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

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. 
“Ahem — 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!”