Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

here
!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his 
broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he 
could
fly well. 
Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, 
“Come and get it, Potter!” 
Harry grabbed his broom. 
“
No
!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told us not 
to move — you’ll get us all into trouble.” 
Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted 
the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he 
soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out be-
hind him — and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he’d found 
something he could do without being taught — this was easy, this 
was 
wonderful.
He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even 
higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and 
an admiring whoop from Ron. 
He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Mal-
foy looked stunned. 

---

THE MIDNIGHT DUEL 
‘
149 
‘
“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!” 
“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried. 
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and 
grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Mal-
foy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; 
Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few 
people below were clapping. 
“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,” 
Harry called. 
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy. 
“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw the glass 
ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground. 
Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air 
and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom 
handle down — next second he was gathering speed in a steep 
dive, racing the ball — wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the 
screams of people watching — he stretched out his hand — a foot 
from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom 
straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall 
clutched safely in his fist. 
“HARRY POTTER!” 
His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor McGonagall 
was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling. 
“
Never
— in all my time at Hogwarts —” 
Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and 
her glasses flashed furiously, “— how 
dare
you — might have bro-
ken your neck —” 
“It wasn’t his fault, Professor —” 

---

CHAPTER NINE 
‘
150 
‘
“Be quiet, Miss Patil —” 
“But Malfoy —” 
“That’s 
enough,
Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.” 
Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s triumphant 
faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall’s wake as 
she strode toward the castle. He was going to be expelled, he just 
knew it. He wanted to say something to defend himself, but there 
seemed to be something wrong with his voice. Professor McGona-
gall was sweeping along without even looking at him; he had to jog 
to keep up. Now he’d done it. He hadn’t even lasted two weeks. 
He’d be packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the Dursleys 
say when he turned up on the doorstep? 
Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Pro-
fessor McGonagall didn’t say a word to him. She wrenched open 
doors and marched along corridors with Harry trotting miserably 
behind her. Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He thought 
of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as gamekeeper. Perhaps 
he could be Hagrid’s assistant. His stomach twisted as he imagined 
it, watching Ron and the others becoming wizards while he 
stumped around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag. 
Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened 
the door and poked her head inside. 
“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a mo-
ment?” 
Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane she was go-
ing to use on him? 
But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year boy who 
came out of Flitwick’s class looking confused. 

---

THE MIDNIGHT DUEL 
‘
151 
‘
“Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and they 
marched on up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry. 
“In here.” 
Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom that was 
empty except for Peeves, who was busy writing rude words on the 
blackboard. 
“Out, Peeves!” she barked. Peeves threw the chalk into a bin, 
which clanged loudly, and he swooped out cursing. Professor 
McGonagall slammed the door behind him and turned to face the 
two boys. 
“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I’ve found you a Seeker.” 
Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to delight. 
“Are you serious, Professor?” 
“Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The boy’s a 
natural. I’ve never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on 
a broomstick, Potter?” 
Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, 
but he didn’t seem to be being expelled, and some of the feeling 
started coming back to his legs. 
“He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive,” Profes-
sor McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even scratch himself. Charlie 
Weasley couldn’t have done it.” 
Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true 
at once. 
“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked excitedly. 
“Wood’s captain of the Gryffindor team,” Professor McGonagall 
explained. 
“He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now walking

---

CHAPTER NINE 
‘
152 
‘
around Harry and staring at him. “Light — speedy — we’ll have 
to get him a decent broom, Professor — a Nimbus Two Thousand 
or a Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.” 
“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can’t bend 
the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last 
year. 
Flattened
in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look 
Severus Snape in the face for weeks. . . .” 
Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses at Harry. 
“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may change my 
mind about punishing you.” 
Then she suddenly smiled. 
“Your father would have been proud,” she said. “He was an ex-
cellent Quidditch player himself.” 
“You’re 
joking.
” 
It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron what had 
happened when he’d left the grounds with Professor McGonagall. 
Ron had a piece of steak and kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but 
he’d forgotten all about it. 
“
Seeker
?” he said. “But first years 
never
— you must be the 
youngest House player in about —” 
“— a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his mouth. He felt