H
CHAPTER ONE
OWL POST
arry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing,
he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For
another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in
secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the
blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and
a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot)
propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather
quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help
him write his essay, "Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was
Completely Pointless — discuss."
The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry pushed
his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to
the book, and read:
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were
particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at
recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch
or wizard, burning had no ef ect whatsoever. The witch or wizard
would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to
shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed,
Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed
herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various
disguises.
Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow
for his ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he
unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to write,
pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard
the scratching of his quill on their way to the bathroom, he'd probably find
himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.
The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was the reason that
Harry never enjoyed his summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia,
and their son, Dudley, were Harry's only living relatives. They were
Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude toward magic. Harry's
dead parents, who had been a witch and wizard themselves, were never
mentioned under the Dursleys' roof. For years, Aunt Petunia and Uncle
Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as downtrodden as possible, they
would be able to squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they had been
unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of anyone finding out that
Harry had spent most of the last two years at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry. The most they could do, however, was to lock
away Harry's spellbooks, wand, cauldron, and broomstick at the start of
the summer break, and forbid him to talk to the neighbors.
This separation from his spellbooks had been a real problem for Harry,
because his teachers at Hogwarts had given him a lot of holiday work. One
of the essays, a particularly nasty one about shrinking potions, was for
Harry's least favorite teacher, Professor Snape, who would be delighted to
have an excuse to give Harry detention for a month. Harry had therefore
seized his chance in the first week of the holidays. While Uncle Vernon,
Aunt Petunia, and Dudley had gone out into the front garden to admire
Uncle Vernon's new company car (in very loud voices, so that the rest of
the street would notice it too), Harry had crept downstairs, picked the lock
on the cupboard under the stairs, grabbed some of his books, and hidden
them in his bedroom. As long as he didn't leave spots of ink on the sheets,
the Dursleys need never know that he was studying magic by night.
Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with his aunt and uncle at
the moment, as they were already in an especially bad mood with him, all
because he'd received a telephone call from a fellow wizard one week into
the school vacation.
Ron Weasley, who was one of Harry's best friends at Hogwarts, came
from a whole family of wizards. This meant that he knew a lot of things
Harry didn't, but had never used a telephone before. Most unluckily, it had
been Uncle Vernon who had answered the call.
"Vernon Dursley speaking."
Harry, who happened to be in the room at the time, froze as he heard
Ron's voice answer.
"HELLO? HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I — WANT — TO — TALK
— TO — HARRY — POTTER!"
Ron was yelling so loudly that Uncle Vernon jumped and held the
receiver a foot away from his ear, staring at it with an expression of
mingled fury and alarm.
"WHO IS THIS?" he roared in the direction of the mouthpiece. "WHO
ARE YOU?"
"RON — WEASLEY!" Ron bellowed back, as though he and Uncle
Vernon were speaking from opposite ends of a football field. "I'M — A —
FRIEND — OF — HARRY'S — FROM — SCHOOL —"
Uncle Vernon's small eyes swiveled around to Harry, who was rooted to
the spot.
"THERE IS NO HARRY POTTER HERE!" he roared, now holding the
receiver at arm's length, as though frightened it might explode. "I DON'T
KNOW WHAT SCHOOL YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT! NEVER
CONTACT ME AGAIN! DON'T YOU COME NEAR MY FAMILY!"
And he threw the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a
poisonous spider.
The fight that had followed had been one of the worst ever.
"HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE LIKE —
PEOPLE LIKE YOU!" Uncle Vernon had roared, spraying Harry with spit.
Ron obviously realized that he'd gotten Harry into trouble, because he
hadn't called again. Harry's other best friend from Hogwarts, Hermione
Granger, hadn't been in touch either. Harry suspected that Ron had warned
Hermione not to call, which was a pity, because Hermione, the cleverest
witch in Harry's year, had Muggle parents, knew perfectly well how to use
a telephone, and would probably have had enough sense not to say that she
went to Hogwarts.
So Harry had had no word from any of his wizarding friends for five
long weeks, and this summer was turning out to be almost as bad as the
last one. There was just one very small improvement — after swearing
that he wouldn't use her to send letters to any of his friends, Harry had
been allowed to let his owl, Hedwig, out at night. Uncle Vernon had given
in because of the racket Hedwig made if she was locked in her cage all the
time.
Harry finished writing about Wendelin the Weird and paused to listen
again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant,
grunting snores of his enormous cousin, Dudley. It must be very late, Harry
thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he'd finish this
essay tomorrow night. . . .
He replaced the top of the ink bottle; pulled an old pillowcase from
under his bed; put the flashlight, A History of Magic, his essay, quill, and
ink inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard under
his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous
alarm clock on his bedside table.
