I'm so glad I'm reading books all at once for the first time, and getting the books back in my head and the movies out; I love the movies but I'm even more. Harry Potter has never even heard of Hogwarts when the letters start droppin cover image of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Read A Sample. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Harry Potter Series, Book 1 · Harry Potter. HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE. crowd easily; all Harry had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops.
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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. CHAPTER ONE .. in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child in our world will know his name!". HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE. 2 sister, but they hadn't Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even .. there will be books written about Harry – every child in our world will know his. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. J.K. Rowling. Here are the characters of the book. Underline in red the French name and the English name in blue.
They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands — now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them. The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor. A giant of a man was standing in the doorway.
Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside. For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. Hagrid was so huge that he parted the. He remembers me! A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old barman, who was quite bald and looked like a gummy walnut.
The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone was looking at him. Hagrid was beaming.
Then there was a great scraping of chairs and, next moment, Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. One wild cart-ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. I hate them Gringotts carts.
Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head and began to pin it to the right length. They were going even deeper now and gathering speed.
The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine and Harry leant over the side to try and see what was down at the dark bottom but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck. Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.
Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top-security vault, Harry was sure, and he leant forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least — but at first he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.
It was a relief to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from anything else. They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone was eating the food that had been sent up. Hermione, however, stood alone by the door, waiting for them.
There was a very embarrassed pause. But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became their friend. Harry was speechless. Hermione was the last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, pretending she had, to get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started handing out sweets. Students are finishing the feast in their houses. Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron. You each win Gryffindor five points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this.
You may go. It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. She had also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a very interesting read. Harry learnt that there were seven hundred ways of committing a Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened.
The mountains around the school became icy grey and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows, defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch pitch, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit-fur gloves and enormous beaverskin boots.
The Quidditch season had begun. Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as their. Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules since Harry and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll and she was much nicer for it. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs.
Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about.
People in cloaks. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young 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 close by.
They were whispering excitedly together. Dursley was enraged to see 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 nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr.
Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.
Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more.
He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to download himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy.
This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin.
It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking 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 boy. It might have 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 like that He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today!
Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day! Dursley around the middle and walked off. Dursley stood rooted to the spot.
He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled.
He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, 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 morning.
It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior?
Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word "Won't! Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: Although owls normally hunt at night 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 explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim? Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars!
Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea.
It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister. Dursley mumbled.
Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter.
Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son — he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he? Dursley stiffly. Howard, isn't it? Nasty, common name, if you ask me. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something. Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters?
If it did The Dursleys got into bed. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn't affect them How very wrong he was.
Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive.
It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground.
The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed. Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt.
He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.
This man's name was Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something.
But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter.
He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness.
Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs.