was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he

wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

    Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without

sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting

their grips. Harry and Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he'd

been doing it wrong for years.

    "Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground,

hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet,

and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On

my whistle -- three -- two --"

    But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on

the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam

Hooch's lips.

    "Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up

like a cork shot out of a bottle -- twelve feet -- twenty feet. Harry

saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away,

saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and --

    WHAM -- a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on

the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and

higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest

and out of sight.

    Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

    "Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy -- it's

all right, up you get.".

    She turned to the rest of the class.

    "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital

wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of

Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

    Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled

off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

    No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into

laughter.

    "Did you see his face, the great lump?"

    The other Slytherins joined in.

    "Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil.

    "Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a

hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little

crybabies, Parvati."

    "Look!" said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out

of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

    The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

    "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 Flitwicles 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,

Malfoys 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 3 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 back 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!"

    The lock clicked and the door swung open -- they piled through

it, shut it quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening.

    "Which way did they go, Peeves?" Filch was saying. "Quick,

tell me."

    "Say 'please."'

    "Don't mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?"

    "Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," said Peeves in

his annoying singsong voice.

    "All right -please."

    "NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you

didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" And they heard the sound of

Peeves whooshing away and Filch cursing in rage.

    "He thinks this door is locked," Harry whispered. "I think

we'll be okay -- get off, Neville!" For Neville had been tugging

on the sleeve of Harry's bathrobe for the last minute. "What?"

    Harry turned around -- and saw, quite clearly, what. For a

moment, he was sure he'd walked into a nightmare -- this was too

much, on top of everything that had happened so far.

    They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a

corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they

knew why it was forbidden.

    They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog,

a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had

three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching

    and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva

hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

    It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them,

and Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead

was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it

was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those

thunderous growls meant.

    Harry groped for the doorknob -- between Filch and death,

he'd take Filch.

    They fell backward -- Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran,

they almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried

off to look for them somewhere else, because they didn't see him

anywhere, but they hardly cared -- all they wanted to do was put as

much space as possible between them and that monster. They didn't

stop running until they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on

the seventh floor.

    "Where on earth have you all been?" she asked, looking at

their bathrobes hanging off their shoulders and their flushed,

sweaty faces.

    "Never mind that -- pig snout, pig snout," panted Harry, and

the portrait swung forward. They scrambled into the common room

and collapsed, trembling, into armchairs.

    It was a while before any of them said anything. Neville,

indeed, looked as if he'd never speak again.

    "What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that

locked up in a school?" said Ron finally. "If any dog needs exercise,

that one does."

    Hermione had got both her breath and her bad temper back

again. "You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" she

snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on.

    "The floor?" Harry suggested. "I wasn't looking at its feet,

I was too busy with its heads."

    "No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously

guarding something."

    She stood up, glaring at them.

    I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been

killed -- or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going

to bed."

    Ron stared after her, his mouth open.

    "No, we don't mind," he said. "You'd think we dragged her along,

wouldn't you.

    But Hermione had given Harry something else to think about as

he climbed back into bed. The dog was guarding something.... What

had Hagrid said? Gringotts was the safest place in the world for

something you wanted to hide -- except perhaps Hogwarts.

    It looked as though Harry had found out where the grubby littie

package from vault seven hundred and thirteen was.

    CHAPTER TEN

    HALLOWEEN

    Malfoy couldn't believe his eyes when he saw that Harry and Ron

were still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly

cheerful. Indeed, by the next morning Harry and Ron thought that

meeting the three-headed dog had been an excellent adventure, and

they were quite keen to have another one. In the meantime, Harry

filled Ron in about the package that seemed to have been moved

from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot of time wondering

what could possibly need such heavy protection. "It's either really

valuable or really dangerous," said Ron. "Or both," said Harry.

    But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was

that it was about two inches long, they didn't have much chance of

guessing what it was without further clues.

    Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest interest in

what lay underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared

about was never going near the dog again.

    Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was

such a bossy know-it-all that they saw this as an added bonus. All

they really wanted now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to

their great delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail about

a week later.

    As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, everyone's

attention was caught at once by a long, thin package carried by

six large screech owls. Harry was just as interested as everyone

else to see what was in this large parcel, and was amazed when the

owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him, knocking

his bacon to the floor. They had hardly fluttered out of the way

when another owl dropped a letter on top of the parcel.

    Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, because

it said:

    DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.

    It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want

everybody knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll all want

one. Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at

seven o'clock for your first training session.

    Professor McGonagall

    Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the note to

Ron to read.

    "A Nimbus Two Thousand!" Ron moaned enviously. "I've never even

touched one."

    They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the broomstick in

private before their first class, but halfway across the entrance

hall they found the way upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy

seized the package from Harry and felt it.

    "That's a broomstick," he said, throwing it back to Harry with

a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face. "You'll be in for it

this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

    Ron couldn't resist it.

    "It's not any old broomstick," he said, "it's a Nimbus Two

Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two

Sixty?" Ron grinned at Harry. "Comets look flashy, but they're not

in the same league as the Nimbus."

    "What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half

the handle," Malfoy snapped back. "I suppose you and your brothers

have to save up twig by twig."

    Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at

Malfoy's elbow.

    "Not arguing, I hope, boys?" he squeaked.

    "Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Malfoy

quickly.

    "Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming

at Harry. "Professor McGonagall told me all about the special

circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?"

    "A Nimbus Two Thousand, sit," said Harry, fighting not to laugh

at the look of horror on Malfoy's face. "And it's really thanks to

Malfoy here that I've got it," he added.

    Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at

Malfoy's obvious rage and confusion. "Well, it's true," Harry

chortled as they reached the top of the marble staircase, "If he

hadn't stolen Neville's Remembrall I wouln't be on the team...."

    "So I suppose you think that's a reward for breaking rules?" came

an angry voice from just behind them. Hermione was stomping up the

stairs, looking disapprovingly at the package in Harry's hand.

    "I thought you weren't speaking to us?" said Harry.

    "Yes, don't stop now," said Ron, "it's doing us so much good."

    Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.

    Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that

day. It kept wandering up to the dormitory where his new broomstick

was lying under his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field

where he'd be learning to play that night. He bolted his dinner

that evening without noticing what he was eating, and then rushed

upstairs with Ron to unwrap the Nimbus Two Thousand at last.

    "Wow," Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto Harry's

bedspread.

    Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different brooms, thought

it looked wonderful. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it

had a long tail of neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand

written in gold near the top.

    As seven o'clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and set off

in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. Held never been inside the

stadium before. Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the

field so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going

on. At either end of the field were three golden poles with hoops

on the end. They reminded Harry of the little plastic sticks Muggle

    children blew bubbles through, except that they were fifty

feet high.

    Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry mounted his

broomstick and kicked off from the ground. What a feeling -- he

swooped in and out of the goal posts and then sped up and down the

field. The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he wanted at his

lightest touch.

    "Hey, Potter, come down!'

    Oliver Wood had arrived. fie was carrying a large wooden crate

under his arm. Harry landed next to him.

    "Very nice," said Wood, his eyes glinting. "I see what McGonagall

meant... you really are a natural. I'm just going to teach you

the rules this evening, then you'll be joining team practice three

times a week."

    He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized balls.

    "Right," said Wood. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand,

even if it's not too easy to play. There are seven players on each

side. Three of them are called Chasers."

    "Three Chasers," Harry repeated, as Wood took out a bright red

ball about the size of a soccer ball.

    "This ball's called the Quaffle," said Wood. "The Chasers

throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through one of

the hoops to score a goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes

through one of the hoops. Follow me?"

    "The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops

to score," Harry recited. "So -- that's sort of like basketball on

broomsticks with six hoops, isn't it?"

    "What's basketball?" said Wood curiously. "Never mind," said

Harry quickly.

    "Now, there's another player on each side who's called the

Keeper -I'm Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly around our hoops

and stop the other team from scoring."

    "Three Chasers, one Keeper," said Harry, who was determined

to remember it all. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got

that. So what are they for?" He pointed at the three balls left

inside the box.

    "I'll show you now," said Wood. "Take this."

    He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat.

    "I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do," Wood said. "These

two are the Bludgers."

    He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly

smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be

straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box.

    "Stand back," Wood warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of

the Bludgers.

    At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted

straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it

from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air --

it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on

top of it and managed to pin it to the ground.

    "See?" Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the

crate and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around,

trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why you have two

Beaters on each team -- the Weasley twins are ours -- it's their

job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock them

toward the other team. So -- think you've got all that?"

    "Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards

the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team,"

Harry reeled off.

    "Very good," said Wood.

    "Er -- have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked,

hoping he sounded offhand.

    "Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but

nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the

    Seeker. That's you. And you don't have to worry about the

Quaffle or the Bludgers unless they crack my head open."

    "Don't worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers

-- I mean, they're like a pair of human Bludgers themselves."

    Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last

ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny,

about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little

fluttering silver wings.

    "This," said Wood, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most

important ball of the lot. It's very hard to catch because it's

so fast and difficult to see. It's the Seeker's job to catch

it. You've got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters,

Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker,

because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra

hundred and fifty points, so they

    nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much. A game

of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on

for ages -- I think the record is three months, they had to keep

bringing on substitutes so the players could get some sleep. "Well,

that's it -- any questions?"

    Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to do all right,

it was doing it that was going to be the problem.

    "We won't practice with the Snitch yet," said Wood, carefully

shutting it back inside the crate, "it's too dark, we might lose

it. Let's try you out with a few of these."

    He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket and a

few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the air, Wood throwing the

golf balls as hard as he could in every direction for Harry to catch.

    Harry didn't miss a single one, and Wood was delighted. After

half an hour, night had really fallen and they couldn't carry on.

    "That Quidditch cup'll have our name on it this year," said

Wood happily as they trudged back up to the castle. "I wouldn't

be surprised if you turn out better than Charlie Weasley, and he

could have played for England if he hadn't gone off chasing dragons."

    Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch

practice three evenings a week on top of all his homework, but

Harry could hardly believe it when he realized that he'd already

been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home than

Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too, were becoming more and

more interesting now that they had mastered the basics.

    On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking

pumpkin wafting through the corridors. Even better, Professor

Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready

to start making objects fly, something they had all been dying

to try since they'd seen him make Neville's toad zoom around

the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the class into pairs to

practice. Harry's partner was Seamus Finnigan (which was a relief,

because Neville had been trying to catch his eye). Ron, however,

was to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell whether

Ron or Hermione was angrier about this. She hadn't spoken to either

of them since the day Harry's broomstick had arrived.

    "Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been

practicing!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his

pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and

flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important,

too -- never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f'

and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

    It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and flicked,

but the feather they were supposed to be sending skyward just lay

on the desktop. Seamus got so impatient that he prodded it with

his wand and set fire to it -- Harry had to put it out with his hat.

    Ron, at the next table, wasn't having much more luck.

    "Wingardium Leviosa!" he shouted, waving his long arms like

a windmill.

    "You're saying it wrong," Harry heard Hermione snap. "It's

Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

    "You do it, then, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.

    Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand,

and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

    Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet

above their heads.

    "Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone

see here, Miss Granger's done it!"

    Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class. "It's no

wonder no one can stand her," he said to Harry as they pushed their

way into the crowded corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly. "

    Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was

Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face -- and was startled

to see that she was in tears.

    "I think she heard you."

    "So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She must've

noticed she's got no friends."

    Hermione didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all

afternoon. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween

feast, Harry and Ron overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend

Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted

to be left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but a

moment later they had entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween

decorations put Hermione out of their minds.

    A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while

a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making

the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly

on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

    Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato when Professor

Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on

his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair,

slumped against the table, and gasped, "Troll -- in the dungeons --

thought you ought to know."

    He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

    There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers

exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring

silence.

    "Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories

immediately!"

    Percy was in his element.

    "Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the

troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way,

first years coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!"

    "How could a troll get in?" Harry asked as they climbed the

stairs.

    "Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid," said

Ron. "Maybe Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke."

    They passed different groups of people hurrying in different

directions. As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused

Hufflepuffs, Harry suddenly grabbed Ron's arm.

    "I've just thought -- Hermione."

    "What about her?"

    "She doesn't know about the troll."

    Ron bit his lip.

    "Oh, all right," he snapped. "But Percy'd better not see us."

    Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the other way,

slipped down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the

girls' bathroom. They had just turned the corner when they heard

quick footsteps behind them.

    "Percy!" hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large stone griffin.

    Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but Snape. He

crossed the corridor and disappeared from view.

    "What's he doing?" Harry whispered. "Why isn't he down in the

dungeons with the rest of the teachers?"

    "Search me."

    Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after

Snape's fading footsteps.

    "He's heading for the third floor," Harry said, but Ron held

up his hand.

    "Can you smell something?"

    Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a mixture

of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean.

    And then they heard it -- a low grunting, and the shuffling

footfalls of gigantic feet. Ron pointed -- at the end of a passage

to the left, something huge was moving toward them. They shrank

into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

    It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull,

granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small

bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick

as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was

incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along

the floor because its arms were so long.

    The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled

its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into

the room.

    "The keys in the lock," Harry muttered. "We could lock it in."

    "Good idea," said Ron nervously.

    They edged toward the open door, mouths dry, praying the troll

wasn't about to come out of it. With one great leap, Harry managed

to grab the key, slam the door, and lock it.

    'Yes!"

    Flushed with their victory, they started to run back up the

passage, but as they reached the corner they heard something that

made their hearts stop -- a high, petrified scream -- and it was

coming from the chamber they'd just chained up.

    "Oh, no," said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron.

    "It's the girls' bathroom!" Harry gasped.

    "Hermione!" they said together.

    It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what choice did

they have? Wheeling around, they sprinted back to the door and

turned the key, fumbling in their panic. Harry pulled the door open

and they ran inside.

    Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall opposite,

looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her,

knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

    "Confuse it!" Harry said desperately to Ron, and, seizing a tap,

he threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

    The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around,

blinking stupidly, to see what had made the noise. Its mean little

eyes saw Harry. It hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting

its club as it went.

    "Oy, pea-brain!" yelled Ron from the other side of the chamber,

and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll didn't even seem to

notice the pipe hitting its shoulder, but it heard the yell and

paused again, turning its ugly snout toward Ron instead, giving

Harry time to run around it.

    "Come on, run, run!" Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull

her toward the door, but she couldn't move, she was still flat

against the wall, her mouth open with terror.

    The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll

berserk. It roared again and started toward Ron, who was nearest

and had no way to escape.

    Harry then did something that was both very brave and very

stupid: He took a great running jump and managed to fasten his arms

around the troll's neck from behind. The troll couldn't feel Harry

hanging there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit

of wood up its nose, and Harry's wand had still been in his hand when

he'd jumped -- it had gone straight up one of the troll's nostrils.

    Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its club,

with Harry clinging on for dear life; any second, the troll was

going to rip him off or catch him a terrible blow with the club.

    Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled out his

own wand -- not knowing what he was going to do he heard himself

cry the first spell that came into his head: "Wingardium Leviosa!"

    The club flew suddenly out of the troll's hand, rose high, high

up into the air, turned slowly over -- and dropped, with a sickening

crack, onto its owner's head. The troll swayed on the spot and then

fell flat on its face, with a thud that made the whole room tremble.

    Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of breath. Ron

was standing there with his wand still raised, staring at what he

had done.

    It was Hermione who spoke first.

    "Is it -- dead?"

    I don't think so," said Harry, I think it's just been knocked

out."

    He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll's nose. It

was covered in what looked like lumpy gray glue.

    "Urgh -- troll boogers."

    He wiped it on the troll's trousers.

    A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the three of them

look up. They hadn't realized what a racket they had been making,

but of course, someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and

the troll's roars. A moment later, Professor McGonagall had come

bursting into the room, closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell

bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a

faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

    Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at

Ron and Harry. Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips

were white. Hopes of winning fifty points for Gryffindor faded

quickly from Harry's mind.

    "What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall,

with cold fury in her voice. Harry looked at Ron, who was still

standing with his wand in the air. "You're lucky you weren't

killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

    Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked at the

floor. He wished Ron would put his wand down.

    Then a small voice came out of the shadows.

    "Please, Professor McGonagall -- they were looking for me."

    "Miss Granger!"

    Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last.

    I went looking for the troll because I -- I thought I could deal

with it on my own -- you know, because I've read all about them."

    Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie

to a teacher? "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck

his wand up its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They

didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish

me off when they arrived."

    Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story wasn't new

to them.

    "Well -- in that case..." said Professor McGonagall, staring

at the three of them, "Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could

you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own?"

    Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless. Hermione was the

last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was,

pretending she had, to get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape

had started handing out sweets.

    "Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor

for this," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm very disappointed in

you. If you're not hurt at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor

tower. Students are finishing the feast in their houses."

    Hermione left.

    Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron.

    "Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years

could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win

Gryffindor five points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of

this. You may go."

    They hurried out of the chamber and didn't speak at all until

they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from

the smell of the troll, quite apart from anything else.

    "We should have gotten more than ten points," Ron grumbled.

    "Five, you mean, once she's taken off Hermione's."

    "Good of her to get us out of trouble like that," Ron

admitted. "Mind you, we did save her."

    "She might not have needed saving if we hadn't locked the thing

in with her," Harry reminded him.

    They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

    "Pig snout," they said and entered.

    The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone was eating the

food that had been sent up. Hermione, however, stood alone by the

door, waiting for them. There was a very embarrassed pause. Then,

none of them looking at each other, they all said "Thanks," and

hurried off to get plates.

    But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became their

friend. There are some things you can't share without ending up

liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll

is one of them.

    CHAPTER ELEVEN

    QUIDDITCH

    As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The

mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled

steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could

be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the

Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit

fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots.

