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

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. Stepping 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 interesting looking 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 

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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: