Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Chapter 1 (Condensed Version)

 CHAPTER ONE - THE BOY WHO LIVED 

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Privet Drive were the last people to be involved in anything strange or mysterious. Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. 

He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, and a large mustache. Mrs Dursley was thin, blonde, and had twice as much neck for spying on neighbors. 

The Dursleys had a small son named Dudley - the “finest” boy around. The Dursleys also had a secret, and they were afraid someone would discover it. They couldn’t bear it if someone found out about Petunia’s sister’s family - The Potters. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, and they did not want Dudley associating with a child like that. It was a peculiar morning. 

Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out a tie for work, while Mrs. Dursley gossiped away as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. None of them noticed the large, tawny owl flutter past the window. Mr. Dursley got into his car and backed out. It was on the corner of the street he noticed a cat reading a map. He jerked his head, then looking again in the rearview mirror. 

It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive. 

Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. In traffic, he noticed people in cloaks walking about, whispering excitedly. Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunning Parking lot, his mind back on drills. Mr. Dursley sat with his back to the window, so he didn’t see the owls swooping in broad daylight. He yelled at five different people. His day left him in a very good mood, so he forgot all about the people in cloaks until he passed by them again to buy a bun from the bakery. 

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard, yes, their son Harry” said one of them. 

Mr. Dursley hurried back to the office, attempting to calm himself. It couldn’t be his nephew Harry. 

It could have been a Harvey, or a Harold. He was so worried that, when he left the building at five o’clock, he bumped into someone straight outside the door. 

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the purple cloaked old man fell. 

The stranger’s face broke into a wide smile and he spoke in a squeaky voice, "Don't be sorry! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last!" 

The old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off. Rattled, Mr. Dursley hurried to his car and set off for home. 

As he pulled into his driveway, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. "Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. 

The cat didn't move. 

It just gave him a stern look. Dudley was put to bed that evening. 

Mr. Dursley went into the living room to catch the evening news. 

“Bird-watchers everywhere have reported the nation’s owls have been acting unusual today” said the newsman. 

“Experts are unable to explain how the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern. And now, over to Jim McGuffin for the weather.” The camera shifts. 

“Well Ted,” said the weatherman, “Viewers as far as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning to tell me they have had a downpour of shooting stars. People are celebrating Bonfire Night early, it’s not until next week folks!” After the Dursleys fell asleep, a man appeared on the corner - thin, old, and with a long enough beard to tuck into his belt. 

His blue eyes shined bright behind half-moon spectacles. 

This man, Albus Dumbeldore, looked down at the cat and chuckled, “I should have known. He found the silver cigarette lighter in his pocket and clicked it, turning the street dark. 

“Fancy seeing you here Professor McGonagall.” The tabby cat had turned into a rather severe-looking woman with square glasses. “I’m stiff from sitting on a brick wall all day. Oh yes, and everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no.”

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. 

"We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years." " It would be great if You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, before the Muggles found out about us all. The rumor is that Lily and James are dead. He tried to kill the Potter’s son, but he couldn’t. No one knows why. Voldemort’s power broke and that’s why he’s gone. Is it true?” 

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?" "Yes," said Professor McGonagall. 

"And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?" "I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now." 

"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall. 

"I've been watching them all day. They've got this son -- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets." "It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter." 

"You think you can explain all this in a letter?” asked Professor McGonagall faintly. “Harry will be famous -- a legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future -- there will be books written about Harry and every child in our world will know his name!" 

A huge motorcycle, carrying an even larger man, fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of him. Hagrid had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets. 

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?" 

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir" said Hagrid. "The house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right. Harry fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." 

Inside the blankets, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Dumbeldore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursley’s house. 

Hagrid gave Harry a scratchy, whiskery kiss. 

Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. "Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!" 

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid. Professor Dumbeldore laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets. 

“G’night Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbeldore sir” said Hagrid. 

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night. 

"See you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. 

He clicked his cigarette lighter once, so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange. 

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. 

One small hand closed on the letter beside him as he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles.