Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

Voldemort.
”
 
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dum-
bledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to no-
tice. “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 fright-
ened 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 its 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 disap-
peared? 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 

---

CHAPTER ONE 
‘
12 
‘
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 Vol-
demort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Pot-
ters. 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 Potters’ 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; in-
stead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have

---

THE BOY WHO LIVED 
‘
13 
‘
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