    The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would

be playing in his first match after weeks of training: Gryffindor

versus Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, they would move up into second

place in the house championship.

    Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that,

as their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But

the news that he was playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and

Harry didn't know which was worse -- people telling him he'd be

brilliant or people telling him they'd be running around underneath

him holding a mattress.

    It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermlone as a friend. He

didn't know how he'd have gotten through all his homework without

her, what with all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was

making them do. She had also tent him Quidditch Through the Ages,

which turned out to be a very interesting read.

    Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of committing

a Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World

Cup match in 1473; that Seekers were usually the smallest and

fastest players, and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to

happen to them; that although people rarely died playing Quidditch,

referees had been known to vanish and turn up months later in the

Sahara Desert.

    Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules

since Harry and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll, and she

was much nicer for it. The day before Harry's first Quidditch match

the three of them were out in the freezing courtyard during break,

and she had conjured them up a bright blue fire that could be

carried around in a jam jar. They were standing with their backs

to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed

at once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved

closer together to block the fire from view; they were sure it

wouldn't be allowed. Unfortunately, something about their guilty

faces caught Snape's eye. He limped over. He hadn't seen the fire,

but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off anyway.

    "What's that you've got there, Potter?"

    It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.

    "Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said

Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor."

    "He's just made that rule up," Harry muttered angrily as Snape

limped away. "Wonder what's wrong with his leg?"

    "Dunno, but I hope it's really hurting him," said Ron bitterly.

    The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry,

Ron, and Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was

checking Harry and Ron's Charms homework for them. She would never

let them copy ("How will you learn?"), but by asking her to read

it through, they got the right answers anyway.

    Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back,

to take his mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be

afraid of Snape? Getting up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going

to ask Snape if he could have it.

    "Better you than me," they said together, but Harry had an idea

that Snape wouldn't refuse if there were other teachers listening.

    He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was

no answer. He knocked again. Nothing.

    Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He

pushed the door ajar and peered inside -- and a horrible scene met

his eyes.

    Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes

above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was

handing Snape bandages.

    "Blasted thing*," Snape was saying. "How are you supposed to

keep your eyes on all three heads at once?"

    Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but --

    "POTTER!"

    Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes

quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped.

    "I just wondered if I could have my book back."

    "GET OUT! OUT!"

    Harry left, before Snape could take any more points from

Gryffindor. He sprinted back upstairs.

    "Did you get it?" Ron asked as Harry joined them. "What's

the matter?"

    In a low whisper, Harry told them what he'd seen.

    "You know what this means?" he finished breathlessly. "He tried

to get past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was

going when we saw him -- he's after whatever it's guarding! And Id

bet my broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!"

    Hermione's eyes were wide.

    "No -- he wouldn't, she said. "I know he's not very nice,

but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."

    "Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or

something," snapped Ron. "I'm with Harry. I wouldn't put anything

past Snape. But what's he after? What's that dog guarding?"

    Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the same

question. Neville was snoring loudly, but Harry couldn't sleep. He

tried to empty his mind -- he needed to sleep, he had to, he had

his first Quidditch match in a few hours -- but the expression on

Snape's face when Harry had seen his leg wasn't easy to forget.

    The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall

was full of the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheer

ful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match.

    "You've got to eat some breakfast."

    "I don't want anything."

    "Just a bit of toast," wheedled Hermione.

    "I'm not hungry."

    Harry felt terrible. In an hour's time he'd be walking onto

the field.

    "Harry, you need your strength," said Seamus Finnigan. "Seekers

are always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

    "Thanks, Seamus," said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on

his sausages.

    By eleven o'clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands

around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats

might be raised high in the air, but it was still difficult to see

what was going on sometimes.

    Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean the West Ham

fan up in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted

a large banner on one of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said

Potter for President, and Dean, who was good at drawing, had done

a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then Hermione had performed a

tricky little charm so that the paint flashed different colors.

    Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of the team

were changing into their scarlet Quidditch robes (Slytherin would

be playing in green).

    Wood cleared his throat for silence.

    "Okay, men," he said.

    "And women," said Chaser Angelina Johnson.

    "And women," Wood agreed. "This is it."

    "The big one," said Fred Weasley.

    "The one we've all been waiting for," said George.

    "We know Oliver's speech by heart," Fred told Harry, "we were

on the team last year."

    "Shut up, you two," said Wood. "This is the best team

Gryffindor's had in years. We're going to win. I know it."

    He glared at them all as if to say, "Or else."

    "Right. It's time. Good luck, all of you."

    Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker room and,

hoping his knees weren't going to give way, walked onto the field

to loud cheers.

    Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the

field waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand.

    "Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," she said, once they

were all gathered around her. Harry noticed that she seemed to

be speaking particularly to the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint,

a sixth year. Harry thought Flint looked as if he had some troll

blood in him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fluttering

banner high above, flashing Potter for President over the crowd. His

heart skipped. He felt braver.

    "Mount your brooms, please."

    Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand.

    Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.

    Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were

off. "And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of

Gryffindor -- what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather

attractive, too --"

    "JORDAN!"

    "Sorry, Professor."

    The Weasley twins' friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary

for the match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.

    "And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia

Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve --

back to Johnson and -- no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle,

Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes --

Flint flying like an eagle up there -- he's going to sc- no, stopped

by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors

take the Quaffle -- that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there,

nice dive around Flint, off up the field and -- OUCH -- that must

have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger -- Quaffle taken

by the Slytherins -- that's Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal

posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger -- sent his way by Fred

or George Weasley, can't tell which -- nice play by the Gryffindor

Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a

clear field ahead and off she goes -- she's really flying -- dodges

a speeding Bludger -- the goal posts are ahead -- come on, now,

Angelina -- Keeper Bletchley dives -- misses -- GRYFFINDORS SCORE!"

    Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and moans

from the Slytherins.

    "Budge up there, move along."

    "Hagrid!"

    Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid enough space

to join them.

    "Bin watchin' from me hut," said Hagrid, patting a large pair

of binoculars around his neck, "But it isn't the same as bein'

in the crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"

    "Nope," said Ron. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."

    "Kept outta trouble, though, that's somethin'," said Hagrid,

raising his binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that

was Harry.

    Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting

about for some sign of the Snitch. This was part of his and Wood's

game plan.

    "Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the Snitch,"

Wood had said. "We don't want you attacked before you have to be."

    When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple of

loop-the-loops to let off his feelings. Now he was back to staring

around for the Snitch. Once he caught sight of a flash of gold, but

it was just a reflection from one of the Weasleys' wristwatches,

and once a Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a

cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and Fred Weasley came

chasing after it.

    "All right there, Harry?" he had time to yell, as he beat the

Bludger furiously toward Marcus Flint.

    "Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan was saying, "Chaser Pucey

ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward

the -- wait a moment -- was that the Snitch?"

    A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the

Quaffle, too busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold

that had passed his left ear.

    Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived downward

after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs had seen it,

too. Neck and neck they hurtled toward the Snitch -all the Chasers

seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as

they hung in midair to watch.

    Harry was faster than Higgs -- he could see the little round

ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead - - he put on an extra

spurt of speed --

    WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors below --

Marcus Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry's broom spun

off course, Harry holding on for dear life.

    "Foul!" screamed the Gryffindors.

    Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free

shot at the goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion,

of course, the Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again.

    Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, "Send him off,

ref! Red card!"

    "What are you talking about, Dean?" said Ron.

    "Red card!" said Dean furiously. "In soccer you get shown the

red card and you're out of the game!"

    "But this isn't soccer, Dean," Ron reminded him.

    Hagrid, however, was on Dean's side.

    "They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta

the air."

    Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.

    "So -- after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating

    "Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall.

    "I mean, after that open and revolting foul

    'Jordan, I'm warning you --"

    "All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker,

which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor,

taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play,

Gryffindor still in possession."

    It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went spinning

dangerously past his head, that it happened. His broom gave a

sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was

going to fall. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands

and knees. He'd never felt anything like that.

    It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck

him off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck

their riders off. Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor

goal- posts -- he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out

-- and then he realized that his broom was completely out of his

control. He couldn't turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. It was

zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent

swishing movements that almost unseated him.

    Lee was still commentating.

    "Slytherin in possession -- Flint with the Quaffle -- passes

Spinnet -- passes Bell -- hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope

it broke his nose -- only joking, Professor -- Slytherins score --

A no...

    The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed

that Harry's broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying- him

slowly higher, away from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.

    "Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," Hagrid mumbled. He stared

through his binoculars. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he'd lost

control of his broom... but he can't have...."

    Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the

stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only

just managing to hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry's broom

had given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling

from it, holding on with only one hand.

    "Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?" Seamus

whispered.

    "Can't have," Hagrid said, his voice shaking. "Can't nothing

interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic -- no kid

could do that to a Nimbus Two Thousand."

    At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid's binoculars, but instead

of looking up at Harry, she started looking frantically at the crowd.

    "What are you doing?" moaned Ron, gray-faced.

    "I knew it," Hermione gasped, "Snape -- look."

    Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle of the

stands opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on Harry and was

muttering nonstop under his breath.

    "He's doing something -- jinxing the broom," said Hermione.

    "What should we do?"

    "Leave it to me."

    Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had disappeared. Ron

turned the binoculars back on Harry. His broom was vibrating so

hard, it was almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The

whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys

flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one of their brooms, but

it was no good -- every time they got near him, the broom would

jump higher still. They dropped lower and circled beneath him,

obviously hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus

    Flint seized the Quaffle and scored five times without anyone

noticing.

    "Come on, Hermione," Ron muttered desperately.

    Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape

stood, and was now racing along the row behind him; she didn't even

stop to say sorry as she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into

the row in front. Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled out her

wand, and whispered a few, well- chosen words. Bright blue flames

shot from her wand onto the hem of Snape's robes.

    It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was

on fire. A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the

fire off him into a little jar in her pocket, she scrambled back

along the row -- Snape would never know what had happened.

    It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber

back on to his broom.

    "Neville, you can look!" Ron said. Neville had been sobbing

into Hagrid's jacket for the last five minutes.

    Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him

clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick --

he hit the field on all fours -- coughed -- and something gold fell

into his hand.

    "I've got the Snitch!" he shouted, waving it above his head,

and the game ended in complete confusion.

    "He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it," Flint was still

howling twenty minutes later, but it made no difference -- Harry

hadn't broken any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting

the results -- Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy points

to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He was being made a

cup of strong tea back in Hagrid's hut, with Ron and Hermione.

    "It was Snape," Ron was explaining, "Hermione and I saw him. He

was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes

off you."

    "Rubbish," said Hagrid, who hadn't heard a word of what had

gone on next to him in the stands. "Why would Snape do somethin'

like that?"

    Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, wondering what

to tell him. Harry decided on the truth.

    "I found out something about him," he told Hagrid. "He tried to

get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think

he was trying to steal whatever it's guarding."

    Hagrid dropped the teapot.

    "How do you know about Fluffy?" he said.

    "Fluffy?"

    "Yeah -- he's mine -- bought him off a Greek chappie I met in

the pub las' year -- I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the

    "Yes?" said Harry eagerly.

    "Now, don't ask me anymore," said Hagrid gruffly. "That's top

secret, that is."

    "But Snape's trying to steal it."

    "Rubbish," said Hagrid again. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher,

he'd do nothin' of the sort."

    "So why did he just try and kill Harry?" cried Hermione.

    The afternoon's events certainly seemed to have changed her

mind about Snape.

    I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them!

    You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all,

I saw him!"

    "I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know

why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill

a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh -- yer meddlin'

in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that

dog, an' you forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor

Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel --"

    "Aha!" said Harry, "so there's someone called Nicolas Flamel

involved, is there?"

    Hagrid looked furious with himself.

    CHAPTER TWELVE

    THE MIRROR OF ERISED

    Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts

woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze

solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several

snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the

back of his turban. The few owls that managed to battle their way

through the stormy sky to deliver mail had to be nursed back to

health by Hagrid before they could fly off again.

    No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Gryffindor

common room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the drafty

corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in

the classrooms. Worst of all were Professor Snape's classes down

in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist before them and

they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.

    "I do feel so sorry," said Draco Malfoy, one Potions class,

"for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas

because they're not wanted at home."

    He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle

chuckled. Harry, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish,

ignored them. Malfoy had been even more unpleasant than usual since

the Quidditch match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had lost, he

had tried to get everyone laughing at how a wide-mouthed tree frog

would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. Then he'd realized that

nobody found this funny, because they were all so impressed at the

way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking broomstick. So Malfoy,

jealous and angry, had gone back to taunting Harry about having no

proper family.

    It was true that Harry wasn't going back to Privet Drive for

Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come around the week before,

making a list of students who would be staying for the holidays,

and Harry had signed up at once. He didn't feel sorry for himself at

all; this would probably be the best Christmas he'd ever had. Ron

and his brothers were staying, too, because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley

were going to Romania to visit Charlie.

    When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found

a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet

sticking out at the bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that

Hagrid was behind it.

    "Hi, Hagrid, want any help?" Ron asked, sticking his head

through the branches.

    "Nah, I'm all right, thanks, Ron."

    "Would you mind moving out of the way?" came Malfoys cold

drawl from behind them. "Are you trying to earn some extra money,

Weasley? Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts,

I suppose -- that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared

to what your family's used to."

    Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs.

    "WEASLEY!"

    Ron let go of the front of Malfoy's robes.

    "He was provoked, Professor Snape," said Hagrid, sticking his

huge hairy face out from behind the tree. "Malfoy was insultin'

his family."

    "Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,"

said Snape silkily. "Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be

grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you."

    Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the tree,

scattering needles everywhere and smirking.

    "I'll get him," said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy's back,

"one of these days, I'll get him --"

    "I hate them both," said Harry, "Malfoy and Snape."

    "Come on, cheer up, it's nearly Christmas," said Hagrid. "Tell

yeh what, come with me an' see the Great Hall, looks a treat."

    So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off to -the

Great Hall, where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were

busy with the Christmas decorations.

    "Ah, Hagrid, the last tree -- put it in the far corner,

would you?"

    The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung

all around the walls, and no less than twelve towering Christmas

trees stood around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles,

some glittering with hundreds of candles.

    "How many days you got left until yer holidays?" Hagrid asked.

    "Just one," said Hermione. "And that reminds me -Harry, Ron,

we've got half an hour before lunch, we should be in the library."

    "Oh yeah, you're right," said Ron, tearing his eyes away from

Professor Flitwick, who had golden bubbles blossoming out of his

wand and was trailing them over the branches of the new tree.

    "The library?" said Hagrid, following them out of the hall. "Just

before the holidays? Bit keen, aren't yeh?"

    "Oh, we're not working," Harry told him brightly. "Ever since you

mentioned Nicolas Flamel we've been trying to find out who he is."

    "You what?" Hagrid looked shocked. "Listen here -- I've told

yeh -- drop it. It's nothin' to you what that dog's guardin'."

    "We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that's all,"

said Hermione.

    "Unless you'd like to tell us and save us the trouble?" Harry

added. "We must've been through hundreds of books already and we

can't find him anywhere -- just give us a hint -- I know I've read

his name somewhere."

    "I'm sayin' nothin, said Hagrid flatly.

    "Just have to find out for ourselves, then," said Ron, and they

left Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried off to the library.

    They had indeed been searching books for Flamel's name ever

since Hagrid had let it slip, because how else were they going to

find out what Snape was trying to steal? The trouble was, it was

very hard to know where to begin, not knowing what Flamel might

have done to get himself into a book. He wasn't in Great Wizards

of the Twentieth Century, or Notable Magical Names of Our Time;

he was missing, too, from Important Modern Magical Discoveries,

and A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry. And then, of course,

there was the sheer size of the library; tens of thousands of books;

thousands of shelves; hundreds of narrow rows.

    Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had

decided to search while Ron strode off down a row of books and

started pulling them off the shelves at random. Harry wandered

over to the Restricted Section. He had been wondering for a while

if Flamel wasn't somewhere in there. Unfortunately, you needed a

specially signed note from one of the teachers to look in any of

the restricted books, and he knew he'd never get one. These were

the books containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at Hogwarts,

and only read by older students studying advanced Defense Against

the Dark Arts.

    "What are you looking for, boy?"

    "Nothing," said Harry.

    Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather duster at him.

    "You'd better get out, then. Go on -- out!"

    Wishing he'd been a bit quicker at thinking up some story,

Harry left the library. He, Ron, and Hermione had already agreed

they'd better not ask Madam Pince where they could find Flamel. They

were sure she'd be able to tell them, but they couldn't risk Snape

hearing what they were up to.

    Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other two had

found anything, but he wasn't very hopeful. They had been looking

for two weeks, after A, but as they only had odd moments between

lessons it wasn't surprising they'd found nothing. What they really

needed was a nice long search without Madam Pince breathing down

their necks.

    Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, shaking their

heads. They went off to lunch.

    "You will keep looking while I'm away, won't you?" said

Hermione. "And send me an owl if you find anything."

    "And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,"

said Ron. "It'd be safe to ask them."

    "Very safe, as they're both dentists," said Hermione.

    Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were having too

good a time to think much about Flamel. They had the dormitory to

themselves and the common room was far emptier than usual, so they

were able to get the good armchairs by the fire. They sat by the

hour eating anything they could spear on a toasting fork -- bread,

English muffins, marshmallows -- and plotting ways of getting Malfoy

expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they wouldn't work.

    Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly

like Muggle chess except that the figures were alive, which made

it a lot like directing troops in battle. Ron's set was very old

and battered. Like everything else he owned, it had once belonged to

someone else in his family -- in this case, his grandfather. However,

old chessmen weren't a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he

never had trouble getting them to do what he wanted.

    Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and

they didn't trust him at all. He wasn't a very good player yet

and they kept shouting different bits of advice at him, which was

confusing. "Don't send me there, can't you see his knight? Send him,

we can afford to lose him." On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed

looking forward to the next day for the food and the fun, but not

expecting any presents at all. When he woke early in the morning,

however, the first thing he saw was a small pile of packages at

the foot of his bed.

    "Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry scrambled out of

bed and pulled on his bathrobe.

    "You, too," said Harry. "Will you look at this? I've got some

presents!"

    "What did you expect, turnips?" said Ron, turning to his own

pile, which was a lot bigger than Harry's.

    Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown

paper and scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside

was a roughly cut wooden flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it

himself. Harry blew it -- it sounded a bit like an owl.

    A second, very small parcel contained a note.

    We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped to the note was a fifty-pence

piece.

    "That's friendly," said Harry.

    Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.

    "Weird!" he said, 'NMat a shape! This is money?"

    "You can keep it," said Harry, laughing at how pleased Ron

was. "Hagrid and my aunt and uncle -- so who sent these?"

    "I think I know who that one's from," said Ron, turning a bit

pink and pointing to a very lumpy parcel. "My mom. I told her you

didn't expect any presents and -- oh, no," he groaned, "she's made

you a Weasley sweater."

    Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted

sweater in emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge.

    "Every year she makes us a sweater," said Ron, unwrapping his

own, "and mine's always maroon."

    "That's really nice of her," said Harry, trying the fudge,

which was very tasty.

    His next present also contained candy -- a large box of Chocolate

Frogs from Hermione.

    This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It

was very light. He unwrapped it.

    Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor

where it lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped.

    "I've heard of those," he said in a hushed voice, dropping the

box of Every Flavor Beans he'd gotten from Hermione. "If that's

what I think it is -- they're really rare, and really valuable."

    "What is it?"

    Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was

strange to the touch, like water woven into material.

    "It's an invisibility cloak," said Ron, a look of awe on his

face. "I'm sure it is -- try it on."

    Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron gave a yell.

    "It is! Look down!"

    Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He dashed to

the mirror. Sure enough, his reflection looked back at him, just his

head suspended in midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled

the cloak over his head and his reflection vanished completely.

    "There's a note!" said Ron suddenly. "A note fell out of it!"

    Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. Written in

narrow, loopy writing he had never seen before were the following

words: Your father left this in my possession before he died. It

is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

    A Very Merry Christmas to you.

    There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron was

admiring the cloak.

    "I'd give anything for one of these," he said. "Anything. What's

the matter?"

    "Nothing," said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had sent the

cloak? Had it really once belonged to his father?

    Before he could say or think anything else, the dormitory door

was flung open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed

the cloak quickly out of sight. He didn't feel like sharing it with

anyone else yet.

    "Merry Christmas!"

    "Hey, look -- Harry's got a Weasley sweater, too!"

    Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one with a large

yellow F on it, the other a G.

    "Harry's is better than ours, though," said Fred, holding up

Harry's sweater. "She obviously makes more of an effort if you're

not family."

    "Why aren't you wearing yours, Ron?" George demanded. "Come on,

get it on, they're lovely and warm."

    "I hate maroon," Ron moaned halfheartedly as he pulled it over

his head.

    "You haven't got a letter on yours," George observed. "I suppose

she thinks you don't forget your name. But we're not stupid --

we know we're called Gred and Forge."

    "What's all th is noise.

    Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, looking

disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway through unwrapping his

presents as he, too, carried a lumpy sweater over his arm, which

    Fred seized.

    "P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we're all wearing

ours, even Harry got one."

    "I -- don't -- want said Percy thickly, as the twins forced

the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses askew.

    "And you're not sitting with the prefects today, either," said

    George. "Christmas is a time for family."

    They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his

side by his sweater.

    Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas dinner. A

hundred fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes;

platters of chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats

of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce -- and stacks of wizard

crackers every few feet along the table. These fantastic party

favors were nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys usually

bought, with their little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats

inside. Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn't just

bang, it went off with a blast like a cannon and engulfed them all

in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the inside exploded a rear

admiral's hat and several live, white mice. Up at the High Table,

Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard's hat for a flowered

bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick had

just read him.

    Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. Percy nearly

broke his teeth on a silver sickle embedded in his slice. Harry

watched Hagrid getting redder and redder in the face as he called

for more wine, finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the cheek,

who, to Harry's amazement, giggled and blushed, her top hat lopsided.

    When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down with a stack

of things out of the crackers, including a pack of nonexplodable,

luminous balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard

chess set. The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a nasty

feeling they were going to end up as Mrs. Norris's Christmas dinner.

    Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon having a furious

snowball fight on the grounds. Then, cold, wet, and gasping for

breath, they returned to the fire in the Gryffindor common room,

where Harry broke in his new chess set by losing spectacularly to

Ron. He suspected he wouldn't have lost so badly if Percy hadn't

tried to help him so much.

    After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and

Christmas cake, everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much

before bed except sit and watch Percy chase Fred and George all

over Gryffindor tower because they'd stolen his prefect badge.

    It had been Harry's best Christmas day ever. Yet something had

been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Not until he climbed

into bed was he free to think about it: the invisibility cloak and

whoever had sent it.

    Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing mysterious to

bother him, fell asleep almost as soon as he'd drawn the curtains

of his four-poster. Harry leaned over the side of his own bed and

pulled the cloak out from under it.

    His father's... this had been his father's. He let the material

flow over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well,

the note had said.

    He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and wrapped the

cloak around himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight

and shadows. It was a very funny feeling.

    Use it well.

    Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was

open to him in this cloak. Excitement flooded through him as he

stood there in the dark and silence. He could go anywhere in this,

anywhere, and Filch would never know.

    Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him? Something

held him back -- his father's cloak -- he felt that this time --

the first time -- he wanted to use it alone.

    He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the

common room, and climbed through the portrait hole.

    "Who's there?" squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said nothing. He

walked quickly down the corridor.

    Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing, and

thought. And then it came to him. The Restricted Section in the

library. He'd be able to read as long as he liked, as long as it

took to find out who Flamel was. He set off, drawing the invisibility

cloak tight around him as he walked.

    The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a lamp

to see his way along the rows of books. The lamp looked as if it

was floating along in midair, and even though Harry could feel his

arm supporting it, the sight gave him the creeps.

    The Restricted Section was right at the back of the library. Step

ping carefully over the rope that separated these books from the

rest of the library, he held up his lamp to read the titles.

    They didn't tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold letters

spelled words in languages Harry couldn't understand. Some had no

title at all. One book had a dark stain on it that looked horribly

like blood. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled. Maybe

he was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought a faint whispering

was coming from the books, as though they knew someone was there

who shouldn't be.

    He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down carefully on the

floor, he looked along the bottom shelf for an interestinglooking

book. A large black and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it

out with difficulty, because it was very heavy, and, balancing it

on his knee, let it fall open.

    A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence -- the book

was screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but the shriek went on and

on, one high, unbroken, earsplitting note. He stumbled backward

and knocked over his lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he

heard footsteps coming down the corridor outside -- stuffing the

shrieking book back on the shelf, he ran for it. He passed Filch in

the doorway; Filch's pale, wild eyes looked straight through him,

and Harry slipped under Filch's outstretched arm and streaked off

up the corridor, the book's shrieks still ringing in his ears.

    He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of armor. He

had been so busy getting away from the library, he hadn't paid

attention to where he was going. Perhaps because it was dark, he

didn't recognize where he was at all. There was a suit of armor

near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be five floors above there.

    "You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone

was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library

Restricted Section."

    Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he was,

Filch must know a shortcut, because his soft, greasy voice was

getting nearer, and to his horror, it was Snape who replied,

"The Restricted Section? Well, they can't be far, we'll catch them."

    Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around

the corner ahead. They couldn't see him, of course, but it was a

narrow corridor and if they came much nearer they'd knock right

into him -- the cloak didn't stop him from being solid.

    He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to

his left. It was his only hope. He squeezed through it, holding

his breath, trying not to move it, and to his relief he managed to

get inside the room without their noticing anything. They walked

straight past, and Harry leaned against the wall, breathing deeply,

listening to their footsteps dying away. That had been close, very

close. It was a few seconds before he noticed anything about the

room he had hidden in.

    It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks

and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned

wastepaper basket -- but propped against the wall facing him was

something that didn't look as if it belonged there, something that

looked as if someone had just put it there to keep it out of the way.

    It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with

an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an

inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru

oyt on wohsi. His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch

and Snape, Harry moved nearer to the mirror, wanting to look at

himself but see no reflection again. He stepped in front of it.

    He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from

screaming. He whirled around. His heart was pounding far more

furiously than when the book had screamed -- for he had seen not

only himself in the mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing

right behind him.

    But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly

back to the mirror.

    There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and

there, reflected behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked

over his shoulder -- but still, no one was there. Or were they all

invisible, too? Was he in fact in a room full of invisible people

and this mirror's trick was that it reflected them, invisible or not?

    He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his

reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and

felt the air behind him. If she was really there, he'd touch her,

their reflections were so close together, but he felt only air --

she and the others existed only in the mirror.

    She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes

-- her eyes are just like mine, Harry thought, edging a little

closer to the glass. Bright green -- exactly the same shape,

but then he noticed that she was crying; smiling, but crying at

the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to

her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very

untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry's did.

    Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly

touching that of his reflection.

    "Mom?" he whispered. "Dad?"

    They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked

into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and saw other

pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little

old man who looked as though he had Harry's knobbly knees -- Harry

was looking at his family, for the first time in his life.

    The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily

back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though

he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a

powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

    How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not

fade and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back

to his senses. He couldn't stay here, he had to find his way back

to bed. He tore his eyes away from his mother's face, whispered,

"I'll come back," and hurried from the room.

    "You could have woken me up," said Ron, crossly.

    "You can come tonight, I'm going back, I want to show you

the mirror.

    "I'd like to see your mom and dad," Ron said eagerly.

    "And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you'll

be able to show me your other brothers and everyone."

    "You can see them any old time," said Ron. "Just come round my

house this summer. Anyway, maybe it only shows dead people. Shame

about not finding Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something,

why aren't you eating anything?"

    Harry couldn't eat. He had seen his parents and would be seeing

them again tonight. He had almost forgotten about Flamel. It didn't

seem very important anymore. Who cared what the three headed dog

was guarding? What did it matter if Snape stole it, really?

    "Are you all right?" said Ron. "You look odd."

    What Harry feared most was that he might not be able to find the

mirror room again. With Ron covered in the cloak, too, they had to

walk much more slowly the next night. They tried retracing Harry's

route from the library, wandering around the dark passageways for

nearly an hour.

    "I'm freezing," said Ron. "Let's forget it and go back."

    "No!" Harry hissed. I know it's here somewhere."

    They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite

direction, but saw no one else. just as Ron started moaning that

his feet were dead with cold, Harry spotted the suit of armor.

    "It's here -- just here -- yes!"

    They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak from around

his shoulders and ran to the mirror.

    There they were. His mother and father beamed at the sight

of him.

    "See?" Harry whispered.

    "I can't see anything."

    "Look! Look at them all... there are loads of them...."

    "I can only see you."

    "Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am."

    Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the mirror,

he couldn't see his family anymore, just Ron in his paisley pajamas.

    Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image.

    "Look at me!" he said.

    "Can you see all your family standing around you?"

    "No -- I'm alone -- but I'm different -- I look older -- and

I'm head boy!"

    "What?"

    "I am -- I'm wearing the badge like Bill used to -- and I'm

holding the house cup and the Quidditch cup -- I'm Quidditch

captain, too.

    Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to look excitedly

at Harry.

    "Do you think this mirror shows the future?"

    "How can it? All my family are dead -- let me have another

look --"

    "You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit more time."

    "You're only holding the Quidditch cup, what's interesting

about that? I want to see my parents."

    "Don't push me --"

    A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to their

discussion. They hadn't realized how loudly they had been talking.

    "Quick!"

    Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous eyes of

Mrs. Norris came round the door. Ron and Harry stood quite still,

both thinking the same thing -- did the cloak work on cats? After

what seemed an age, she turned and left.

    "This isn't safe -- she might have gone for Filch, I bet she

heard us. Come on."

    And Ron pulled Harry out of the room.

    The snow still hadn't melted the next morning.

    "Want to play chess, Harry?" said Ron.

    "No."

    "Why don't we go down and visit Hagrid?"

    "No... you go..."

    "I know what you're thinking about, Harry, that mirror. Don't

go back tonight."

    "Why not?"

    "I dunno, I've just got a bad feeling about it -- and

anyway, you've had too many close shaves already. Filch, Snape,

and Mrs. Norris are wandering around. So what if they can't see

you? What if they walk into you? What if you knock something over?"

    "You sound like Hermione."

    "I'm serious, Harry, don't go."

    But Harry only had one thought in his head, which was to get

back in front of the mirror, and Ron wasn't going to stop him.

    That third night he found his way more quickly than before. He

was walking so fast he knew he was making more noise than was wise,

but he didn't meet anyone.

    And there were his mother and father smiling at him again,

and one of his grandfathers nodding happily. Harry sank down to sit

on the floor in front of the mirror. There was nothing to stop him

from staying here all night with his family. Nothing at all.

    Except --

    "So -- back again, Harry?"

    Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked

behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other

than Albus Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him,

so desperate to get to the mirror he hadn't noticed him.

    " -- I didn't see you, sir."

    "Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," said

Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see that he was smiling.

    "So," said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the

floor with Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered

the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

    "I didn't know it was called that, Sir."

    "But I expect you've realized by now what it does?"

    "It -- well -- it shows me my family --"

    "And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy."

    "How did you know --?"

    "I don't need a cloak to become invisible," said Dumbledore

gently. "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"

    Harry shook his head.

    "Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to

use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would

look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"

    Harry thought. Then he said slowly, "It shows us what we

want... whatever we want..."

    "Yes and no," said Dumbledore quietly. "It shows us nothing

more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our

hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing

around you. Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed

by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all

of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or

truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have

seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or

even possible.

    "The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I

ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across

it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams

and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that

admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

    Harry stood up.

    "Sir -- Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?"

    "Obviously, you've just done so," Dumbledore smiled. "You may

ask me one more thing, however."

    "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

    "I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."

    Harry stared.

    "One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another

Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People

will insist on giving me books."

    It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that

Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful. But then, he thought,

as he shoved Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal

question.

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    NICOLAS FLAMEL

    Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the Mirror

of Erised again, and for the rest of the Christmas holidays the

invisibility cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry

wished he could forget what he'd seen in the mirror as easily, but

he couldn't. He started having nightmares. Over and over again he

dreamed about his parents disappearing in a flash of green light,

while a high voice cackled with laughter.

    "You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad,"

said Ron, when Harry told him about these drearns.

    Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a

different view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea

of Harry being out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a row

("If Filch had caught you!"), and disappointment that he hadn't at

least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.

    They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a li-

brary book, even though Harry was still sure he'd read the name

somewhere. Once term had started, they were back to skimming through

books for ten minutes during their breaks. Harry had even less time

than the other two, because Quidditch practice had started again.

    Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless

rain that had replaced the snow couldn't dampen his spirits. The

Weasleys complained that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was

on Wood's side. If they won their next match, against Hufflepuff,

they would overtake Slytherin in the house championship for the first

time in seven years. Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found

that he had fewer nightmares when he was tired out after training.

    Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session,

Wood gave the team a bit of bad news. He'd just gotten very angry

with the Weasleys, who kept dive-bombing each other and pretending

to fall off their brooms.

    "Will you stop messing around!" he yelled. "That's exactly

the sort of thing that'll lose us the match! Snape's refereeing

this time, and he'll be looking for any excuse to knock points

off Gryffindor!"

    George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.

    "Snape's refereeing?" he spluttered through a mouthful of

mud. "When's he ever refereed a Quidditch match? He's not going to

be fair if we might overtake Slytherin."

    The rest of the team landed next to George to complain, too.

    "It's not my fault," said Wood. "We've just got to make sure

we play a clean game, so Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us."

    Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had another reason

for not wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch....

    The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual

at the end of practice, but Harry headed straight back to the

Gryffindor common room, where he found Ron and Hermione playing

chess. Chess was the only thing Hermione ever lost at, something

Harry and Ron thought was very good for her.

    "Don't talk to me for a moment," said Ron when Harry sat down

next to him, "I need to concen --" He caught sight of Harry's

face. "What's the matter with you? You look terrible."

    Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the

other two about Snape's sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch

referee.

    "Don't play," said Hermione at once.

    "Say you're ill," said Ron.

    "Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggested.

    "Really break your leg," said Ron.

    "I can't," said Harry. "There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back

out, Gryffindor can't play at all."

    At that moment Neville toppled into the common room. How he

had managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone's guess,

because his legs had been stuck together with what they recognized

at once as the Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all

the way up to Gryffindor tower.

    Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who leapt up and

performed the countercurse. Neville's legs sprang apart and he

got to his feet, trembling. "What happened?" Hermione asked him,

leading him over to sit with Harry and Ron.

    "Malfoy," said Neville shakily. "I met him outside the

library. He said he'd been looking for someone to practice that on."

    "Go to Professor McGonagall!" Hermione urged Neville. "Report

him!"

    Neville shook his head.

    "I don't want more trouble," he mumbled.

    "You've got to stand up to him, Neville!" said Ron. "He's used

to walking all over people, but that's no reason to lie down in

front of him and make it easier."

    "There's no need to tell me I'm not brave enough to be in

Gryffindor, Malfoy's already done that," Neville choked out.

    Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate

Frog, the very last one from the box Hermione had given him for

Christmas. He gave it to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.

    "You're worth twelve of Malfoy," Harry said. "The Sorting

Hat chose you for Gryffindor, didn't it? And where's Malfoy? In

stinking Slytherin."

    Neville's lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the frog.

    "Thanks, Harry... I think I'll go to bed.... D'you want the card,

you collect them, don't you?"

    As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card.

    "Dumbledore again," he said, "He was the first one I ever-"

    He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked

up at Ron and Hermione.

    "I've found him!" he whispered. "I've found Flamel! I told you

I'd read the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming

here -- listen to this: 'Dumbledore is particularly famous for his

defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery

of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with

his partner, Nicolas Flamel'!"

    Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn't looked so excited since

they'd gotten back the marks for their very first piece of homework.

    "Stay there!" she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to

the girls' dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had time to exchange

mystified looks before she was dashing back, an enormous old book

in her arms.

    "I never thought to look in here!" she whispered excitedly. "I

got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading."

    "Light?" said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she'd

looked something up, and started flicking frantically through the

pages, muttering to herself.

    At last she found what she was looking for.

    "I knew it! I knew it!"

    "Are we allowed to speak yet?" said Ron grumpily. Hermione

ignored him.

    "Nicolas Flamel," she whispered dramatically, "is the only

known maker of the Sorcerer's Stone!"

    This didn't have quite the effect she'd expected.

    "The what?" said Harry and Ron.

    "Oh, honestly, don't you two read? Look -- read that, there."

    She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and Ron read: The

ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer's

Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The stone will

transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of

Life, which will make the drinker immortal.

    There have been many reports of the Sorcerer's Stone over the

centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to

Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel,

who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year,

enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred

and fifty-eight).

    "See?" said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. "The dog

must be guarding Flamel's Sorcerer's Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore

to keep it safe for him, because they're friends and he knew someone

was after it, that's why he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!"

    "A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!" said

Harry. "No wonder Snape's after it! Anyone would want it."

    "And no wonder we couldn't find Flamel in that Study of Recent

Developments in Wizardry," said Ron. "He's not exactly recent if

he's six hundred and sixty-five, is he?"

    The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while copying

down different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Ron were

still discussing what they'd do with a Sorcerer's Stone if they had

one. It wasn't until Ron said he'd buy his own Quidditch team that

Harry remembered about Snape and the coming match.

    "I'm going to play," he told Ron and Hermione. "If I don't, all

the Slytherins will think I'm just too scared to face Snape. I'll

show them... it'll really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win."

    "Just as long as we're not wiping you off the field," said

Hermione.

    As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more

nervous, whatever he told Ron and Hermione. The rest of the team

wasn't too calm, either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the

house championship was wonderful, no one had done it for seven years,

but would they be allowed to, with such a biased referee?

    Harry didn't know whether he was imagining it or not, but

he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times,

he even wondered whether Snape was following him, trying to catch

him on his own. Potions lessons were turning into a sort of weekly

torture, Snape was so horrible to Harry. Could Snape possibly know

they'd found out about the Sorcerer's Stone? Harry didn't see how

he could -- yet he sometimes had the horrible feeling that Snape

could read minds.

    Harry knew, when they wished him good luck outside the locker

rooms the next afternoon, that Ron and Hermione were wondering

whether they'd ever see him alive again. This wasn't what you'd

call comforting. Harry hardly heard a word of Wood's pep talk as he

pulled on his Quidditch robes and picked up his Nimbus Two Thousand.

    Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands

next to Neville, who couldn't understand why they looked so

grim and worried, or why they had both brought their wands to the

match. Little did Harry know that Ron and Hermione had been secretly

practicing the Leg-Locker Curse. They'd gotten the idea from Malfoy

using it on Neville, and were ready to use it on Snape if he showed

any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.

    "Now, don't forget, it's Locomotor Mortis," Hermione muttered

as Ron slipped his wand up his sleeve.

    "I know," Ron snapped. "Don't nag."

    Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry aside.

    "Don't want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an

early capture of the Snitch it's now. Finish the game before Snape

can favor Hufflepuff too much."

    "The whole school's out there!" said Fred Weasley, peering out

of the door. "Even -- blimey -- Dumbledore's come to watch!"

    Harry's heart did a somersault.

    "Dumbledore?" he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred

was right. There was no mistaking that silver beard.

    Harry could have laughed out loud with relief He was safe. There

was simply no way that Snape would dare to try to hurt him if

Dumbledore was watching.

    Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams

marched onto the field, something that Ron noticed, too.

    "I've never seen Snape look so mean," he told Hermione. "Look

-they're off Ouch!"

    Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.

    "Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there."

    Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.

    "Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this

time? Anyone want a bet? What about you, Weasley?"

    Ron didn't answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty

because George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had

all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry,

who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.

    "You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor

team?" said Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded

Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. "It's people

they feel sorry for. See, there's Potter, who's got no parents,

then there's the Weasleys, who've got no money -- you should be on

the team, Longbottom, you've got no brains."

    Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.

    "I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy," he stammered.

    Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still

not daring to take his eyes from the game, said, "You tell him,

Neville."

    "Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley,

and that's saying something."

    Ron's nerves were already stretched to the breaking point with

anxiety about Harry.

    "I'm warning you, Malfoy -- one more word

    "Ron!" said Hermione suddenly, "Harry --"

    "What? Where?"

    Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps

and cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers

in her mouth, as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.

    "You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money

on the ground!" said Malfoy.

    Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Ron was

on top of him, wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated,

then clambered over the back of his seat to help.

    "Come on, Harry!" Hermione screamed, leaping onto her seat to

watch as Harry sped straight at Snape -- she didn't even notice

Malfoy and Ron rolling around under her seat, or the scuffles and

yelps coming from the whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe,

and Goyle.

    Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time

to see something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches --

the next second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised

in triumph, the Snitch clasped in his hand.

    The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever

remember the Snitch being caught so quickly.

    "Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game's over! Harry's won! We've

won! Gryffindor is in the lead!" shrieked Hermione, dancing up and

down on her seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.

    Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn't

believe it. He'd done it -- the game was over; it had barely lasted

five minutes. As Gryffindors came spilling onto the field, he saw

Snape land nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped -- then Harry felt

a hand on his shoulder and looked up into Dumbledore's smiling face.

    "Well done," said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry

could hear. "Nice to see you haven't been brooding about that

mirror... been keeping busy... excellent..."

    Snape spat bitterly on the ground.

    Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to take his

Nimbus Two Thousand back to the broomshed. He couldn't ever remember

feeling happier. He'd really done something to be proud of now -- no

one could say he was just a famous name any more. The evening air had

never smelled so sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the

last hour in his head, which was a happy blur: Gryffindors running

to lift him onto their shoulders; Ron and Hermione in the distance,

jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.

    Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door and

looked up at Hogwarts, with its windows glowing red in the setting

sun. Gryffindor in the lead. He'd done it, he'd shown Snape....

    And speaking of Snape...

    A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the

castle. Clearly not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible

toward the forbidden forest. Harry's victory faded from his mind

as he watched. He recognized the figure's prowling walk. Snape,

sneaking into the forest while everyone else was at dinner --

what was going on?

    Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took

off. Gliding silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest

at a run. He followed.

    The trees were so thick he couldn't see where Snape had gone. He

flew in circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of trees

until he heard voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly

in a towering beech tree.

    He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight

to his broomstick, trying to see through the leaves. Below, in a

shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn't alone. Quirrell was

there, too. Harry couldn't make out the look on his face, but he

was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they

were saying.

    "... d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all

p-places, Severus..."

    "Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice

icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone,

after all."

    Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape

interrupted him.

    "Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

    "B-b-but Severus, I --"

    "You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking

a step toward him.

    "I-I don't know what you

    "You know perfectly well what I mean."

    An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He

steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, "-- your little bit of

hocus-pocus. I'm waiting."

    "B-but I d-d-don't --"

    "Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon,

when you've had time to think things over and decided where your

loyalties lie."

    He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the

clearing. It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell,

standing quite still as though he was petrified.

    "Harry, where have you been?" Hermione squeaked.

    "We won! You won! We won!" shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the

back. "And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on

Crabbe and Goyle single-handed! He's still out cold but Madam Pomftey

says he'll be all right - talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's

waiting for you in the common room, we're having a party, Fred and

George stole some cakes and stuff from the kitchens."

    "Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly. "Let's find an

empty room, you wait 'til you hear this...."

    He made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door

behind them, then he told them what he'd seen and heard.

    "So we were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying

to force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get

past Fluffy - and he said something about Quirrell's 'hocus pocuss--

I reckon there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy,

loads of enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some

anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to break through --"

    "So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands

up to Snape?" said Hermione in alarm.

    "It'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron.

    CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK

    Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they'd thought. In

the weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner,

but it didn't look as though he'd cracked yet.

    Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron,

and Hermione would press their ears to the door to check that Fluffy

was still growling inside. Snape was sweeping about in his usual bad

temper, which surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever

Harry passed Quirrell these days he gave him an encouraging sort

of smile, and Ron had started telling people off for laughing at

Quirrell's stutter.

    Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the Sorcerer's

Stone. She had started drawing up study schedules and colorcoding

all her notes. Harry and Ron wouldn't have minded, but she kept

nagging them to do the same.

    "Hermione, the exams are ages away."

    "Ten weeks," Hermione snapped. "That's not ages, that's like

a second to Nicolas Flamel."

    "But we're not six hundred years old," Ron reminded her. "Anyway,

what are you studying for, you already know it A."

    "What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to

pass these exams to get into the second year? They're very important,

I should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's

gotten into me...."

    Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the

same lines as Hermione. They piled so much homework on them that the

Easter holidays weren't nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It

was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting the twelve uses

of dragon's blood or practicing wand movements. Moaning and yawning,

Harry and Ron spent most of their free time in the library with her,

trying to get through all their extra work.

    "I'll never remember this," Ron burst out one afternoon, throwing

down his quill and looking longingly out of the library window. It

was the first really fine day they'd had in months. The sky was a

clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in the air of

summer coming.

    Harry, who was looking up "Dittany" in One Thousand Magical

Herbs and Fungi, didn't look up until he heard Ron say, "Hagrid! What

are you doing in the library?"

    Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back. He

looked very out of place in his moleskin overcoat.

    "Jus' lookin'," he said, in a shifty voice that got their

interest at once. "An' what're you lot up ter?" He looked suddenly

suspicious. "Yer not still lookin' fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?" "Oh,

we found out who he is ages ago," said Ron impressively. "And we

know what that dog's guarding, it's a Sorcerer's St --"

    "Shhhh!" Hagrid looked around quickly to see if anyone was

listening. "Don' go shoutin' about it, what's the matter with yeh?"

    "There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a matter of

fact," said Harry, "about what's guarding the Stone apart from

Fluffy --"

    "SHHHH!" said Hagrid again. "Listen - come an' see me later, I'm

not promisin' I'll tell yeh anythin', mind, but don' go rabbitin'

about it in here, students aren' s'pposed ter know. They'll think

I've told yeh --"

    "See you later, then," said Harry.

    Hagrid shuffled off.

    "What was he hiding behind his back?" said Hermione thoughtfully.

    "Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?"

    "I'm going to see what section he was in," said Ron, who'd had

enough of working. He came back a minute later with a pile of books

in his arms and slammed them down on the table.

    "Dragons!" he whispered. "Hagrid was looking up stuff about

dragons! Look at these: Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland;

From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper's Guide."

    "Hagrid's always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time

I ever met him, " said Harry.

    "But it's against our laws," said Ron. "Dragon breeding was

outlawed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709, everyone knows

that. It's hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we're keeping

dragons in the back garden - anyway, you can't tame dragons, it's

dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie's got off wild ones

in Romania."

    "But there aren't wild dragons in Britain?" said Harry.

    "Of course there are," said Ron. "Common Welsh Green and

Hebridean Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up,

I can tell you. Our kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles

who've spotted them, to make them forget."

    "So what on earths Hagrid up to?" said Hermione.

    When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper's hut an

hour later, they were surprised to see that all the curtains were

closed. Hagrid called "Who is it?" before he let them in, and then

shut the door quickly behind them.

    It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a warm day,

there was a blazing fire in the grate. Hagrid made them tea and

offered them stoat sandwiches, which they refused.

    "So -- yeh wanted to ask me somethin'?"

    "Yes," said Harry. There was no point beating around the

bush. "We were wondering if you could tell us what's guarding the

Sorcerer's Stone apart from Fluffy."

    Hagrid frowned at him.

    "0' course I cant, he said. "Number one, I don' know

meself. Number two, yeh know too much already, so I wouldn' tell

yeh if I could. That Stone's here fer a good reason. It Was almost

stolen outta Gringotts - I s'ppose yeh've worked that out an'

all? Beats me how yeh even know abou' Fluffy."

    "Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, but you do

know, you know everything that goes on round here," said Hermione

in a warm, flattering voice. Hagrid's beard twitched and they could

tell he was smiling. "We only wondered who had done the guarding,

really." Hermione went on. "We wondered who Dumbledore had trusted

enough to help him, apart from you."

    Hagrid's chest swelled at these last words. Harry and Ron beamed

at Hermione.

    "Well, I don' s'pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that... let's

see... he borrowed Fluffy from me... then some o' the teachers

did enchantments... Professor Sprout -- Professor Flitwick --

Professor McGonagall --" he ticked them off on his fingers,

"Professor Quirrell -- an' Dumbledore himself did somethin', o'

course. Hang on, I've forgotten someone. Oh yeah, Professor Snape."

    "Snape?"

    "Yeah -- yer not still on abou' that, are yeh? Look, Snape

helped protect the Stone, he's not about ter steal it."

    Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the same as he was. If

Snape had been in on protecting the Stone, it must have been easy

to find out how the other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew

everything -- except, it seemed, Quirrell's spell and how to get

past Fluffy.

    "You're the only one who knows how to get past Fluffy. aren't

you, Hagrid?" said Harry anxiously. "And you wouldn't tell anyone,

would you? Not even one of the teachers?"

    "Not a soul knows except me an' Dumbledore," said Hagrid proudly.

    "Well, that's something," Harry muttered to the others. "Hagrid,

can we have a window open? I'm boiling."

    "Can't, Harry, sorry," said Hagrid. Harry noticed him glance

at the fire. Harry looked at it, too.

    "Hagrid -- what's that?"

    But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of the fire,

underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg.

    "Ah," said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, "That's

er..."

    "Where did you get it, Hagrid?" said Ron, crouching over the fire

to get a closer look at the egg. "It must've cost you a fortune."

    "Won it," said Hagrid. "Las' night. I was down in the

village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a

stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest."

    "But what are you going to do with it when it's hatched?" said

Hermione.

    "Well, I've bin doin' some readin' , said Hagrid, pulling a

large book from under his pillow. "Got this outta the library --

Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit -- it's a bit outta date,

o' course, but it's all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause

their mothers breathe on I em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it

on a bucket o' brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An'

see here -- how ter recognize diff'rent eggs -- what I got there's

a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're rare, them."

    He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn't.

    "Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," she said.

    But Hagrid wasn't listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked

the fire.

    So now they had something else to worry about: what might happen

to Hagrid if anyone found out he was hiding an illegal dragon in his

hut. "Wonder what it's like to have a peaceful life," Ron sighed, as

evening after evening they struggled through all the extra homework

they were getting. Hermione had now started making study schedules

for Harry and Ron, too. It was driving them nuts.

    Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry another note

from Hagrid. He had written only two words: It's hatching.

    Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to the

hut. Hermione wouldn't hear of it.

    "Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a

dragon hatching?"

    "We've got lessons, we'll get into trouble, and that's nothing

to what Hagrid's going to be in when someone finds out what he's

doing --"

    "Shut up!" Harry whispered.

    Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped dead

to listen. How much had he heard? Harry didn't like the look on

Malfoy's face at all.

    Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology and in the end,

Hermione agreed to run down to Hagrid's with the other two during

morning break. When the bell sounded from the castle at the end

of their lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels at once

and hurried through the grounds to the edge of the forest. Hagrid

greeted them, looking flushed and excited.

    "It's nearly out." He ushered them inside.

    The egg was lying on the table. There were deep cracks in

it. Something was moving inside; a funny clicking noise was coming

from it.

    They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched with

bated breath.

    All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split

open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table. It wasn't exactly

pretty; Harry thought it looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. Its

spiny wings were huge compared to its skinny jet body, it had a

long snout with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging,

orange eyes.

    It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.

    "Isn't he beautiful?" Hagrid murmured. He reached out a hand

to stroke the dragon's head. It snapped at his fingers, showing

pointed fangs.

    "Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!" said Hagrid.

    "Hagrid," said Hermione, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks

grow, exactly?"

    Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly drained from

his face -- he leapt to his feet and ran to the window.

    "What's the matter?"

    "Someone was lookin' through the gap in the curtains -- it's

a kid -- he's runnin' back up ter the school."

    Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a distance

there was no mistaking him.

    Malfoy had seen the dragon.

    Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy's face during the

next week made Harry, Ron, and Hermione very nervous. They spent

most of their free time in Hagrid's darkened hut, trying to reason

with him.

    "Just let him go," Harry urged. "Set him free."

    "I can't," said Hagrid. "He's too little. He'd die."

    They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times in length in

just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its nostrils. Hagrid hadn't

been doing his gamekeeping duties because the dragon was keeping

him so busy. There were empty brandy bottles and chicken feathers

all over the floor.

    "I've decided to call him Norbert," said Hagrid, looking

at the dragon with misty eyes. "He really knows me now,

watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where's Mommy?"

    "He's lost his marbles," Ron muttered in Harry's ear.

