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

from
a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh 
were
— he’s grown up knowin’ yer 
name if his parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like 
when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o’ the best I ever saw were the 
only ones with magic in ‘em in a long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what she had 
fer a sister!” 
“So what 
is
Quidditch?” 

---

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in the Muggle world — everyone follows 
Quidditch — played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls — sorta hard ter explain 
the rules.” 
“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?” 
“School houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o’ duffers, but —” 
“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Harry gloomily. 
“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a single witch or wizard 
who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.” 
“Vol-, sorry —You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?” 
“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid. 
They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were 
stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of 
postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in 
them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on 
some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from 
Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch 
Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, 
Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More)
by Professor Vindictus Viridian. 
“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley.” 
“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world except in 
very special circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’ anyway, yeh couldn’ work any of them curses 
yet, yeh’ll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level.” 
Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but 
they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. 
Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible 
smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of 
herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and 
snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply 
of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at 
twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop). 
Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list again. 
“Just yer wand left — A yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present.” 
Harry felt himself go red. 

---

“You don’t have to —” 
“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion 
years ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. 
All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.” 
Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling 
and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, 
fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop stammering his thanks, sounding just 
like Professor Quirrell. 
“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta presents from them 
Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now — only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the 
best wand.” 
A magic wand… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to. 
The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: 
Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty 
window. 
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny 
place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as 
though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just 
occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the 
ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed 
to tingle with some secret magic. 
“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there 
was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. 
An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom 
of the shop. 
“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly. 
“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a 
question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying 
her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm 
work.” 
Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a 
bit creepy. 
“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more 
power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it — it’s really the wand 

---

that chooses the wizard, of course.” 
Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see 
himself reflected in those misty eyes. 
“And that’s where…” 
Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long, white finger. 
“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. 
Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was 
going out into the world to do…” 
He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted Hagrid. 
“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t 
it?” 
“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid. 
“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” said Mr. 
Ollivander, suddenly stern. 
“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he 
added brightly. 
“But you don’t 
use
them?” said Mr. Ollivander sharply. 
“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he 
spoke. 
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now — Mr. Potter. Let me 
see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand 
arm?” 
“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry. 
“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, 
shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander 
wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail 
feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two 
unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good 
results with another wizard’s wand.” 
Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was 
doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. 

---

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. 
Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take 
it and give it a wave.” 
Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it 
out of his hand almost at once. 
“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —” 
Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. 
Ollivander. 
“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it 
out.” 
Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried 
wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander 
pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become. 
“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, 
now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice 
and supple.” 
Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, 
brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the 
end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped 
and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how 
curious… how very curious…” 
He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, 
“Curious… curious…” 
“Sorry,” said Harry, “but 
what’s
curious?” 
Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare. 
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the 
phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very 
curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother 
gave you that scar.” 
Harry swallowed. 
“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand 
chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… 
After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.” 

---

Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons 
for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop. 
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their way back down 
Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t 
speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how much people were gawking 
at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the 
snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; 
Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder. 
“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he said. 
He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking 
around. Everything looked so strange, somehow. 
“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid. 
Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the best birthday of his life — and yet — he 
chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words. 
“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, 
Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander… but I don’t know anything about magic at all. How can they 
expect great things? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for. I don’t know 
what happened when Vol-, sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.” 
Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile. 
“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, 
you’ll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve been singled out, an’ that’s always 
hard. But yeh’ll have a great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do, ’smatter of fact.” 
Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him 
an envelope. 
“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, “ he said. “First o’ September — King’s Cross — it’s all on yer ticket. 
Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she’ll know where to find me… . 
See yeh soon, Harry.” 
The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he 
rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.