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

 

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CHAPTER NINE 
 
 
The Midnight Duel 
Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley, but that was before 
he met Draco Malfoy. Still, first-year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they 
didn’t have to put up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn’t until they spotted a notice 
pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that made them all groan. Flying lessons would be 
starting on Thursday — and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together. 
“Typical,” said Harry darkly. “Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a 
broomstick in front of Malfoy.” 
He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else. 
“You don’t know that you’ll make a fool of yourself,” said Ron reasonably. “Anyway, I know 
Malfoy’s always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that’s all talk.” 
Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He complained loudly about first years never getting 
on the house Quidditch teams and told long, boastful stories that always seemed to end with him 
narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn’t the only one, though: the way Seamus 
Finnigan told it, he’d spent most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on his 
broomstick. Even Ron would tell anyone who’d listen about the time he’d almost hit a hang 
glider on Charlie’s old broom. Everyone from wizarding families talked about Quidditch 
constantly. Ron had already had a big argument with Dean Thomas, who shared their dormitory, 
about soccer. Ron couldn’t see what was exciting about a game with only one ball where no one 
was allowed to fly. Harry had caught Ron prodding Dean’s poster of West Ham soccer team, 
trying to make the players move. 
Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his grandmother had never let him 
near one. Privately, Harry felt she’d had good reason, because Neville managed to have an 
extraordinary number of accidents even with both feet on the ground. 
Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was. This was something you 
couldn’t learn by heart out of a book — not that she hadn’t tried. At breakfast on Thursday she 
bored them all stupid with flying tips she’d gotten out of a library book called 
Quidditch 
Through the Ages
. Neville was hanging on to her every word, desperate for anything that might 
help him hang on to his broomstick later, but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione’s 
lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail. 
Harry hadn’t had a single letter since Hagrid’s note, something that Malfoy had been quick to 
notice, of course. Malfoy’s eagle owl was always bringing him packages of sweets from home, 
which he opened gloatingly at the Slytherin table. 
A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother. He opened it excitedly and 

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showed them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke. 
“It’s a Remembrall!” he explained. “Gran knows I forget things — this tells you if there’s 
something you’ve forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red — oh…” 
His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, “… you’ve forgotten 
something…” 
Neville was trying to remember what he’d forgotten when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the 
Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand. 
Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half hoping for a reason to fight Malfoy, but 
Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there 
in a flash. 
“What’s going on?” 
“Malfoy’s got my Remembrall, Professor.” 
Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table. 
“Just looking,” he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him. 
At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps 
onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled 
under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the 
opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the 
distance. 
The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the 
ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying 
that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left. 
Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk. 
“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, 
hurry up.” 
Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles. 
“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’” 
“UP” everyone shouted. 
Harry’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Hermione 
Granger’s had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville’s hadn’t moved at all. Perhaps 
brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a quaver in 

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Neville’s voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. 
Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and 
walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and Ron were delighted when she 
told Malfoy he’d been doing it wrong for years. 
“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep 
your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward 
slightly. On my whistle — three — two —” 
But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard 
before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips. 
“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle 
— twelve feet — twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling 
away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and — 
WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His 
broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden 
forest and out of sight. 
Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his. 
“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on, boy — it’s all right, up you get.” 
She turned to the rest of the class. 
“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms 
where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.” 
Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her 
arm around him. 
No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter. 
“Did you see his face, the great lump?” 
The other Slytherins joined in. 
“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil. 
“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never 
thought 
you’d
like fat little crybabies, Parvati.” 
“Look!” said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid 
thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.” 

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The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up. 
“Give that here, Malfoy,” said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch. 
Malfoy smiled nastily. 
“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find — how about — up a tree?” 
“Give it