    "Hagrid," said Harry loudly, "give it two weeks and Norbert's

going to be as long as your house. Malfoy could go to Dumbledore

at any moment."

    Hagrid bit his lip.

    "I -- I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him,

I can't."

    Harry suddenly turned to Ron. Charlie, he said.

    "You're losing it, too," said Ron. "I'm Ron, remember?"

    "No -- Charlie -- your brother, Charlie. In Romania. Studying

dragons. We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of

him and then put him back in the wild!"

    "Brilliant!" said Ron. "How about it, Hagrid?"

    And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send -an owl to

Charlie to ask him.

    The following week dragged by. Wednesday night found Hermione

and Harry sitting alone in the common room, long after everyone

else had gone to bed. The clock on the wall had just

    chimed midnight when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared

out of nowhere as he pulled off Harry's invisibility cloak. He had

been down at Hagrid's hut, helping him feed Norbert, who was now

eating dead rats by the crate.

    "It bit me!" he said, showing them his hand, which was wrapped

in a bloody handkerchief. "I'm not going to be able to hold a quill

for a week. I tell you, that dragon's the most horrible animal I've

ever met, but the way Hagrid goes on about it, you'd think it was

a fluffy little bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off for

frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a lullaby."

    There was a tap on the dark window.

    "It's Hedwig!" said Harry, hurrying to let her in. "She'll have

Charlie's answer!"

    The three of them put their heads together to read the note.

    Dear Ron,

    How are you? Thanks for the letter -- I'd be glad to take the

Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won't be easy getting him here. I think

the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine

who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn't be

seen carrying an illegal dragon.

    Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight

on Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it's

still dark.

    Send me an answer as soon as possible.

    Love,

    Charlie

    They looked at one another.

    "We've got the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It shouldn't

be too difficult -- I think the cloaks big enough to cover two of

us and Norbert."

    It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that the other

two agreed with him. Anything to get rid of Norbert -- and Malfoy.

    There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron's bitten hand had

swollen to twice its usual size. He didn't know whether it was safe

to go to Madam Pomfrey -- would she recognize a dragon bite? By

the afternoon, though, he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty

shade of green. It looked as if Norbert's fangs were poisonous.

    Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing at the end

of the day to find Ron in a terrible state in bed.

    "It's not just my hand," he whispered, "although that feels

like it's about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam Pomfrey he wanted

to borrow one of my books so he could come and have a good laugh at

me. He kept threatening to tell her what really bit me -- I've told

her it was a dog, but I don't think she believes me -I shouldn't

have hit him at the Quidditch match, that's why he's doing this."

    Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down.

    "It'll all be over at midnight on Saturday," said Hermione,

but this didn't soothe Ron at all. On the contrary, he sat bolt

upright and broke into a sweat.

    "Midnight on Saturday!" he said in a hoarse voice. "Oh no oh

no -- I've just remembered -- Charlie's letter was in that book

Malfoy took, he's going to know we're getting rid of Norbert."

    Harry and Hermione didn't get a chance to answer. Madam Pomfrey

came over at that moment and made them leave, saying Ron needed

sleep.

    "It's too late to change the plan now," Harry told Hermione. "We

haven't got time to send Charlie another owl, and this could be

our only chance to get rid of Norbert. We'll have to risk it. And

we have got the invisibility cloak, Malfoy doesn't know about that."

    They found Fang, the boarhound, sitting outside with a bandaged

tail when they went to tell Hagrid, who opened a window to talk

to them.

    "I won't let you in," he puffed. "Norbert's at a tricky stage --

nothin' I can't handle."

    When they told him about Charlie's letter, his eyes filled with

tears, although that might have been because Norbert had just bitten

him on the leg.

    "Aargh! It's all right, he only got my boot -- jus' playin' --

he's only a baby, after all."

    The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the windows

rattle. Harry and Hermione walked back to the castle feeling Saturday

couldn't come quickly enough.

    They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for

him to say good-bye to Norbert if they hadn't been so worried

about what they had to do. It was a very dark, cloudy night, and

they were a bit late arriving at Hagrid's hut because they'd had

to wait for Peeves to get out of their way in the entrance hall,

where he'd been playing tennis against the wall. Hagrid had Norbert

packed and ready in a large crate.

    "He's got lots o' rats an' some brandy fer the journey," said

Hagrid in a muffled voice. "An' I've packed his teddy bear in case

he gets lonely."

    From inside the crate came ripping noises that sounded to Harry

as though the teddy was having his head torn off.

    "Bye-bye, Norbert!" Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and Hermione covered

the crate with the invisibility cloak and stepped underneath it

themselves. "Mommy will never forget you!"

    How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle,

they never knew. Midnight ticked nearer as they heaved Norbert

up the marble staircase in the entrance hall and along the dark

corridors. UP another staircase, then another -- even one of Harry's

shortcuts didn't make the work much easier.

    "Nearly there!" Harry panted as they reached the corridor

beneath the tallest tower.

    Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them almost drop the

crate. Forgetting that they were already invisible, they shrank into

the shadows, staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling

with each other ten feet away. A lamp flared.

    Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net,

had Malfoy by the ear.

    "Detention!" she shouted. "And twenty points from

Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare

you --"

    "You don't understand, Professor. Harry Potter's coming --

he's got a dragon!"

    "What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on --

I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!"

    The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower seemed

the easiest thing in the world after that. Not until they'd stepped

out into the cold night air did they throw off the cloak, glad to

be able to breathe properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig.

    "Malfoy's got detention! I could sing!"

    "Don't," Harry advised her.

    Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert thrashing about in

his crate. About ten minutes later, four broomsticks came swooping

down out of the darkness.

    Charlie's friends were a cheery lot. They showed Harry and

Hermione the harness they'd rigged up, so they could suspend Norbert

between them. They all helped buckle Norbert safely into it and

then Harry and Hermione shook hands with the others and thanked

them very much.

    At last, Norbert was going... going... gone.

    They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their hearts as

light as their hands, now that Norbert was off them. No more dragon

-- Malfoy in detention -- what could spoil their happiness?

    The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the stairs. As

they stepped into the corridor, Filch's face loomed suddenly out

of the darkness.

    "Well, well, well," he whispered, "we are in trouble."

    They'd left the invisibility cloak on top of the tower.

    CHAPTER FIFTEEN

    THE FORIBIDDEN FOREST

    Things couldn't have been worse.

    Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall's study on the

first floor, where they sat and waited without saying a word to each

other. Hermione was trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover- up

stories chased each other around Harry's brain, each more feeble

than the last. He couldn't see how they were going to get out of

trouble this time. They were cornered. How could they have been so

stupid as to forget the cloak? There was no reason on earth that

Professor McGonagall would accept for their being out of bed and

creeping around the school in the dead of night, let alone being

up the tallest astronomy tower, which was out-of-bounds except for

classes. Add Norbert and the invisibility cloak, and they might as

well be packing their bags already.

    Had Harry thought that things couldn't have been worse? He was

wrong. When Professor McGonagall appeared, she was leading Neville.

    "Harry!" Neville burst Out, the moment he saw the other two. "I

was trying to find you to warn you, I heard Malfoy saying he was

going to catch you, he said you had a drag --"

    Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but Professor

McGonagall had seen. She looked more likely to breathe fire than

Norbert as she towered over the three of them.

    "I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch

says you were up in the astronomy tower. It's one o'clock in the

morning. Explain yourselves."

    It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to answer a

teacher's question. She was staring at her slippers, as still as

a statue.

    "I think I've got a good idea of what's been going on," said

Professor McGonagall. "It doesn't take a genius to work it out. You

fed Draco Malfoy some cock-and-bull story about a dragon, trying

to get him out of bed and into trouble. I've already caught him. I

suppose you think it's funny that Longbottom here heard the story

and believed it, too?"

    Harry caught Neville's eye and tried to tell him without words

that this wasn't true, because Neville was looking stunned and

hurt. Poor, blundering Neville -- Harry knew what it must have cost

him to try and find them in the dark, to warn them.

    "I'm disgusted," said Professor McGonagall. "Four students out

of bed in one night! I've never heard of such a thing before! You,

Miss Granger, I thought you had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter,

I thought Gryffindor meant more to you than this. All three of you

will receive detentions -- yes, you too, Mr. Longbottom, nothing

gives you the right to walk around school at night, especially

these days, it's very dangerous -- and fifty points will be taken

from Gryffindor."

    "Fifty?" Harry gasped -- they would lose the lead, the lead

he'd won in the last Quidditch match.

    "Fifty points each," said Professor McGonagall, breathing

heavily through her long, pointed nose.

    "Professor -- please

    "You can't --"

    "Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Potter. Now get back

to bed, all of you. I've never been more ashamed of Gryffindor

students."

    A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in last

place. In one night, they'd ruined any chance Gryffindor had had

for the house cup. Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out

of his stomach. How could they ever make up for this?

    Harry didn't sleep all night. He could hear Neville sobbing

into his pillow for what seemed like hours. Harry couldn't think

of anything to say to comfort him. He knew Neville, like himself,

was dreading the dawn. What would happen when the rest of Gryffindor

found out what they'd done?

    At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses that recorded

the house points the next day thought there'd been a mistake. How

could they suddenly have a hundred and fifty points fewer than

yesterday? And then the story started to spread: Harry Potter, the

famous Harry Potter, their hero of two Quidditch matches, had lo st

them all those points, him and a couple of other stupid first years.

    From being one of the most popular and admired people at the

school, Harry was suddenly the most hated. Even Ravenclaws and

Hufflepuffs turned on him, because everyone had been longing to

see Slytherin lose the house cup. Everywhere Harry went, people

pointed and didn't trouble to lower their voices as they insulted

him. Slytherins, on the other hand, clapped as he walked past them,

whistling and cheering, "Thanks Potter, we owe you one!"

    Only Ron stood by him.

    "They'll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George have

lost loads of points in all the time they've been here, and people

still like them."

    "They've never lost a hundred and fifty points in one go,

though, have they?" said Harry miserably.

    "Well -- no," Ron admitted.

    It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry swore to

himself not to meddle in things that weren't his business from

now on. He'd had it with sneaking around and spying. He felt so

ashamed of himself that he went to Wood and offered to resign from

the Quidditch team.

    "Resign?" Wood thundered. "What good'll that do? How are we

going to get any points back if we can't win at Quidditch?"

    But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the team

wouldn't speak to Harry during practice, and if they had to speak

about him, they called him "the Seeker."

    Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn't have as

bad a time as Harry, because they weren't as well-known, but nobody

would speak to them, either. Hermione had stopped drawing attention

to herself in class, keeping her head down and working in silence.

    Harry was almost glad that the exams weren't far away. All the

studying he had to do kept his mind off his misery. He, Ron, and

Hermione kept to themselves, working late into the night, trying

to remember the ingredients in complicated potions, learn charms

and spells by heart, memorize the dates of magical discoveries and

goblin rebellions....

    Then, about a week before the exams were due to start, Harry's

new resolution not to interfere in anything that didn't concern him

was put to an unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his

own one afternoon, he heard somebody whimpering from a classroom

up ahead. As he drew closer, he heard Quirrell's voice.

    "No -- no -- not again, please --"

    It sounded as though someone was threatening him. Harry moved

closer.

    "All right -- all right --" he heard Quirrell sob.

    Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the classroom

straightening his turban. He was pale and looked as though he was

about to cry. He strode out of sight; Harry didn't think Quirrell

had even noticed him. He waited until Quirrell's footsteps had

disappeared, then peered into the classroom. It was empty, but

a door stood ajar at the other end. Harry was halfway toward it

before he remembered what he'd promised himself about not meddling.

    All the same, he'd have gambled twelve Sorcerer's Stones that

Snape had just left the room, and from what Harry had just heard,

Snape would be walking with a new spring in his step -- Quirrell

seemed to have given in at last.

    Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was testing Ron

on Astronomy. Harry told them what he'd heard.

    "Snape's done it, then!" said Ron. "If Quirrell's told him how

to break his Anti-Dark Force spell --"

    "There's still Fluffy, though," said Hermione.

    "Maybe Snape's found out how to get past him without asking

Hagrid," said Ron, looking up at the thousands of books surrounding

them. "I bet there's a book somewhere in here telling you how to

get past a giant three-headed dog. So what do we do, Harry?"

    The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron's eyes, but

Hermione answered before Harry could.

    "Go to Dumbledore. That's what we should have done ages ago. If

we try anything ourselves we'll be thrown out for sure."

    "But we've got no proof!" said Harry. "Quirrell's too scared to

back us up. Snape's only got to say he doesn't know how the troll

got in at Halloween and that he was nowhere near the third floor --

who do you think they'll believe, him or us? It's not exactly a

secret we hate him, Dumbledore'll think we made it up to get him

sacked. Filch wouldn't help us if his life depended on it, he's

too friendly with Snape, and the more students get thrown out,

the better, he'll think. And don't forget, we're not supposed to

know about the Stone or Fluffy. That'll take a lot of explaining."

    Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn't.

    "If we just do a bit of poking around --"

    "No," said Harry flatly, "we've done enough poking around."

    He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to learn the

names of its moons.

    The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry, Hermione,

and Neville at the breakfast table. They were all the same:

    Your detention will take place at eleven o'clock tonight. Meet

Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.

    Professor McGonagall Harry had forgotten they still had

detentions to do in the furor over the points they'd lost. He half

expected Hermione to complain that this was a whole night of studying

lost, but she didn't say a word. Like Harry, she felt they deserved

what they'd got.

    At eleven o'clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron in the

common room and went down to the entrance hall with Neville. Filch

was already there -- and so was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten

that Malfoy had gotten a detention, too.

    "Follow me," said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them

outside.

    I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again,

won't you, eh?" he said, leering at them. "Oh yes... hard work and

pain are the best teachers if you ask me.... It's just a pity they

let the old punishments die out... hang you by your wrists from the

ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep

'em well oiled in case they're ever needed.... Right, off we go, and

don't think of running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do."

    They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville kept

sniffing. Harry wondered what their punishment was going to be. It

must be something really horrible, or Filch wouldn't be sounding

so delighted.

    The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it kept throwing

them into darkness. Ahead, Harry could see the lighted windows of

Hagrid's hut. Then they heard a distant shout.

    "Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."

    Harry's heart rose; if they were going to be working with Hagrid

it wouldn't be so bad. His relief must have showed in his -face,

because Filch said, "I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself

with that oaf? Well, think again, boy -- it's into the forest you're

going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece."

    At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy stopped dead

in his tracks.

    "The forest?" he repeated, and he didn't sound quite as cool

as usual. "We can't go in there at night -- there's all sorts of

things in there -- werewolves, I heard."

    Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry's robe and made a choking

noise.

    "That's your problem, isn't it?" said Filch, his voice cracking

with glee. "Should've thought of them werewolves before you got in

trouble, shouldn't you?"

    Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark, Fang at his

heel. He was carrying his large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows

hung over his shoulder.

    "Abou' time," he said. "I bin waitin' fer half an hour

already. All right, Harry, Hermione?"

    "I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid," said Filch coldly,

they're here to be punished, after all."

    "That's why yer late, is it?" said Hagrid, frowning at

Filch. "Bin lecturin' them, eh? 'Snot your place ter do that. Yeh've

done yer bit, I'll take over from here."

    "I'll be back at dawn," said Filch, "for what's left of them,"

he added nastily, and he turned and started back toward the castle,

his lamp bobbing away in the darkness.

    Malfoy now turned to Hagrid.

    "I'm not going in that forest, he said, and Harry was pleased

to hear the note of panic in his voice.

    "Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts," said Hagrid

fiercely. "Yeh've done wrong an' now yehve got ter pay fer it."

    "But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do. I

thought we'd be copying lines or something, if my father knew I

was doing this, he'd

    tell yer that's how it is at Hogwarts," Hagrid growled. "Copyin'

lines! What good's that ter anyone? Yeh'll do summat useful or

Yeh'll get out. If yeh think yer father'd rather you were expelled,

then get back off ter the castle an' pack. Go on"'

    Malfoy didn't move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but then

dropped his gaze.

    "Right then," said Hagrid, "now, listen carefully, 'cause it's

dangerous what we're gonna do tonight, an' I don' want no one takin'

risks. Follow me over here a moment."

    He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his lamp up

high, he pointed down a narrow, winding earth track that disappeared

into the thick black trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as

they looked into the forest.

    "Look there," said Hagrid, "see that stuff shinin' on the

ground? Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood. There's a unicorn

in there bin hurt badly by summat. This is the second time in a

week. I found one dead last Wednesday. We're gonna try an' find

the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery."

    "And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?" said

Malfoy, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

    "There's nothin' that lives in the forest that'll hurt yeh if

yer with me or Fang," said Hagrid. "An' keep ter the path. Right,

now, we're gonna split inter two parties an' follow the trail in

diff'rent directions. There's blood all over the place, it must've

bin staggerin' around since last night at least."

    "I want Fang," said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang's long teeth.

    "All right, but I warn yeh, he's a coward," said Hagrid. "

So me, Harry, an' Hermione'll go one way an' Draco, Neville, an'

Fang'll go the other. Now, if any of us finds the unicorn, we'll

send up green sparks, right? Get yer wands out an' practice now --

that's it -- an' if anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks,

an' we'll all come an' find yeh -- so, be careful -- let's go."

    The forest was black and silent. A little way into it they

reached a fork in the earth path, and Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid

took the left path while Malfoy, Neville, and Fang took the right.

    They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground. Every now

and then a ray of moonlight through the branches above lit a spot

of silver-blue blood on the fallen leaves.

    Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried.

    "Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?" Harry asked.

