CONTENTS
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
FOR JESSICA, WHO LOVES STORIES,
FOR
ANNE, WHO LOVED THEM TOO;
AND FOR
DI, WHO HEARD THIS ONE FIRST.
CONTENTS
ONE
The Boy Who Lived
TWO
The Vanishing Glass
THREE
The Letters from No One
FOUR
The Keeper of the Keys
FIVE
Diagon Alley
SIX
The Journey from Platform Nine and Three-quarters
SEVEN
The Sorting Hat
EIGHT
The Potions Master
NINE
The Midnight Duel
TEN
Halloween
ELEVEN
Quidditch
TWELVE
The Mirror of Erised
THIRTEEN
Nicolas Flamel
FOURTEEN
Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback
FIFTEEN
The Forbidden Forest
SIXTEEN
Through the Trapdoor
SEVENTEEN
The Man with Two Faces
CHAPTER ONE
THE BOY WHO LIVED
M
r. 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 be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.
He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very
large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the
usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her
time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a
small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think
they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs.
Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley
pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing
husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys
shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the
street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had
never even seen him. This boy was another good 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 dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange
and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr.
Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs.
Dursley gossiped away happily as 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 up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-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 car and
backed out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something
peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what
he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a
tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in
sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the
light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. 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. Mr. 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.
Mr. 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. Mr. 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 emeraldgreen 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 . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes
later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on
drills.
Mr. 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 swooping 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. Mr. 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 buy 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.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard —”
“— yes, their son, Harry —”
Mr. 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 . . . no, he was being 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 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 . . . but all the same, those people in cloaks . . .
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.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. 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!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around 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, 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.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat
behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let
himself into the house. He was still 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’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. 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:
“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s
owls have been behaving very unusually today. 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.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now,
over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of
owls tonight, Jim?”
“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not
only the owls that have been acting oddly today. 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.”
Mr. 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 . . .
Mrs. 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. “Er
— Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they
normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.
“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”
“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls . . . shooting
stars . . . and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . .”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.
“Well, I just thought . . . maybe . . . it was something to do with . . . you
know . . . her crowd.”
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered
whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he didn’t
dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about
Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
“What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”
“Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.
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 . . . if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he
didn’t think he could bear it.
The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. 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. Dursley. 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.
Mr. 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.”
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. 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. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to
see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped
the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number
four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but
after a moment he spoke to it.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a
rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the
shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a
cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked
distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” said Professor
McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a
dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d
think they’d be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles have noticed
something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her head back at the
Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks of owls . . . shooting
stars. . . . Well, they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice
something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle.
He never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious
little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason to
lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in
broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors.”
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping
he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A fine
thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have
disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really
has gone, Dumbledore?”
“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful
for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”
“A what?”
“A lemon drop. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”
“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t
think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-KnowWho has gone —”
“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by
his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I have
been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.”
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two
lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying
‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying
Voldemort’s name.”
“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half
exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the
only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”
“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will
never have.”
“Only because you’re too — well — noble to use them.”
“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told
me she liked my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The
owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what
everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped
him?”
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most
anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall
all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with
such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone”
was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was
true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not
answer.
“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned
up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and
James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead.”
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
“Lily and James . . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t want to believe it . . . Oh,
Albus . . .”
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know . . . I
know . . .” he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all.
They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Harry. But — he couldn’t. He
couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that
when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke —
and that’s why he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done . . .
all the people he’s killed . . . he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just
astounding . . . of all the things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven
did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her
eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a
golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had
twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the
edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back
in his pocket and said, “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, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.
“Dumbledore — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t
find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw him
kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry
Potter come and live here!”
“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.”
“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the
wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter?
These people will never understand him! He’ll 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 — every child in our world will
know his name!”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his halfmoon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he
can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can’t you
see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s
ready to take it?”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed,
and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting
here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he
might be hiding Harry underneath it.
“Hagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as
this?”
“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.
“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor
McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does
tend to — what was that?”
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily
louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it
swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle
fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He
was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He
looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy
black hair and beard hid most of his face, he 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 the giant, climbing
carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me.
