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HARRY
POTTER
and the Philosopher's Stone

J.K. ROWLING

This digital edition kickoff published by Pottermore Express in 2012

First published in impress in Great Britain in 1997 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Harry Potter characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Ent.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

A CIP catalogue record of this book is bachelor from the British Library

ISBN 978-i-78110-007-three

world wide web.pottermore.com

by J.K. Rowling

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— CHAPTER ONE —

The Boy Who Lived

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to exist involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they simply didn't concord with such nonsense.

Mr Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which fabricated drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did take a very large moustache. Mrs Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of cervix, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son chosen Dudley and in their stance at that place was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, simply they too had a surreptitious, and their greatest fearfulness was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could deport information technology if anyone found out near the Potters. Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley's sister, merely they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs Dursley pretended she didn't accept a sis, considering her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were every bit unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, likewise, only they had never fifty-fifty seen him. This boy was another expert reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on the tiresome, gray Tuesday our story starts, in that location was nix near the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would before long exist happening all over the country. Mr Dursley hummed as he picked out his well-nigh boring tie for work and Mrs Dursley gossiped away happily equally she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr Dursley picked upward his briefcase, pecked Mrs Dursley on the cheek and tried to kiss Dudley bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. 'Little tyke,' chortled Mr Dursley as he left the house. He got into his automobile and backed out of number 4's bulldoze.

Information technology was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar – a cat reading a map. For a 2d, Mr Dursley didn't realise what he had seen – then he jerked his head around to await again. At that place was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Bulldoze, but in that location wasn't a map in sight. What could he take been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the lite. Mr Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared dorsum. Every bit Mr Dursley collection effectually the corner and upwards the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. Information technology was now reading the sign that said
Privet Drive
– no,
looking
at the sign; cats couldn't read maps
or
signs. Mr Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his listen. Every bit he drove towards town he thought of aught except a large gild of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his listen by something else. Every bit he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't assistance noticing that in that location seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes – the go-ups you lot saw on immature people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite shut past. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr Dursley was enraged to run across that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nervus of him! Just then it struck Mr Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously collecting for something … yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes afterward, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his listen dorsum on drills.

Mr Dursley e'er saturday with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might accept found information technology harder to concentrate on drills that morning.
He
didn't see the owls swooping past in wide daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open up-mouthed every bit owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at dark-fourth dimension. Mr Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five dissimilar people. He fabricated several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until tiffin-time, when he idea he'd stretch his legs and walk beyond the road to purchase himself a bun from the baker's opposite.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them side by side to the bakery's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his mode dorsum by them, clutching a big doughnut in a pocketbook, that he defenseless a few words of what they were saying.

'The Potters, that's right, that'due south what I heard –'

'– aye, their son, Harry –'

Mr Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers equally if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed dorsum across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone and had well-nigh finished dialling his home number when he inverse his mind. He put the receiver back downward and stroked his moustache, thinking … no, he was existence stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew
was
called Harry. He'd never even seen the male child. Information technology might accept been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs Dursley, she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her – if
he'd
had a sister similar that … just notwithstanding, those people in cloaks …

He constitute it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at 5 o'clock, he was still and then worried that he walked directly into someone just exterior the door.

'Pitiful,' he grunted, equally the tiny quondam man stumbled and nigh brutal. It was a few seconds earlier Mr Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being near knocked to the basis. On the reverse, his confront split into a wide smiling and he said in a squeaky voice that fabricated passers-by stare: 'Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for zero could upset me today! Rejoice, for Yous-Know-Who has gone at final! Even Muggles similar yourself should exist jubilant, this happy, happy solar day!'

And the former man hugged Mr Dursley effectually the middle and walked off.

Mr Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatsoever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set up off dwelling house, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped earlier, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood – was the tabby cat he'd spotted that forenoon. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure information technology was the aforementioned one; it had the same markings effectually its optics.

'Shoo!' said Mr Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It simply gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the business firm. He was however determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door'due south problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learnt a new give-and-take ('Shan't!'). Mr Dursley tried to act commonly. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living-room in time to catch the final report on the evening news:

'And finally, bird-watchers everywhere accept reported that the nation'due south owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at nighttime and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explicate why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.' The news reader allowed himself a grin. 'Well-nigh mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the atmospheric condition. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?'

Reading Cristal Potter and the Philosopher's Stone Fanfictionhunt

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Reading Cristal Potter and the Philosopher's Stone Fanfictionhunt

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