    "Not fast enough," said Hagrid. "It's not easy ter catch a

unicorn, they're powerful magic creatures. I never knew one ter be

hurt before."

    They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could hear running

water; there must be a stream somewhere close by. There were still

spots of unicorn blood here and there along the winding path.

    "You all right, Hermione?" Hagrid whispered. "Don' worry, it

can't've gone far if it's this badly hurt, an' then we'll be able

ter -- GET BEHIND THAT TREE!"

    Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them off the

path behind a towering oak. He pulled out an arrow and fitted it

into his crossbow, raising it, ready to fire. The three of them

listened. Something was slithering over dead leaves nearby: it

sounded like a cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was squinting

up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound faded away.

    "I knew it, " he murmured. "There's summat in here that shouldn'

be."

    "A werewolf?" Harry suggested.

    "That wasn' no werewolf an' it wasn' no unicorn, neither,"

said Hagrid grimly. "Right, follow me, but careful, now."

    They walked more slowly, ears straining for the faintest

sound. Suddenly, in a clearing ahead, something definitely moved.

    "Who's there?" Hagrid called. "Show yerself -- I'm armed!"

    And into the clearing came -- was it a man, or a horse? To

the waist, a man, with red hair and beard, but below that was a

horse's gleaming chestnut body with a long, reddish tail. Harry

and Hermione's jaws dropped.

    "Oh, it's you, Ronan," said Hagrid in relief. "How are yeh?"

    He walked forward and shook the centaur's hand.

    "Good evening to you, Hagrid," said Ronan. He had a deep,

sorrowful voice. "Were you going to shoot me?"

    "Can't be too careful, Ronan," said Hagrid, patting his

crossbow. "There's summat bad loose in this forest. This is

Harry Potter an' Hermione Granger, by the way. Students up at the

school. An' this is Ronan, you two. He's a centaur.))

    "We'd noticed," said Hermione faintly.

    "Good evening," said Ronan. "Students, are you? And do you

learn much, up at the school?"

    "Erm --"

    "A bit," said Hermione timidly.

    "A bit. Well, that's something." Ronan sighed. He flung back

his head and stared at the sky. "Mars is bright tonight."

    "Yeah," said Hagrid, glancing up, too. "Listen, I'm glad

we've run inter yeh, Ronan, 'cause there's a unicorn bin hurt --

you seen anythin'?"

    Ronan didn't answer immediately. He stared unblinkingly upward,

then sighed again.

    "Always the innocent are the first victims," he said. "So it

has been for ages past, so it is now."

    "Yeah," said Hagrid, "but have yeh seen anythin', Ronan? Anythin'

unusual?"

    "Mars is bright tonight," Ronan repeated, while Hagrid watched

him impatiently. "Unusually bright."

    "Yeah, but I was meanin' anythin' unusual a bit nearer home,

said Hagrid. "So yeh haven't noticed anythin' strange?"

    Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he said,

"The forest hides many secrets."

    A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid raise his bow

again, but it was only a second centaur, black-haired and -bodied

and wilder-looking than Ronan.

    "Hullo, Bane," said Hagrid. "All right?"

    "Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?"

    "Well enough. Look, I've jus' bin askin' Ronan, you seen anythin'

odd in here lately? There's a unicorn bin injured -- would yeh know

anythin' about it?"

    Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked skyward. "Mars

is bright tonight," he said simply.

    "We've heard," said Hagrid grumpily. "Well, if either of you

do see anythin', let me know, won't yeh? We'll be off, then."

    Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing, staring over

their shoulders at Ronan and Bane until the trees blocked their view.

    "Never," said Hagrid irritably, "try an' get a straight answer

out of a centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not interested in anythin'

closer'n the moon."

    "Are there many of them in here?" asked Hermione.

    "Oh, a fair few... Keep themselves to themselves mostly, but

they're good enough about turnin' up if ever I want a word. They're

deep, mind, centaurs... they know things... jus' don' let on much."

    "D'you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?" said Harry.

    "Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask me, that

was what's bin killin' the unicorns -- never heard anythin' like

it before."

    They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry kept looking

nervously over his shoulder. He had the nasty feeling they were

being watched. He was very glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow

with them. They had just passed a bend in the path when Hermione

grabbed Hagrid's arm.

    "Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!"

    "You two wait here!" Hagrid shouted. "Stay on the path, I'll

come back for yeh!"

    They heard him crashing away through the undergrowth and stood

looking at each other, very scared, until they couldn't hear anything

but the rustling of leaves around them.

    "You don't think they've been hurt, do you?" whispered Hermione.

    "I don't care if Malfoy has, but if something's got

Neville... it's our fault he's here in the first place."

    The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper than

usual. Harry's seemed to be picking up every sigh of the wind,

every cracking twig. What was going on? Where were the others?

    At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid's

return. Malfoy, Neville, and Fang were with him. Hagrid was

fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had sneaked up behind Neville and grabbed

him as a joke. Neville had panicked and sent up the sparks.

    "We'll be lucky ter catch anythin' now, with the racket you two

were makin'. Right, we're changin' groups -- Neville, you stay with

me an' Hermione, Harry, you go with Fang an' this idiot. I'm sorry,"

Hagrid added in a whisper to Harry, "but he'll have a harder time

frightenin' you, an' we've gotta get this done."

    So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with Malfoy and

Fang. They walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the

forest, until the path became almost impossible to follow because the

trees were so thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be getting

thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the

poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. Harry could

see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak.

    "Look --" he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy.

    Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched

closer.

    It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry had never

seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were

stuck out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread

pearly-white on the dark leaves.

    Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound

made him freeze where he stood. A bush on the edge of the clearing

quivered.... Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling

across the ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and Fang

stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered

its head over the wound in the animal's side, and began to drink

its blood.

    "AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

    Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted -- so did Fang. The

hooded figure raised its head and looked right at Harry -- unicorn

blood was dribbling down its front. It got to its feet and came

swiftly toward Harry -- he couldn't move for fear.

    Then a pain like he'd never felt before pierced his head; it

was as though his scar were on fire. Half blinded, he staggered

backward. He heard hooves behind him, galloping, and something

jumped clean over Harry, charging at the figure.

    The pain in Harry's head was so bad he fell to his knees. It

took a minute or two to pass. When he looked up, the figure had

gone. A centaur was standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one

looked younger; he had white-blond hair and a palomino body.

    "Are you all right?" said the centaur, pulling Harry to his feet.

    "Yes -- thank you -- what was that?"

    The centaur didn't answer. He had astonishingly blue eyes, like

pale sapphires. He looked carefully at Harry, his eyes lingering

on the scar that stood out, livid, on Harry's forehead.

    "You are the Potter boy," he said. "You had better get back

to Hagrid. The forest is not safe at this time -- especially for

you. Can you ride? It will be quicker this way.

    "My name is Firenze," he added, as he lowered himself on to

his front legs so that Harry could clamber onto his back.

    There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from the other side

of the clearing. Ronan and Bane came bursting through the trees,

their flanks heaving and sweaty.

    "Firenze!" Bane thundered. "What are you doing? You have a

human on your back! Have you no shame? Are you a common mule?"

    "Do you realize who this is?" said Firenze. "This is the Potter

boy. The quicker he leaves this forest, the better."

    "What have you been telling him?" growled Bane. "Remember,

Firenze, we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have

we not read what is to come in the movements of the planets?"

    Ronan pawed the ground nervously. "I'm sure Firenze thought he

was acting for the best, " he said in his gloomy voice.

    Bane kicked his back legs in anger.

    "For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned

with what has been foretold! It is not our business to run around

like donkeys after stray humans in our forest!"

    Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger, so that

Harry had to grab his shoulders to stay on.

    "Do you not see that unicorn?" Firenze bellowed at Bane. "Do

you not understand why it was killed? Or have the planets not let

you in on that secret? I set myself against what is lurking in this

forest, Bane, yes, with humans alongside me if I must."

    And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on as best

he could, they plunged off into the trees, leaving Ronan and Bane

behind them.

    Harry didn't have a clue what was going on.

    "Why's Bane so angry?" he asked. "What was that thing you saved

me from, anyway?"

    Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his head

bowed in case of low-hanging branches, but did not answer Harry's

question. They made their way through the trees in silence for

so long that Harry thought Firenze didn't want to talk to him

anymore. They were passing through a particularly dense patch of

trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stopped.

    "Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used -for?"

    "No," said Harry, startled by the odd question. "We've only

used the horn and tail hair in Potions."

    "That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn,"

said Firenze. "Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything

to gain, would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will

keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a

terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenseless to

save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life,

from the moment the blood touches your lips."

    Harry stared at the back of Firenze's head, which was dappled

silver in the moonlight.

    "But who'd be that desperate?" he wondered aloud. "If you're

going to be cursed forever, deaths better, isn't it?"

    "It is," Firenze agreed, "unless all you need is to stay alive

long enough to drink something else -- something that will bring

you back to full strength and power -- something that will mean

you can never die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the

school at this very moment?"

    "The Sorcerer's Stone! Of course -- the Elixir of Life! But I

don't understand who --"

    "Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return

to power, who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?"

    It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly around

Harry's heart. Over the rustling of the trees, he seemed to hear

once more what Hagrid had told him on the night they had met:

"Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough

human left in him to die."

    "Do you mean," Harry croaked, "that was Vol-"

    "Harry! Harry, are you all right?"

    Hermione was running toward them down the path, Hagrid puffing

along behind her.

    "I'm fine," said Harry, hardly knowing what he was saying. "The

unicorn's dead, Hagrid, it's in that clearing back there."

    "This is where I leave you," Firenze murmured as Hagrid hurried

off to examine the unicorn. "You are safe now."

    Harry slid off his back.

    "Good luck, Harry Potter," said Firenze. "The planets have been

read wrongly before now, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of

those times."

    He turned and cantered back into the depths of the forest,

leaving Harry shivering behind him.

    Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room, waiting for

them to return. He shouted something about Quidditch fouls when

Harry roughly shook him awake. In a matter of seconds, though,

he was wide-eyed as Harry began to tell him and Hermione what had

happened in the forest.

    Harry couldn't sit down. He paced up and down in front of the

fire. He was still shaking.

    "Snape wants the stone for Voldemort... and Voldemort's waiting

in the forest... and all this time we thought Snape just wanted to

get rich...."

    "Stop saying the name!" said Ron in a terrified whisper, as if

he thought Voldemort could hear them.

    Harry wasn't listening.

    "Firenze saved me, but he shouldn't have done so.... Bane was

furious... he was talking about interfering with what the planets

say is going to happen.... They must show that Voldemort's coming

back.... Bane thinks Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me.... I

suppose that's written in the stars as well."

    "Will you stop saying the name!" Ron hissed.

    "So all I've got to wait for now is Snape to steal the Stone,"

Harry went on feverishly, "then Voldemort will be able to come and

finish me off... Well, I suppose Bane'll be happy."

    Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word of comfort.

    "Harry, everyone says Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who

was ever afraid of With Dumbledore around, You-Know-Who won't

touch you. Anyway, who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like

fortune-telling to me, and Professor McGonagall says that's a very

imprecise branch of magic."

    The sky had turned light before they stopped talking. They went

to bed exhausted, their throats sore. But the night's surprises

weren't over.

    When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his invisibility

cloak folded neatly underneath them. There was a note pinned to it:

    Just in case.

    CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR

    In years to come, Harry would never quite remember how he had

managed to get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to

come bursting through the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by,

and there could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and well

behind the locked door.

    It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where

they did their written papers. They had been given special, new

quills for the exams, which had been bewitched with an AntiCheating

spell.

    They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick called them

one by one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple

tapdance across a desk. Professor McGonagall watched them turn

a mouse into a snuffbox -- points were given for how pretty the

snuffbox was, but taken away if it had whiskers. Snape made them

all nervous, breathing down their necks while they tried to remember

how to make a Forgetfulness potion.

    Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the stabbing

pains in his forehead, which had been bothering him ever since his

trip into the forest. Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam

nerves because Harry couldn't sleep, but the truth was that Harry

kept being woken by his old nightmare, except that it was now worse

than ever because there was a hooded figure dripping blood in it.

    Maybe it was because they hadn't seen what Harry had seen in

the forest, or because they didn't have scars burning on their

foreheads, but Ron and Hermione didn't seem as worried about the

Stone as Harry. The idea of Voldemort certainly scared them, but

he didn't keep visiting them in dreams, and they were so busy with

their studying they didn't have much time to fret about what Snape

or anyone else might be up to.

    Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour of answering

questions about batty old wizards who'd invented selfstirring

cauldrons and they'd be free, free for a whole wonderful week until

their exam results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns

told them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment,

Harry couldn't help cheering with the rest.

    "That was far easier than I thought it would be," said Hermione

as they joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. "I

needn't have learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or

the uprising of Elfric the Eager."

    Hermione always liked to go through their exam papers afterward,

but Ron said this made him feel ill, so they wandered down to the

lake and flopped under a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan

were tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking

in the warm shallows. "No more studying," Ron sighed happily,

stretching out on the grass. "You could look more cheerful, Harry,

we've got a week before we find out how badly we've done, there's

no need to worry yet."

    Harry was rubbing his forehead.

    "I wish I knew what this means!" he burst out angrily. "My scar

keeps hurting -- it's happened before, but never as often as this."

    "Go to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione suggested.

    "I'm not ill," said Harry. "I think it's a warning... it means

danger's coming...."

    Ron couldn't get worked up, it was too hot.

    "Harry, relax, Hermione's right, the Stone's safe as long as

Dumbledore's around. Anyway, we've never had any proof Snape found

out how to get past Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped off once,

he's not going to try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play

Quidditch for England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down."

    Harry nodded, but he couldn't shake off a lurking feeling that

there was something he'd forgotten to do, something important. When

he tried to explain this, Hermione said, "That's just the exams. I

woke up last night and was halfway through my Transfiguration notes

before I remembered we'd done that one."

    Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn't have anything

to do with work, though. He watched an owl flutter toward the school

across the bright blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid

was the only one who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never

betray Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell anyone how to get past

Fluffy... never... but --

    Harry suddenly jumped to his feet.

    "Where're you going?" said Ron sleepily.

    "I've just thought of something," said Harry. He had turned

white. "We've got to go and see Hagrid, now."

    "Why?" panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up.

    "Don't you think it's a bit odd," said Harry, scrambling up the

grassy slope, "that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a

dragon, and a stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in

his pocket? How many people wander around with dragon eggs if it's

against wizard law? Lucky they found Hagrid, don't you think? Why

didn't I see it before?"

    "What are you talking about?" said Ron, but Harry, sprinting

across the grounds toward the forest, didn't answer.

    Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house; his

trousers and sleeves were rolled up, and he was shelling peas into

a large bowl.

    "Hullo," he said, smiling. "Finished yer exams? Got time fer

a drink?"

    "Yes, please," said Ron, but Harry cut him off.

    "No, we're in a hurry. Hagrid, I've got to ask you something. You

know that night you won Norbert? What did the stranger you were

playing cards with look like?"

    "Dunno," said Hagrid casually, "he wouldn' take his cloak off."

    He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his eyebrows.

    "It's not that unusual, yeh get a lot o' funny folk in the Hog's

Head -- that's the pub down in the village. Mighta bin a dragon

dealer, mightn' he? I never saw his face, he kept his hood up."

    Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas. "What did you talk

to him about, Hagrid? Did you mention Hogwarts at all?"

    "Mighta come up," said Hagrid, frowning as he tried to

remember. "Yeah... he asked what I did, an' I told him I was

gamekeeper here.... He asked a bit about the sorta creatures I took

after... so I told him... an' I said what I'd always really wanted

was a dragon... an' then... I can' remember too well, 'cause he

kept buyin' me drinks.... Let's see... yeah, then he said he had

the dragon egg an' we could play cards fer it if I wanted... but he

had ter be sure I could handle it, he didn' want it ter go ter any

old home.... So I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy..."

    "And did he -- did he seem interested in Fluffy?" Harry asked,

try ing to keep his voice calm.

    "Well -- yeah -- how many three-headed dogs d'yeh meet, even

around Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy's a piece o' cake if yeh

know how to calm him down, jus' play him a bit o' music an' he'll

go straight off ter sleep --"

    Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.

    "I shouldn'ta told yeh that!" he blurted out. "Forget I said

it! Hey -- where're yeh goin'?"

    Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn't speak to each other at all

until they came to a halt in the entrance hall, which seemed very

cold and gloomy after the grounds.

    "We've got to go to Dumbledore," said Harry. "Hagrid told

that stranger how to get past Fluffy, and it was either Snape or

Voldemort under that cloak -- it must've been easy, once he'd got

Hagrid drunk. I just hope Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might

back us up if Bane doesn't stop him. Where's Dumbledore's office?"

    They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign pointing them

in the right direction. They had never been told where Dumbledore

lived, nor did they know anyone who had been sent to see him.

    "We'll just have to --" Harry began, but a voice suddenly rang

across the hall.

    "What are you three doing inside?"

    It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of books.

    "We want to see Professor Dumbledore," said Hermione, rather

bravely, Harry and Ron thought.

    "See Professor Dumbledore?" Professor McGonagall repeated,

as though this was a very fishy thing to want to do. "Why?"

    Harry swallowed -- now what?

    "It's sort of secret," he said, but he wished at once he hadn't,

because Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared.

    "Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago," she said coldly. "He

received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and flew off for

London at once."

    "He's gone?" said Harry frantically. "Now?"

    "Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter, he has

many demands on his time --

    "But this is important."

    "Something you have to say is more important than the Ministry

of Magic, Potter.

    "Look," said Harry, throwing caution to the winds, "Professor --

it's about the Sorcerer's tone --"

    Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it wasn't that. The

books she was carrying tumbled out of her arms, but she didn't pick

them up. "How do you know --?" she spluttered.

    "Professor, I think -- I know -- that Sn- that someone's going to

try and steal the Stone. I've got to talk to Professor Dumbledore."

    She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.

    "Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow," she said finally. I

don't know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured,

no one can possibly steal it, it's too well protected."

    "But Professor --"

    "Potter, I know what I'm talking about," she said shortly. She

bent down and gathered up the fallen books. I suggest you all go

back outside and enjoy the sunshine."

    But they didn't.

    "It's tonight," said Harry, once he was sure Professor McGonagall

was out of earshot. "Snape's going through the trapdoor tonight. He's

found out everything he needs, and now he's got Dumbledore out of

the way. He sent that note, I bet the Ministry of Magic will get

a real shock when Dumbledore turns up."

    "But what can we --"

    Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round.

    Snape was standing there.

    "Good afternoon," he said smoothly.

    They stared at him.

    "You shouldn't be inside on a day like this," he said, with an

odd, twisted smile.

    "We were --" Harry began, without any idea what he was going

to say.

    "You want to be more careful," said Snape. "Hanging around

    like this, people will think you're up to something. And

Gryffindor really can't afford to lose any more points, can it?"

    Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape called

them back.

    "Be warned, Potter -- any more nighttime wanderings and I will

personally make sure you are expelled. Good day to you."

    He strode off in the direction of the staffroom.

    Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others.

    "Right, here's what we've got to do," he whispered urgently. "One

of us has got to keep an eye on Snape -- wait outside the staff

room and follow him if he leaves it. Hermione, you'd better do that."

    "Why me?"

    "It's obvious," said Ron. "You can pretend to be waiting

for Professor Flitwick, you know." He put on a high voice, "'Oh

Professor Flitwick, I'm so worried, I think I got question fourteen

b wrong....'"

    "Oh, shut up," said Hermione, but she agreed to go and watch

out for Snape.

    "And we'd better stay outside the third-floor corridor," Harry

told Ron. "Come on."

    But that part of the plan didn't work. No sooner had they reached

the door separating Fluffy from the rest of the school than Professor

McGonagall turned up again and this time, she lost her temper.

    "I suppose you think you're harder to get past than a pack of

enchantments!" she stormed. "Enough of this nonsense! If I hear you

've come anywhere near here again, I'll take another fifty points

from Gryffindor! Yes, Weasley, from my own house!" Harry and Ron went

back to the common room, Harry had just said, "At least Hermione's

on Snape's tail," when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and

Hermione came in.

    "I'm sorry, Harry!" she wailed. "Snape came out and asked me what

I was doing, so I said I was waiting for Flitwick, and Snape went to

get him, and I've only just got away, I don't know where Snape went."

    "Well, that's it then, isn't it?" Harry said.

    The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes were

glittering.

    "I'm going out of here tonight and I'm going to try and get to

the Stone first."

    "You're mad!" said Ron.

    "You can't!" said Hermione. "After what McGonagall and Snape

have said? You'll be expelled!"

    "SO WHAP" Harry shouted. "Don't you understand? If Snape gets

hold of the Stone, Voldemort's coming back! Haven't you heard what

it was like when he was trying to take over? There won't be any

Hogwarts to get expelled from! He'll flatten it, or turn it into

a school for the Dark Arts! Losing points doesn't matter anymore,

can't you see? D'you think he'll leave you and your families alone

if Gryffindor wins the house cup? If I get caught before I can get

to the Stone, well, I'll have to go back to the Dursleys and wait

for Voldemort to find me there, it's only dying a bit later than

I would have, because I'm never going over to the Dark Side! I'm

going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing you two say is

going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?"

    He glared at them.

    "You're right Harry," said Hermione in a small voice.

    "I'll use the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It's just lucky

I got it back."

    "But will it cover all three of us?" said Ron.

    "All -- all three of us?"

    "Oh, come off it, you don't think we'd let you go alone?"

    "Of course not," said Hermione briskly. "How do you think you'd

get to the Stone without us? I'd better go and took through my books,

there might be something useful..."

    "But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too."

    "Not if I can help it," said Hermione grimly. "Flitwick

told me in secret that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his

exam. They're not throwing me out after that."

    After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in the

common room. Nobody bothered them; none of the Gryffindors had

anything to say to Harry any more, after all. This was the first

night he hadn't been upset by it. Hermione was skimming through

all her notes, hoping to come across one of the enchantments they

were about to try to break. Harry and Ron didn't talk much. Both

of them were thinking about what they were about to do.

    Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed.

    "Better get the cloak," Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan finally

left, stretching and yawning. Harry ran upstairs to their dark

dormitory. He putted out the cloak and then his eyes fell on the

flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on

Fluffy -- he didn't feel much like singing.

    He ran back down to the common room.

    "We'd better put the cloak on here, and make sure it covers

all three of us -- if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along

on its own --"

    "What are you doing?" said a voice from the corner of the

room. Neville appeared from behind an armchair, clutching Trevor the

toad, who looked as though he'd been making another bid for freedom.

    "Nothing, Neville, nothing," said Harry, hurriedly putting the

cloak behind his back.

    Neville stared at their guilty faces.

    "You're going out again," he said.

    "No, no, no," said Hermione. "No, we're not. Why don't you go

to bed, Neville?"

    Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. They couldn't

afford to waste any more time, Snape might even now be playing

Fluffy to sleep.

    "You can't go out," said Neville, "you'll be caught

again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble."

    "You don't understand," said Harry, "this is important."

    But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do something

desperate.

    I won't let you do it," he said, hurrying to stand in front of

the portrait hole. "I'll -- I'll fight you!"

    "Neville, "Ron exploded, "get away from that hole and don't be

an idiot --"

    "Don't you call me an idiot!" said Neville. I don't think you

should be breaking any more rules! And you were the one who told

me to stand up to people!"

    "Yes, but not to us," said Ron in exasperation. "Neville,

you don't know what you're doing."

    He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the toad,

who leapt out of sight.

    "Go on then, try and hit me!" said Neville, raising his

fists. "I'm ready!"

    Harry turned to Hermione.

    "Do something," he said desperately.

    Hermione stepped forward.

    "Neville," she said, "I'm really, really sorry about this."

    She raised her wand.

    "Petrificus Totalus!" she cried, pointing it at Neville.

    Neville's arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang

together. His whole body rigid, he swayed where he stood and then

fell flat on his face, stiff as a board.

    Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville's jaws were jammed

together so he couldn't speak. Only his eyes were moving, looking

at them in horror.

    "What've you done to him?" Harry whispered.

    "It's the full Body-Bind," said Hermione miserably. "Oh, Neville,

I'm so sorry."

    "We had to, Neville, no time to explain," said Harry.

    "You'll understand later, Neville," said Ron as they stepped

over him and pulled on the invisibility cloak.

    But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn't feel

like a very good omen. In their nervous state, every statue's shadow

looked like Filch, every distant breath of wind sounded like Peeves

swooping down on them. At the foot of the first set of stairs,

they spotted Mrs. Norris skulking near the top.

    "Oh, let's kick her, just this once," Ron whispered in Harry's

ear, but Harry shook his head. As they climbed carefully around her,

Mrs. Norris turned her lamplike eyes on them, but didn't do anything.

    They didn't meet anyone else until they reached the staircase

up to the third floor. Peeves was bobbing halfway up, loosening

the carpet so that people would trip.

    "Who's there?" he said suddenly as they climbed toward him. He

narrowed his wicked black eyes. "Know you're there, even if I can't

see you. Are you ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?"

    He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at them.

    "Should call Filch, I should, if something's a-creeping around

unseen."

    Harry had a sudden idea.

    "Peeves," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "the Bloody Baron has

his own reasons for being invisible."

    Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught himself

in time and hovered about a foot off the stairs.

    "So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, Sir," he said

greasily. "My mistake, my mistake -- I didn't see you -- of course

I didn't, you're invisible -- forgive old Peevsie his little joke,

sir."

    "I have business here, Peeves," croaked Harry. "Stay away from

this place tonight."

    "I will, sir, I most certainly will," said Peeves, rising up

in the air again. "Hope your business goes well, Baron, I'll not

bother you."

    And he scooted off

    "Brilliant, Harry!" whispered Ron.

    A few seconds later, they were there, outside the third-floor

corridor -- and the door was already ajar.

    "Well, there you are," Harry said quietly, "Snape's already

got past Fluffy."

    Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress upon all three

of them what was facing them. Underneath the cloak, Harry turned

to the other two.

    "If you want to go back, I won't blame you," he said. "You can

take the cloak, I won't need it now."

    "Don't be stupid," said Ron.

    "We're coming," said Hermione.

    Harry pushed the door open.

    As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their ears. All

three of the dog's noses sniffed madly in their direction, even

though it couldn't see them.

    "What's that at its feet?" Hermione whispered.

    "Looks like a harp," said Ron. "Snape must have left it there."

    "It must wake up the moment you stop playing," said Harry. "Well,

here goes..."

    He put Hagrid's flute to his lips and blew. It wasn't really a

tune, but from the first note the beast's eyes began to droop. Harry

hardly drew breath. Slowly, the dog's growls ceased -- it tottered

on its paws and fell to its knees, then it slumped to the ground,

fast asleep.

    "Keep playing," Ron warned Harry as they slipped out of the

cloak and crept toward the trapdoor. They could feel the dog's hot,

smelly breath as they approached the giant heads. "I think we'll

be able to pull the door open," said Ron, peering over the dog's

back. "Want to go first, Hermione?"

    "No, I don't!"

    "All right." Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully over

the dog's legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the trapdoor, which

swung up and open.

    "What can you see?" Hermione said anxiously.

    "Nothing -- just black -- there's no way of climbing down,

we'll just have to drop."

    Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to get

his attention and pointed at himself.

    "You want to go first? Are you sure?" said Ron. "I don't know

how deep this thing goes. Give the flute to Hermione so she can

keep him asleep."

    Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds' silence, the

dog growled and twitched, but the moment Hermione began to play,

it fell back into its deep sleep.

    Harry climbed over it and looked down through the trapdoor. There

was no sign of the bottom.

    He lowered himself through the hole until he was hanging on by

his fingertips. Then he looked up at Ron and said, "If anything

happens to me, don't follow. Go straight to the owlery and send

Hedwig to Dumbledore, right?"

    "Right," said Ron.

    "See you in a minute, I hope...

    And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as he fell

down, down, down and -- FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump

he landed on something soft. He sat up and felt around, his eyes

not used to the gloom. It felt as though he was sitting on some

sort of plant.

    "It's okay!" he called up to the light the size of a postage

stamp, which was the open trapdoor, "it's a soft landing, you

can jump!"

    Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to Harry.

    "What's this stuff?" were his first words.

    "Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it's here to break

the fall. Come on, Hermione!"

    The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark from the dog,

but Hermione had already jumped. She landed on Harry's other side.

    "We must be miles under the school , she said.

    "Lucky this plant thing's here, really," said Ron.

    "Lucky!" shrieked Hermione. "Look at you both!"

    She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She had to

struggle because the moment she had landed, the plant had started to

twist snakelike tendrils around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron,

their legs had already been bound tightly in long creepers without

their noticing.

    Hermione had managed to free herself before the plant got a

firm grip on her. Now she watched in horror as the two boys fought

to pull the plant off them, but the more they strained against it,

the tighter and faster the plant wound around them.

    "Stop moving!" Hermione ordered them. "I know what this is --

it's Devil's Snare!"

    "Oh, I'm so glad we know what it's called, that's a great help,"

snarled Ron, leaning back, trying to stop the plant from curling

around his neck. "Shut up, I'm trying to remember how to kill

it!" said Hermione.

    "Well, hurry up, I can't breathe!" Harry gasped, wrestling with

it as it curled around his chest.

    "Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare... what did Professor Sprout

say? -- it likes the dark and the damp

    "So light a fire!" Harry choked.

    "Yes -- of course -- but there's no wood!" Hermione cried,

wringing her hands.

    "HAVE YOU GONE MAD?" Ron bellowed. "ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"

    "Oh, right!" said Hermione, and she whipped out her wand,

waved it, muttered something, and sent a jet of the same bluebell

flames she had used on Snape at the plant. In a matter of seconds,

the two boys felt it loosening its grip as it cringed away from the

light and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself from

their bodies, and they were able to pull free.

    "Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione," said Harry

as he joined her by the wall, wiping sweat off his face.

    "Yeah," said Ron, "and lucky Harry doesn't lose his head in a

crisis -- 'there's no wood,' honestly."

    "This way," said Harry, pointing down a stone passageway,

which was the only way forward.

    All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the gentle

drip of water trickling down the walls. The passageway sloped

downward, and Harry was reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant

jolt of the heart, he remembered the dragons said to be guarding

vaults in the wizards' bank. If they met a dragon, a fully-grown

dragon -- Norbert had been bad enough...

    "Can you hear something?" Ron whispered.

    Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to be coming

from up ahead.

    "Do you think it's a ghost?"

    "I don't know... sounds like wings to me."

    "There's light ahead -- I can see something moving."

    They reached the end of the passageway and saw before them a

brilliantly lit chamber, its ceiling arching high above them. It

was full of small, jewel-bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all

around the room. On the opposite side of the chamber was a heavy

wooden door.

    "Do you think they'll attack us if we cross the room?" said Ron.

    "Probably," said Harry. "They don't look very vicious, but I

suppose if they all swooped down at once... well, there's no other

choice... I'll run."

    He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms, and

sprinted across the room. He expected to feel sharp beaks and claws

tearing at him any second, but nothing happened. He reached the

door untouched. He pulled the handle, but it was locked.

    The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved at the door,

but it wouldn't budge, not even when Hermione tried her Alohomora

charm.

    "Now what?" said Ron.

    "These birds... they can't be here just for decoration,"

said Hermione.

    They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering --

glittering?

    "They're not birds!" Harry said suddenly. "They're keys! Winged

keys -- look carefully. So that must mean..." he looked around

the chamber while the other two squinted up at the flock of

keys. "... yes -- look! Broomsticks! We've got to catch the key to

the door!"

    "But there are hundreds of them!"

    Ron examined the lock on the door.

    "We're looking for a big, old-fashioned one -- probably silver,

like the handle."

    They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the air,

soaring into the midst of the cloud of keys. They grabbed and

snatched, but the bewitched keys darted and dived so quickly it

was almost impossible to catch one.

    Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest Seeker

in a century. He had a knack for spotting things other people

didn't. After a minute's weaving about through the whirl of rainbow

feathers, he noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as

if it had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the keyhole.

    "That one!" he called to the others. "That big one -- there --

no, there -- with bright blue wings -- the feathers are all crumpled

on one side."

    Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was pointing,

crashed into the ceiling, and nearly fell off his broom.

    "We've got to close in on it!" Harry called, not taking his

eyes off the key with the damaged wing. "Ron, you come at it from

above -- Hermione, stay below and stop it from going down and I'll

try and catch it. Right, NOW!"

    Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key dodged them both,

and Harry streaked after it; it sped toward the wall, Harry leaned

forward and with a nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the

stone with one hand. Ron and Hermione's cheers echoed around the

high chamber.

    They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the key

struggling in his hand. He rammed it into the lock and turned --

it worked. The moment the lock had clicked open, the key took flight

again, looking very battered now that it had been caught twice.

    "Ready?" Harry asked the other two, his hand on the door

handle. They nodded. He pulled the door open.

    The next chamber was so dark they couldn't see anything at

all. But as they stepped into it, light suddenly flooded the room

to reveal an astonishing sight.

    They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, behind the

black chessmen, which were all taller than they were and carved from

what looked like black stone. Facing them, way across the chamber,

were the white pieces. Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered slightly --

the towering white chessmen had no faces.

    "Now what do we do?" Harry whispered.

    "It's obvious, isn't it?" said Ron. "We've got to play our way

across the room."

    Behind the white pieces they could see another door.

    "How?" said Hermione nervously.

    "I think," said Ron, "we're going to have to be chessmen."

    He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out to touch

the knight's horse. At once, the stone sprang to life. The horse

pawed the ground and the knight turned his helmeted head to look

down at Ron.

    "Do we -- er -- have to join you to get across?" The black

knight nodded. Ron turned to the other two.

    "This needs thinking about he said. I suppose we've got to

take the place of three of the black pieces...."

    Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron think. Finally

he said, "Now, don't be offended or anything, but neither of you

are that good at chess --"

    "We're not offended," said Harry quickly. "Just tell us what

to do."

    "Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione,

YOU 90 next to him instead of that castle."

    "What about you?"

    "I'm going to be a knight," said Ron.

    The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because at these

words a knight, a bishop, and a castle turned their backs on the

white pieces and walked off the board, leaving three empty squares

that Harry, Ron, and Hermione took.

    "White always plays first in chess," said Ron, peering across

the board. "Yes... look..."

    A white pawn had moved forward two squares.

    Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved silently

wherever he sent them. Harry's knees were trembling. What if

they lost?

    "Harry -- move diagonally four squares to the right."

    Their first real shock came when their other knight was

taken. The white queen smashed him to the floor and dragged him

off the board, where he lay quite still, facedown.

    "Had to let that happen," said Ron, looking shaken. "Leaves

you free to take that bishop, Hermione, go on."

    Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces showed

no mercy. Soon there was a huddle of limp black players slumped

along the wall. Twice, Ron only just noticed in time that Harry

and Hermione were in danger. He himself darted around the board,

taking almost as many white pieces as they had lost black ones.

    "We're nearly there," he muttered suddenly. "Let me think let

me think..."

    The white queen turned her blank face toward him.

    "Yes..." said Ron softly, "It's the only way... I've got to

be taken."