I’ve got him, sir.”
“No problems, were there?”
“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before
the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over
Bristol.”
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of
blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jetblack hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt
of lightning.
“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself
above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well —
give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.”
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.
“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his
great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very
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, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and
burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead — an’
poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be
found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm
as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front
door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak,
tucked it inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a
full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s
shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling
light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.
“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying
here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away.
G’night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir.”
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.
“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore,
nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he
stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls
of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly
orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the
other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of
number four.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish
of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy
under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to
happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One
small hand closed on the letter beside him and 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, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being
prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. . . . He couldn’t know that at this
very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up
their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy who
lived!”
CHAPTER TWO
THE VANISHING GLASS
N
early ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find
their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at
all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number
four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living room, which was
almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr. Dursley had
seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the
mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there
had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing
different-colored bonnets — but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and
now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a
carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged
and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another boy lived
in the house, too.
Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His
Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of
the day.
“Up! Get up! Now!”
Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.
“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then
the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his back
and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one.
There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the
same dream before.
His aunt was back outside the door.
“Are you up yet?” she demanded.
“Nearly,” said Harry.
“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you
dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”
Harry groaned.
“What did you say?” his aunt snapped through the door.
“Nothing, nothing . . .”
Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out of
bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and, after
pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to spiders,
because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he
slept.
When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table was
almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as though
Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second
television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a racing bike was
a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise — unless of
course it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s favorite punching bag was
Harry, but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very
fast.
Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry
had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and
skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes of
Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry had a
thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round
glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of all the times Dudley
had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry liked about his own
appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of
lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question
he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.
“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask
questions.”
Don’t ask questions — that was the first rule for a quiet life with the
Dursleys.
Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.
“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of a morning greeting.
About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper
and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts
than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference,
his hair simply grew that way — all over the place.
Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his
mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not
much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on
his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby
angel — Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.
Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as
there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His
face fell.
“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less
than last year.”
“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under
this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”
“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry,
who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his
bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.
Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly,
“And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s that,
popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?”
Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said
slowly, “So I’ll have thirty . . . thirty . . .”
“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia.
“Oh.” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right
then.”
Uncle Vernon chuckled.
“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ’Atta boy,
Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.
At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it
while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a
video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a
VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia
came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.
“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take
him.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction.
Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart gave a leap. Every
year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to
adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry was
left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry
hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Figg made him
look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned.
“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he’d
planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had broken her
leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year
before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.
“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.
“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy.”
The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn’t there
— or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn’t understand
them, like a slug.
“What about what’s-her-name, your friend — Yvonne?”
“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.
“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully (he’d be able to
watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go
on Dudley’s computer).
Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d just swallowed a lemon.
“And come back and find the house in ruins?” she snarled.
“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they weren’t listening.
“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “. . .
and leave him in the car. . . .”
“That car’s new, he’s not sitting in it alone. . . .”
Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying — it had been
years since he’d really cried — but he knew that if he screwed up his face and
wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.
“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him spoil your special
day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him.
“I . . . don’t . . . want . . . him . . . t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between
huge, pretend sobs. “He always sp-spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty
grin through the gap in his mother’s arms.
Just then, the doorbell rang —“Oh, good Lord, they’re here!” said Aunt
Petunia frantically — and a moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss,
walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He
was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley
hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.
Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his luck, was sitting in the
back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo for the
first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of anything
else to do with him, but before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry
aside.
“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close
to Harry’s, “I’m warning you now, boy — any funny business, anything at all
— and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly . . .”
But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did.
The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was
just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them happen.
Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking
as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut his
hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which she left “to hide
that horrible scar.” Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a
sleepless night imagining school the next day, where he was already laughed
at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses. Next morning, however, he had
gotten up to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had
sheared it off. He had been given a week in his cupboard for this, even though
he had tried to explain that he couldn’t explain how it had grown back so
quickly.
Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting
old sweater of Dudley’s (brown with orange puff balls). The harder she tried
to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might
have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had
decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn’t
punished.
