Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone By J. K. Rowling chapter one the Boy Who Lived

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 Quirrell, 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 five hundred years,” said the ghost. “I don’t need to, of course, but 
one does miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced 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