    "NOF Harry and Hermione shouted.

    "That's chess!" snapped Ron. "You've got to make some

sacrifices! I take one step forward and she'll take me -- that

leaves you free to checkmate the king, Harry!"

    "But --"

    "Do you want to stop Snape or not?"

    "Ron --"

    "Look, if you don't hurry up, he'll already have the Stone!"

    There was no alternative.

    "Ready?" Ron called, his face pale but determined. "Here I go -

now, don't hang around once you've won."

    He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. She struck

Ron hard across the head with her stone arm, and he crashed to

the floor - Hermione screamed but stayed on her square - the white

queen dragged Ron to one side. He looked as if he'd been knocked out.

    Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left.

    The white king took off his crown and threw it at Harry's

feet. They had won. The chessmen parted and bowed, leaving the door

ahead clear. With one last desperate look back at Ron, Harry and

Hermione charged through the door and up the next passageway.

    "What if he's --?"

    "He'll be all right," said Harry, trying to convince

himself. "What do you reckon's next?"

    "We've had Sprout's, that was the Devil's Snare; Flitwick must've

put charms on the keys; McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to

make them alive; that leaves Quirrell's spell, and Snape's."

    They had reached another door.

    "All right?" Harry whispered.

    "Go on."

    Harry pushed it open.

    A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of them

pull their robes up over their noses. Eyes watering, they saw,

flat on the floor in front of them, a troll even larger than the

one they had tackled, out cold with a bloody lump on its head.

    "I'm glad we didn't have to fight that one," Harry whispered

as they stepped carefully over one of its massive legs. "Come on,

I can't breathe."

    He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly daring to look

at what came next - but there was nothing very frightening in here,

just a table with seven differently shaped bottles standing on it

in a line.

    "Snape's," said Harry. "What do we have to do?"

    They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a fire sprang

up behind them in the doorway. It wasn't ordinary fire either;

it was purple. At the same instant, black flames shot up in the

doorway leading onward. They were trapped.

    "Look!" Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to the

bottles. Harry looked over her shoulder to read it:

    Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

    Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,

    One among us seven will let you move ahead,

    Another will transport the drinker back instead,

    Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

    Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.

    Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

    To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

    First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

    You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;

    Second, different are those who stand at either end,

    But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

    Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

    Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

    Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

    Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

    Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw that she

was smiling, the very last thing he felt like doing.

    "Brilliant," said Hermione. "This isn't magic -- it's logic --

a puzzle. A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of

logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."

    "But so will we, won't we?" "Of course not," said

Hermione. "Everything we need is here on this paper. Seven bottles:

three are poison; two are wine; one will get us safely through the

black fire, and one will get us back through the purple."

    "But how do we know which to drink?"

    "Give me a minute."

    Hermione read the paper several times. Then she walked up and

down the line of bottles, muttering to herself and pointing at

them. At last, she clapped her hands.

    "Got it," she said. "The smallest bottle will get us through

the black fire -- toward the Stone."

    Harry looked at the tiny bottle.

    "There's only enough there for one of us," he said. "That's

hardly one swallow."

    They looked at each other.

    "Which one will get you back through the purple flames?"

    Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of

the line.

    "You drink that," said Harry. "No, listen, get back and get

Ron. Grab brooms from the flying- key room, they'll get you out of

the trapdoor and past Fluffy -- go straight to the owlery and send

Hedwig to Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold Snape

off for a while, but I'm no match for him, really."

    "But Harry -- what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

    "Well -- I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said Harry, pointing at

his scar. "I might get lucky again."

    Hermione's lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at Harry and

threw her arms around him.

    "Hermione!"

    "Harry -- you're a great wizard, you know."

    "I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she

let go of him.

    "Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more

important things -- friendship and bravery and -- oh Harry --

be careful!"

    "You drink first," said Harry. "You are sure which is which,

aren't you?"

    "Positive," said Hermione. She took a long drink from the round

bottle at the end, and shuddered.

    "It's not poison?" said Harry anxiously.

    "No -- but it's like ice."

    "Quick, go, before it wears off."

    "Good luck -- take care."

    "GO!"

    Hermione turned and walked straight through the purple fire.

    Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He

turned to face the black flames.

    "Here I come," he said, and he drained the little bottle in

one gulp.

    It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He put the

bottle down and walked forward; he braced himself, saw the black

flames licking his body, but couldn't feel them -- for a moment he

could see nothing but dark fire -- then he was on the other side,

in the last chamber.

    There was already someone there -- but it wasn't Snape. It

wasn't even Voldemort.

    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    THE MAN WITH TWO FACES

    It was Quirrell.

    "You!" gasped Harry.

    Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all.

    "Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you

here, Potter."

    "But I thought -- Snape --"

    "Severus?" Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't his usual quivering

treble, either, but cold and sharp. "Yes, Severus does seem the

type, doesn't he? So useful to have him swooping around like an

overgrown bat. Next to him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering

P-Professor Quirrell?"

    Harry couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true, it couldn't.

    "But Snape tried to kill me!"

    "No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger

accidentally knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at

that Quidditch match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another

few seconds and I'd have got you off that broom. I'd have managed

it before then if Snape hadn't been muttering a countercurse,

trying to save you."

    "Snape was trying to save me?"

    "Of course," said Quirrell coolly. "\Why do you think he wanted

to referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do

it again. Funny, really... he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do

anything with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought

Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make

himself unpopular... and what a waste of time, when after all that,

I'm going to kill you tonight."

    Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and

wrapped themselves tightly around Harry.

    "You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school

on Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look

at what was guarding the Stone."

    "You let the troll in?"

    "Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls -- you must have

seen what I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately,

while everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who

already suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me

off -- and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that

three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly.

    "Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting

mirror.

    It was only then that Harry realized what was standing behind

Quirrell. It was the Mirror of Erised.

    "This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured,

tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with

something like this... but he's in London... I'll be far away by

the time he gets back...."

    All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking

and stop him from concentrating on the mirror.

    "I saw you and Snape in the forest --" he blurted out.

    "Yes," said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look

at the back. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out

how far I'd got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me -

as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side...."

    Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily

into it.

    "I see the Stone... I'm presenting it to my master... but where

is it?"

    Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn't

give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to

the mirror.

    "But Snape always seemed to hate me so much."

    "Oh, he does," said Quirrell casually, "heavens, yes. He was

at Hogwarts with your father, didn't you know? They loathed each

other. But he never wanted you dead."

    "But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing -- I thought Snape

was threatening you...."

    For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell's

face.

    "Sometimes," he said, "I find it hard to follow my master's

instructions -- he is a great wizard and I am weak --"

    "You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped.

    "He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him

when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then,

full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed

me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power,

and those too weak to seek it.... Since then, I have served him

faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be

very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive

mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts,

he was most displeased. He punished me... decided he would have to

keep a closer watch on me...."

    Quirrell's voice trailed away. Harry was remembering his trip to

Diagon Alley -how could he have been so stupid? He'd seen Quirrell

there that very day, shaken hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.

    Quirrell cursed under his breath.

    "I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should

I break it?"

    Harry's mind was racing.

    What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment,

he thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I

look in the mirror, I should see myseff finding it -- which means

I'll see where it's hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell

realizing what I'm up to?

    He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass

without Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were

too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was

still talking to himself. "What does this mirror do? How does it

work? Help me, Master!"

    And to Harry's horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed

to come from Quirrell himself

    "Use the boy... Use the boy..."

    Quirrell rounded on Harry.

    "Yes -- Potter -- come here."

    He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell

off. Harry got slowly to his feet.

    "Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell

me what you see."

    Harry walked toward him.

    I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about

what I see, that's all.

    Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny

smell that seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes,

stepped in front of the mirror, and opened them again.

    He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But

a moment later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand

into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and

put the Stone back in its pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt

something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly --

he'd gotten the Stone.

    "Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

    Harry screwed up his courage.

    "I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I --

I've won the house cup for Gryffindor."

    Quirrell cursed again.

    "Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt

the Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?

    But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke,

though Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.

    "He lies... He lies..."

    "Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the

truth! What did you just see?"

    The high voice spoke again.

    "Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."

    "Master, you are not strong enough!"

    "I have strength enough... for this...."

    Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He

couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached

up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban

fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then

he turned slowly on the spot.

    Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where

there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face,

the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with

glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

    "Harry Potter..." it whispered.

    Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.

    "See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and

vapor ... I have form only when I can share another's body... but

there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and

minds.... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you

saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... and once

I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my

own.... Now... why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"

    So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's

legs. He stumbled backward.

    "Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life

and join me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents.... They

died begging me for mercy..."

    "LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.

    Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could

still see him. The evil face was now smiling.

    "How touching..." it hissed. "I always value bravery... Yes,

boy, your parents were brave.... I killed your father first;

and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have

died... she was trying to protect you.... Now give me the Stone,

unless you want her to have died in vain."

    "NEVER!"

    Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed "SEIZE

HIM!" and the next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close on his

wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar;

his head felt as though it was about to split in two; he yelled,

struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go

of him. The pain in his head lessened -- he looked around wildly to

see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, looking

at his fingers -- they were blistering before his eyes.

    "Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell

lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet' landing on top of him,

both hands around Harry's neck -- Harry's scar was almost blinding

him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.

    "Master, I cannot hold him -- my hands -- my hands!"

    And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees,

let go of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms --

Harry could see they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.

    "Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

    Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry,

by instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face --

    "AAAARGH!"

    Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then

Harry knew: Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without

suffering terrible pain -- his only chance was to keep hold of

Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.

    Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung

on as tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry

off -- the pain in Harry's head was building -- he couldn't see -- he

could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of,

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" and other voices, maybe in Harry's own head,

crying, "Harry! Harry!"

    He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was

lost, and fell into blackness, down ... down... down...

    Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He

tried to catch it, but his arms were too heavy.

    He blinked. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of

glasses. How strange.

    He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam

into view above him.

    "Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry stared at

him. Then he remembered: "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's

got the Stone! Sir, quick --"

    "Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times,"

said Dumbledore. "Quirrell does not have the Stone."

    "Then who does? Sir, I --"

    "Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out.

    Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized he must be in

the hospital wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets,

and next to him was a table piled high with what looked like half

the candy shop.

    "Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore,

beaming. "What happened down in the dungeons between you and

Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole

school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley

were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt

they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it

might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it."

    "How long have I been in here?"

    "Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most

relieved you have come round, they have been extremely worried."

    "But sit, the Stone

    I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the

Stone. Professor Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I

arrived in time to prevent that, although you were doing very well

on your own, I must say.

    "You got there? You got Hermione's owl?"

    "We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London

than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one

I had just left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you."

    "It was you."

    "I feared I might be too late."

    "You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much

longer --"

    "Not the Stone, boy, you -- the effort involved nearly killed

you. For one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for

the Stone, it has been destroyed."

    "Destroyed?" said Harry blankly. "But your friend -- Nicolas

Flamel --"

    "Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite

delighted. "You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas

and I have had a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best."

    "But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"

    "They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order

and then, yes, they will die."

    Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry's face.

    "To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to

Nicolas and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very,

very long day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but

the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a

wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two

things most human beings would choose above all -- the trouble is,

humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are

worst for them." Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed

a little and smiled at the ceiling.

    "Sir?" said Harry. "I've been thinking... sir -- even if the

Stone's gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know- Who --"

    "Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for

things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

    "Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort's going to try other ways of coming

back, isn't he? I mean, he hasn't gone, has he?"

    "No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere,

perhaps looking for another body to share... not being truly alive,

he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as

little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry,

while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely

take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing

battle next time -- and if he is delayed again, and again, why,

he may never return to power."

    Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made his head

hurt. Then he said, "Sir, there are some other things I'd like

to know, if you can tell me... things I want to know the truth

about...."

    "The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible

thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I

shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to,

in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

    "Well... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because

she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to

kill me in the first place?"

    Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.

    "Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not

today. Not now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind

for now, Harry. When you are older... I know you hate to hear

this... when you are ready, you will know."

    And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.

    "But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?"

    "Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort

cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as

powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no

visible sign... to have been loved so deeply, even though the person

who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is

in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition,

sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this

reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."

    Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the

windowsill, which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the sheet. When

he had found his voice again, Harry said, "And the invisibility

cloak - do you know who sent it to me?"

    "Ah - your father happened to leave it in my possession, and

I thought you might like it." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Useful

things... your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens

to steal food when he was here."

    "And there's something else..."

    "Fire away."

    "Quirrell said Snape --"

    "Professor Snape, Harry." "Yes, him -- Quirrell said he hates

me because he hated my father. Is that true?"

    "Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself

and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could

never forgive."

    "What?"

    "He saved his life."

    "What?"

    "Yes..." said Dumbledore dreamily. "Funny, the way people's

minds work, isn't it? Professor Snape couldn't bear being in your

father's debt.... I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this

year because he felt that would make him and your father even. Then

he could go back to hating your father's memory in peace...."

    Harry tried to understand this but it made his head pound,

so he stopped.

    "And sir, there's one more thing..."

    "Just the one?"

    "How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?"

    "Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that. It was one of my more

brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You

see, only one who wanted to find the Stone -- find it, but not use

it -- would be able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves

making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even

me sometimes.... Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a

start on these sweets. Ah! Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was

unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomitflavored one,

and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost my liking for them --

but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't you?"

    He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then

he choked and said, "Alas! Ear wax!"

    Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict.

    "Just five minutes," Harry pleaded.

    "Absolutely not."

    "You let Professor Dumbledore in..."

    "Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You

need rest."

    "I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on,

Madam Pomfrey..."

    "Oh, very well," she said. "But five minutes only."

    And she let Ron and Hermione in.

    "Harry!"

    Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but

Harry was glad she held herself in as his head was still very sore.

    "Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to -- Dumbledore was

so worried --"

    "The whole school's talking about it," said Ron. "What really

happened?"

    It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even

more strange and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told them

everything: Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and

Hermione were a very good audience; they gasped in all the right

places, and when Harry told them what was under Quirrell's turban,

Hermione screamed out loud.

    "So the Stone's gone?" said Ron finally. "Flamel's just going

to die?"

    "That's what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that -- what was

it? -- 'to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great

adventure.

    "I always said he was off his rocker," said Ron, looking quite

impressed at how crazy his hero was.

    "So what happened to you two?" said Harry.

    "Well, I got back all right," said Hermione. "I brought Ron

round -- that took a while -- and we were dashing up to the owlery

to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall --

he already knew -- he just said, 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't

he?' and hurtled off to the third floor."

    "D'you think he meant you to do it?" said Ron. "Sending you

your father's cloak and everything?"

    "Well, " Hermione exploded, "if he did -- I mean to say that's

terrible -- you could have been killed."

    "No, it isn't," said Harry thoughtfully. "He's a funny man,

Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think

he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I

reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead

of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don't think it

was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It's almost

like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could...."

    "Yeah, Dumbledore's off his rocker, all right," said Ron

proudly. "Listen, you've got to be up for the end-of-year feast

tomorrow. The points are all in and Slytherin won, of course --

you missed the last Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by

Ravenclaw without you -- but the food'll be good."

    At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.

    "You've had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT" she said firmly.

    After a good night's sleep, Harry felt nearly back to normal.

    I want to go to the feast," he told Madam Pomfrey as she

straightened his many candy boxes. I can, can't I?"

    "Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go," she

said stiffily, as though in her opinion Professor Dumbledore didn't

realize how risky feasts could be. "And you have another visitor."

    "Oh, good," said Harry. "Who is it?"

    Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual when he

was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be allowed. He sat down next

to Harry, took one look at him, and burst into tears.

    "It's -- all -- my -- ruddy -- fault!" he sobbed, his face in

his hands. I told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told

him! It was the only thing he didn't know, an' I told him! Yeh

could've died! All fer a dragon egg! I'll never drink again! I

should be chucked out an' made ter live as a Muggle!"

    "Hagrid!" said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking with grief

and remorse, great tears leaking down into his beard. "Hagrid,

he'd have found out somehow, this is Voldemort we're talking about,

he'd have found out even if you hadn't told him."

    "Yeh could've died!" sobbed Hagrid. "An' don' say the name!"

    "VOLDEMORT!" Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so shocked,

he stopped crying. "I've met him and I'm calling him by his

name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we saved the Stone, it's gone,

he can't use it. Have a Chocolate Frog, I've got loads...."

    Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, "That

reminds me. I've got yeh a present."

    "It's not a stoat sandwich, is it?" said Harry anxiously, and at

last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle. "Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day

off yesterday ter fix it. 'Course, he shoulda sacked me instead --

anyway, got yeh this..."

    It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened

it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving

at him from every page were his mother and father.

    "Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin'

fer photos... knew yeh didn' have any... d'yeh like it?"

    Harry couldn't speak, but Hagrid understood.

    Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that

night. He had been held up by Madam Pomfrey's fussing about,

insisting on giving him one last checkup, so the Great Hall was

already full. It was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green

and silver to celebrate Slytherin's winning the house cup for the

seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent

covered the wall behind the High Table.

    When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody

started talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat between Ron

and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact

that people were standing up to look at him.

    Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble

died away.

    "Another year gone!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "And I must

trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our

teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully

your heads are all a little fuller than they were... you have

the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next

year starts....

    "Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding,

and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with

three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three

hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six

and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy- two."

    A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin

table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the

table. It was a sickening sight.

    "Yes, Yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore. "However,

recent events must be taken into account."

    The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little.

    "Ahem," said Dumbledore. "I have a few last-minute points to

dish out. Let me see. Yes...

    "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 Bettie 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, Mom, there he is, look!"

    It was Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, but she wasn't

pointing at Ron.

    "Harry Potter!" she squealed. "Look, Mom! 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...."

    THE END

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