Harry Potter 1 Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

HP 1 - Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone

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CHAPTER NINE
THE MIDNIGHT DUEL
H arry 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

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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  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

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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 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.

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“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.”
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 here!” Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick
and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the
topmost branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it, Potter!”
Harry grabbed his broom.
“No!” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told us not to move
— you’ll get us all into trouble.”
           Harry  ignored  her.  Blood  was  pounding  in  his  ears.  He  mounted  the
broom  and  kicked  hard  against  the  ground  and  up,  up  he  soared;  air  rushed
through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him — and in a rush of fierce
joy  he  realized  he’d  found  something  he  could  do  without  being  taught  —  this
was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even
higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring
whoop from Ron.
           He  turned  his  broomstick  sharply  to  face  Malfoy  in  midair.  Malfoy
looked stunned.
“Give it here,” Harry called, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!”
“Oh, yeah?” said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the
broom  tightly  in  both  hands,  and  it  shot  toward  Malfoy  like  a  javelin.  Malfoy
only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the
broom steady. A few people below were clapping.
“No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy,” Harry called.
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.
“Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high
into the air and streaked back toward the ground.
Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then
start  to  fall.  He  leaned  forward  and  pointed  his  broom  handle  down  —  next
second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball — wind whistled
in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching — he stretched out his

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hand  —  a  foot  from  the  ground  he  caught  it,  just  in  time  to  pull  his  broom
straight,  and  he  toppled  gently  onto  the  grass  with  the  Remembrall  clutched
safely in his fist.
“HARRY POTTER!”
           His  heart  sank  faster  than  he’d  just  dived.  Professor  McGonagall  was
running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling.
“Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —”
Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses
flashed furiously, “— how dare you — might have broken your neck —”
“It wasn’t his fault, Professor —”
“Be quiet, Miss Patil —”
“But Malfoy —”
“That’s enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.”
Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle’s triumphant faces as
he  left,  walking  numbly  in  Professor  McGonagall’s  wake  as  she  strode  toward
the  castle.  He  was  going  to  be  expelled,  he  just  knew  it.  He  wanted  to  say
something to defend himself, but there seemed to be something wrong with his
voice. Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even looking at him;
he  had  to  jog  to  keep  up.  Now  he’d  done  it.  He  hadn’t  even  lasted  two  weeks.
He’d be packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the Dursleys say when he
turned up on the doorstep?
           Up  the  front  steps,  up  the  marble  staircase  inside,  and  still  Professor
McGonagall  didn’t  say  a  word  to  him.  She  wrenched  open  doors  and  marched
along corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. Maybe she was taking
him  to  Dumbledore.  He  thought  of  Hagrid,  expelled  but  allowed  to  stay  on  as
gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid’s assistant. His stomach twisted as he
imagined it, watching Ron and the others becoming wizards, while he stumped
around the grounds carrying Hagrid’s bag.
Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door
and poked her head inside.
“Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?”
Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane she was going to
use on him?
But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year boy who came out
of Flitwick’s class looking confused.
“Follow me, you two,” said Professor McGonagall, and they marched on
up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry.
“In here.”
           Professor  McGonagall  pointed  them  into  a  classroom  that  was  empty

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except for Peeves, who was busy writing rude words on the blackboard.
           “Out,  Peeves!”  she  barked.  Peeves  threw  the  chalk  into  a  bin,  which
clanged loudly, and he swooped out cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the
door behind him and turned to face the two boys.
“Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I’ve found you a Seeker.”
Wood’s expression changed from puzzlement to delight.
“Are you serious, Professor?”
“Absolutely,” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “The boy’s a natural.
I’ve  never  seen  anything  like  it.  Was  that  your  first  time  on  a  broomstick,
Potter?”
Harry nodded silently. He didn’t have a clue what was going on, but he
didn’t seem to be being expelled, and some of the feeling started coming back to
his legs.
           “He  caught  that  thing  in  his  hand  after  a  fifty-foot  dive,”  Professor
McGonagall told Wood. “Didn’t even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t
have done it.”
Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true at once.
“Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?” he asked excitedly.
           “Wood’s  captain  of  the  Gryffindor  team,”  Professor  McGonagall
explained.
“He’s just the build for a Seeker, too,” said Wood, now walking around
Harry  and  staring  at  him.  “Light  —speedy  —  we’ll  have  to  get  him  a  decent
broom, Professor — a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven, I’d say.”
“I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can’t bend the first-
year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that
last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks.…”
Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses at Harry.
“I want to hear you’re training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind
about punishing you.”
Then she suddenly smiled.
           “Your  father  would  have  been  proud,”  she  said.  “He  was  an  excellent
Quidditch player himself.”
“You’re joking.”
It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron what had happened
when he’d left the grounds with Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak
and kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he’d forgotten all about it.
“Seeker?” he said. “But first years never — you must be the youngest
house player in about —”

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           “  —  a  century,”  said  Harry,  shoveling  pie  into  his  mouth.  He  felt