Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

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, oh 
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, its 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

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CHAPTER SEVEN 
‘
122 
‘
Prefect got up and shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley 
twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got Potter!” Harry sat down op-
posite 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 Quir-
rell, too, the nervous young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was 
looking very peculiar in a large purple turban. 
And now there were only four 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 fin-
gers 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. 

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THE SORTING HAT 
‘
123 
‘
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! Be-
fore 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 five hundred years,” said the ghost. “I 
don’t need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don’t think I’ve in- 

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CHAPTER SEVEN 
‘
124 
‘
troduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your ser-
vice. 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