It was one o'clock in the morning. Harry's stomach gave a funny jolt.
He had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour.
Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little he looked forward
to his birthdays. He had never received a birthday card in his life. The
Dursleys had completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had no
reason to suppose they would remember this one.
Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig's large, empty cage, to
the open window. He leaned on the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his
face after a long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been absent for two
nights now. Harry wasn't worried about her: She'd been gone this long
before. But he hoped she'd be back soon — she was the only living
creature in this house who didn't flinch at the sight of him.
Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his age, had grown a few
inches over the last year. His jet-black hair, however, was just as it always
had been — stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The eyes behind his
glasses were bright green, and on his forehead, clearly visible through his
hair, was a thin scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.
Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was the most
extraordinary of all. It was not, as the Dursleys had pretended for ten
years, a souvenir of the car crash that had killed Harry's parents, because
Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash. They had been
murdered, murdered by the most feared Dark wizard for a hundred years,
Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack with nothing
more than a scar on his forehead, where Voldemort's curse, instead of
killing him, had rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive, Voldemort
had fled. . . .
But Harry had come face-to-face with him at Hogwarts. Remembering
their last meeting as he stood at the dark window, Harry had to admit he
was lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday.
He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig, perhaps soaring back to
him with a dead mouse dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing
absently over the rooftops, it was a few seconds before Harry realized
what he was seeing.
Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment,
was a large, strangely lopsided creature, and it was flapping in Harry's
direction. He stood quite still, watching it sink lower and lower. For a split
second he hesitated, his hand on the window latch, wondering whether to
slam it shut. But then the bizarre creature soared over one of the street
lamps of Privet Drive, and Harry, realizing what it was, leapt aside.
Through the window soared three owls, two of them holding up the
third, which appeared to be unconscious. They landed with a soft flump on
Harry's bed, and the middle owl, which was large and gray, keeled right
over and lay motionless. There was a large package tied to its legs.
Harry recognized the unconscious owl at once — his name was Errol,
and he belonged to the Weasley family. Harry dashed to the bed, untied the
cords around Errol's legs, took off the parcel, and then carried Errol to
Hedwig's cage. Errol opened one bleary eye, gave a feeble hoot of thanks,
and began to gulp some water.
Harry turned back to the remaining owls. One of them, the large snowy
female, was his own Hedwig. She, too, was carrying a parcel and looked
extremely pleased with herself. She gave Harry an affectionate nip with
her beak as he removed her burden, then flew across the room to join
Errol.
Harry didn't recognize the third owl, a handsome tawny one, but he
knew at once where it had come from, because in addition to a third
package, it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When Harry
relieved this owl of its burden, it ruffled its feathers importantly, stretched
its wings, and took off through the window into the night.
Harry sat down on his bed and grabbed Errol's package, ripped off the
brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in gold, and his first-ever
birthday card. Fingers trembling slightly, he opened the envelope. Two
pieces of paper fell out — a letter and a newspaper clipping.
The clipping had clearly come out of the wizarding newspaper, the
Daily Prophet, because the people in the black-and-white picture were
moving. Harry picked up the clipping, smoothed it out, and read:
MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the
Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize
Galleon Draw.
A delighted Mr. Weasley told the Daily Prophet, "We will be
spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest
son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank."
The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning
for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the
Weasley children currently attend.
Harry scanned the moving photograph, and a grin spread across his face
as he saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously at him, standing in
front of a large pyramid. Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall, balding Mr.
Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all (though the black-and-white
picture didn't show it) with flaming-red hair. Right in the middle of the
picture was Ron, tall and gangling, with his pet rat, Scabbers, on his
shoulder and his arm around his little sister, Ginny.
Harry couldn't think of anyone who deserved to win a large pile of gold
more than the Weasleys, who were very nice and extremely poor. He
picked up Ron's letter and unfolded it.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
Look, I'm really sorry about that telephone call. I hope the
Muggles didn't give you a hard time. I asked Dad, and he reckons I
shouldn't have shouted.
It's amazing here in Egypt. Bill's taken us around all the tombs and
you wouldn't believe the curses those old Egyptian wizards put on
them. Mum wouldn't let Ginny come in the last one. There were all
these mutant skeletons in there, of Muggles who'd broken in and
grown extra heads and stuff.
I couldn't believe it when Dad won the Daily Prophet Draw. Seven
hundred Galleons! Most of it's gone on this trip, but they're going to
buy me a new wand for next year.
Harry remembered only too well the occasion when Ron's old wand had
snapped. It had happened when the car the two of them had been flying to
Hogwarts had crashed into a tree on the school grounds.
We'll be back about a week before term starts and we'll be going
up to London to get my wand and our new books. Any chance of
meeting you there?
Don't let the Muggles get you down!
Try and come to London,
P.S. Percy's Head Boy. He got the letter last week.
Harry glanced back at the photograph. Percy, who was in his seventh and
final year at Hogwarts, was looking particularly smug. He had pinned his
Head Boy badge to the fez perched jauntily on top of his neat hair, his
horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the Egyptian sun.
Harry now turned to his present and unwrapped it. Inside was what
looked like a miniature glass spinning top. There was another note from
Ron beneath it.
Harry — this is a Pocket Sneakoscope. If there's someone
untrustworthy around, it's supposed to light up and spin. Bill says it's
rubbish sold for wizard tourists and isn't reliable, because it kept
lighting up at dinner last night. But he didn't realize Fred and George
had put beetles in his soup.
Bye —
Harry put the Pocket Sneakoscope on his bedside table, where it stood
quite still, balanced on its point, reflecting the luminous hands of his
clock. He looked at it happily for a few seconds, then picked up the parcel
Hedwig had brought.
Inside this, too, there was a wrapped present, a card, and a letter, this
time from Hermione.
Dear Harry,
Ron wrote to me and told me about his phone call to your Uncle
Vernon. I do hope you're all right.
I'm on holiday in France at the moment and I didn't know how I
was going to send this to you — what if they'd opened it at customs?
— but then Hedwig turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you
got something for your birthday for a change. I bought your present
by owl-order; there was an advertisement in the Daily Prophet (I've
been getting it delivered; it's so good to keep up with what's going on
in the wizarding world). Did you see that picture of Ron and his
family a week ago? I bet he's learning loads. I'm really jealous — the
ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating.
There's some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I've
rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the
things I've found out. I hope it's not too long — it's two rolls of
parchment more than Professor Binns asked for.
Ron says he's going to be in London in the last week of the
holidays. Can you make it? Will your aunt and uncle let you come? I
really hope you can. If not, I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express on
September first!
Love from
P.S. Ron says Percy's Head Boy. I'll bet Percy's really pleased. Ron
doesn't seem too happy about it.
Harry laughed as he put Hermione's letter aside and picked up her
present. It was very heavy. Knowing Hermione, he was sure it would be a
large book full of very difficult spells — but it wasn't. His heart gave a
huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case,
with silver words stamped across it, reading Broomstick Servicing Kit.
"Wow, Hermione!" Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.
There was a large jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair
of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your
broom for long journeys, and a Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare.
Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed most about
Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most popular sport in the magical world —
highly dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks. Harry
happened to be a very good Quidditch player; he had been the youngest
person in a century to be picked for one of the Hogwarts House teams. One
of Harry's most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two Thousand racing
broom.
Harry put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel. He
recognized the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: This was from
Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of paper and
glimpsed something green and leathery, but before he could unwrap it
properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it
snapped loudly — as though it had jaws.
Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything
dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn't have a normal person's view
of what was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to befriend giant spiders,
buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon
eggs into his cabin.
Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry
reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand,
and raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the
wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.
And out fell — a book. Harry just had time to register its handsome
green cover, emblazoned with the golden title The Monster Book of
Monsters, before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the
bed like some weird crab.
"Uh-oh," Harry muttered.
The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly
across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in the
dark space under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still fast asleep,
Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached toward it.
"Ouch!"
The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still
scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward,
and managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the
room next door.
Hedwig and Errol watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling
book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a
belt, which he buckled tightly around it. The Monster Book shuddered
angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the
bed and reached for Hagrid's card.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday!
Think you might find this useful for next year. Won't say no more
here. Tell you when I see you.
Hope the Muggles are treating you right.
All the best,
Hagrid
It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would
come in useful, but he put Hagrid's card up next to Ron's and Hermione's,
grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from
Hogwarts left.
Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the
envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:
Dear Mr. Potter,
Please note that the new school year will begin on September the
first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station,
platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock.
Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade on
certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your
parent or guardian to sign.
A list of books for next year is enclosed.
Yours sincerely,
Deputy Headmistress
Harry pulled out the Hogsmeade permission form and looked at it, no
longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmeade on weekends;
he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had never set foot
there. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon or Aunt
Petunia to sign the form?
He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o'clock in the
morning.
Deciding that he'd worry about the Hogsmeade form when he woke up,
Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the
chart he'd made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to
Hogwarts. Then he took off his glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing his
three birthday cards.
Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just
like everyone else — glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his
birthday.
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by J.K. Rowling