On the other hand, he’d gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the
roof of the school kitchens. Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual
when, as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he was sitting on the
chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry’s
headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all
he’d tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of his
cupboard) was jump behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors.
Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him in mid-jump.
But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with
Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn’t school, his
cupboard, or Mrs. Figg’s cabbage-smelling living room.
While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to
complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank,
and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was
motorcycles.
“. . . roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said, as a
motorcycle overtook them.
“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Harry, remembering suddenly. “It
was flying.”
Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in
his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache:
“MOTORCYCLES DON’T FLY!”
Dudley and Piers sniggered.
“I know they don’t,” said Harry. “It was only a dream.”
But he wished he hadn’t said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys
hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything
acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon
— they seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas.
It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The
Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance
and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what he wanted
before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap lemon ice pop. It
wasn’t bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla
scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn’t
blond.
Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time. He was careful to walk
a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were
starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t fall back on
their favorite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo restaurant, and when
Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have enough ice
cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed
to finish the first.
Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last.
After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there,
with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and
snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and
Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons.
Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its
body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a trash can — but at
the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.
Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the
glistening brown coils.
“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass,
but the snake didn’t budge.
“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with
his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.
“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.
Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He
wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself — no company
except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it
all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the
only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up; at least
he got to visit the rest of the house.
The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its
head until its eyes were on a level with Harry’s.
It winked.
Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was
watching. They weren’t. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.
The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its
eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:
“I get that all the time.”
“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn’t sure the
snake could hear him. “It must be really annoying.”
The snake nodded vigorously.
“Where do you come from, anyway?” Harry asked.
The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.
Boa Constrictor, Brazil.
“Was it nice there?”
The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on: This
specimen was bred in the zoo. “Oh, I see — so you’ve never been to Brazil?”
As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of
them jump. “DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS
SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”
Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.
“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by
surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so
fast no one saw how it happened — one second, Piers and Dudley were
leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of
horror.
Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank had
vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the
floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for
the exits.
As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing
voice said, “Brazil, here I come. . . . Thanksss, amigo.”
The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.
“But the glass,” he kept saying, “where did the glass go?”
The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea
while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber.
As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything except snap
playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in
Uncle Vernon’s car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his
leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst
of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, “Harry was
talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?”
Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting
on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go —
cupboard — stay — no meals,” before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt
Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.
Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn’t
know what time it was and he couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet.
Until they were, he couldn’t risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food.
He’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long
as he could remember, ever since he’d been a baby and his parents had died in
that car crash. He couldn’t remember being in the car when his parents had
died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long hours in his
cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light
and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, was the crash, though
he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. He couldn’t
remember his parents at all. His aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and
of course he was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of
them in the house.
When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some
unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the
Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped)
that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they
were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out
shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he
knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying
anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily
at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually
shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a
word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to
vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.
At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley’s gang hated
that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody
liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang.
CHAPTER THREE
THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE
T
he escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his longest-ever
punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the
summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video
camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing
bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her
crutches.
Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang,
who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon
were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot,
he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley’s
favorite sport: Harry Hunting.
This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house,
wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could
see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to
secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be with
Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school,
Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was
going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was
very funny.
“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he
told Harry. “Want to come upstairs and practice?”
“No, thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had anything as horrible
as your head down it — it might be sick.” Then he ran, before Dudley could
work out what he’d said.
One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings
uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It
turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn’t
seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave
him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.
That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his
brand-new uniform. Smeltings boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange
knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly
sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This
was supposed to be good training for later life.
As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said
gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into
tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so
handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He thought two
of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.
There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry went
in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He
went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags
swimming in gray water.
“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did
if he dared to ask a question.
“Your new school uniform,” she said.
Harry looked in the bowl again.
“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s
old things gray for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve
finished.”
Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat down
at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first
day at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin,
probably.
Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the
smell from Harry’s new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as
usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on
the table.
They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.
“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.
“Make Harry get it.”
“Get the mail, Harry.”
“Make Dudley get it.”
“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”
Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay
on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was
vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and
— a letter for Harry.
Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant elastic
band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had
no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the library, so he’d never
even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed
so plainly there could be no mistake:
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the
address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.
Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax
seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake
surrounding a large letter H.
“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you
doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.
Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle
Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the
yellow envelope.
Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the
postcard.
“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk . . .”
“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got something!”
Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the
same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his
hand by Uncle Vernon.
“That’s mine!” said Harry, trying to snatch it back.
“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open
with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a
set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish
white of old porridge.
“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.
Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out
of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a
moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made
a choking noise.
“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”
They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley
were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his
father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.
“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.
“I want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s mine.”
“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back
inside its envelope.
Harry didn’t move.
“I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.
“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.
“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the
scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door
behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over
who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling
from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and
floor.
“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the
address — how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don’t think
they’re watching the house?”
“Watching — spying — might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon
wildly.
“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we
don’t want —”
Harry could see Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes pacing up and down the
kitchen.
“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer. . . .
Yes, that’s best . . . we won’t do anything. . . .”
“But —”
“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took
him in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”
That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d
never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.
“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed
through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”
“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly.
“I have burned it.”
“It was not a mistake,” said Harry angrily, “it had my cupboard on it.”
“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the
ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile,
which looked quite painful.
“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been
thinking . . . you’re really getting a bit big for it . . . we think it might be nice
if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”
“Why?” said Harry.
“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”
The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt
Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where
Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t
fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move
everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed
and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old
video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once
driven over the next door neighbor’s dog; in the corner was Dudley’s firstever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program
had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot
that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf
with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of
books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they’d
never been touched.
From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, “I don’t
want him in there . . . I need that room . . . make him get out. . . .”
Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he’d have given
anything to be up here. Today he’d rather be back in his cupboard with that
letter than up here without it.
Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock.
He’d screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on
purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse
roof, and he still didn’t have his room back. Harry was thinking about this
time yesterday and bitterly wishing he’d opened the letter in the hall. Uncle
Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.
When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice
to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his
Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s another
one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive —’”
With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the
hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the
ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that
Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a
minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting
stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry’s letter
clutched in his hand.
“Go to your cupboard — I mean, your bedroom,” he wheezed at Harry.
“Dudley — go — just go.”
Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had
moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn’t received his
first letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time he’d make sure
they didn’t fail. He had a plan.
The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Harry turned it
off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn’t wake the Dursleys. He stole
downstairs without turning on any of the lights.
He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get
the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the
dark hall toward the front door —
“AAAAARRRGH!”
Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something big and squashy on the
doormat — something alive!
Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big,
squashy something had been his uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at
the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry
didn’t do exactly what he’d been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about
half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled
miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had
arrived, right into Uncle Vernon’s lap. Harry could see three letters addressed
in green ink.
“I want —” he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces
before his eyes.
Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up
the mail slot.
“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they
can’t deliver them they’ll just give up.”
“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”
“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like
you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of
fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.
On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn’t go
through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the
sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs
bathroom.
Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out
a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back
doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he
worked, and jumped at small noises.
On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry
found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two
dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia
through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone
calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to,
Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.
“Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?” Dudley asked Harry in
amazement.
On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking
tired and rather ill, but happy.
“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread
marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today —”
Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and
caught him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty
letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but
Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one —
“Out! OUT!”
Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall.
When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces,
Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still
streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.
“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great
tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five
minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No
arguments!”
He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared
argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up
doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling
in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up
while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.
They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they
were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and
drive in the opposite direction for a while.
“Shake ’em off . . . shake ’em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.
They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling.
He’d never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five
television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without
blowing up an alien on his computer.
Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the
outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and
damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the
windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering. . . .
They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the
next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to
their table.
“’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an ’undred of
these at the front desk.”
She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:
Mr. H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out of the
way. The woman stared.
“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her
from the dining room.
“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested
timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what
he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a
forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off
they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field,
halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking
garage.
“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that
afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the
car, and disappeared.
It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.
“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I
want to stay somewhere with a television.”
Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday — and you
could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of
television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of
course, his birthdays were never exactly fun — last year, the Dursleys had
given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks. Still, you
weren’t eleven every day.
Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,
thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d
bought.
“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”
It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked
like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most
miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no
television in there.
“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his
hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather
wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.
“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks
and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they
reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the
broken-down house.
The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled
through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty.
There were only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four
bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and
shriveled up.
“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance
of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed,
though the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.
As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the
high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy
windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and
made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon
went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit
of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry
couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his
stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low
rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch,
which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he’d
be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer,
wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter
writer was now.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the
roof wasn’t going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four
minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters
when they got back that he’d be able to steal one somehow.
Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that?
And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock
crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds . . . twenty . . . ten . . .
nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three . . . two . . .
one . . .
BOOM.
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door.
Someone was outside, knocking to come in.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS
B
OOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.
“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.
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.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you — I’m armed!”
There was a pause. Then —
SMASH!
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. His face was almost
completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard,
but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.
The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just
brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily
back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned
to look at them all.
“Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could yeh? It’s not been an easy
journey. . . .”
He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.
“Budge up, yeh great lump,” said the stranger.
Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching,
terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.
“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant.
Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle
eyes were crinkled in a smile.
“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “Yeh look a lot
like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mum’s eyes.”
Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.
“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and
entering!”
“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the giant; he reached over the
back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a
knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of
the room.
Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.
“Anyway — Harry,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a
very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here — I mighta sat on it at
some point, but it’ll taste all right.”
From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed
box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky
chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.
Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words got
lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, “Who are you?”
The giant chuckled.
“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and
Grounds at Hogwarts.”
He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry’s whole arm.
“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d not
say no ter summat stronger if yeh’ve got it, mind.”
His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and he
snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was
doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It
filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth
wash over him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.
The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and
began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle,
a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a
bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make
tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody
said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy,
slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon
said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”
The giant chuckled darkly.
“Yer great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’ anymore, Dursley, don’
worry.”
He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never tasted
anything so wonderful, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off the giant. Finally,
as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, “I’m sorry, but I still
don’t really know who you are.”
The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I told yeh, I’m Keeper
of Keys at Hogwarts — yeh’ll know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.”
“Er — no,” said Harry.
Hagrid looked shocked.
“Sorry,” Harry said quickly.
“Sorry?” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back
into the shadows. “It’s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t gettin’ yer
letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even know abou’ Hogwarts, fer cryin’
out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yer parents learned it all?”
“All what?” asked Harry.
“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait jus’ one second!”
He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The
Dursleys were cowering against the wall.
“Do you mean ter tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy —
this boy! — knows nothin’ abou’— about ANYTHING?”
Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after all, and
his marks weren’t bad.
“I know some things,” he said. “I can, you know, do math and stuff.”
But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About our world, I mean.
Your world. My world. Yer parents’ world.”
“What world?”
Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.
“DURSLEY!” he boomed.
Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded
like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.
“But yeh must know about yer mum and dad,” he said. “I mean, they’re
famous. You’re famous.”
“What? My — my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?”
“Yeh don’ know . . . yeh don’ know . . .” Hagrid ran his fingers through his
hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.
“Yeh don’ know what yeh are?” he said finally.
Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.
“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the boy
anything!”
A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious
look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled
with rage.
“You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore
left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve
kept it from him all these years?”
“Kept what from me?” said Harry eagerly.
“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.
Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.
“Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,” said Hagrid. “Harry — yer a wizard.”
There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could
be heard.
“I’m a what?” gasped Harry.
“A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which
groaned and sank even lower, “an’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve
been trained up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else would yeh be?
An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter.”
Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope,
addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The
Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme
Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list
of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July
31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress
Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn’t decide
which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered, “What does it mean,
they await my owl?”
“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his
forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another
pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl — a real, live, rather ruffledlooking owl — a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between
his teeth he scribbled a note that Harry could read upside down:
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
Given Harry his letter.
Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.
Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well.
Hagrid
Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak,
went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back
and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.
Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.
“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashenfaced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.
“He’s not going,” he said.
Hagrid grunted.
“I’d like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him,” he said.
“A what?” said Harry, interested.
“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic folk like them. An’
it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family o’ the biggest Muggles I ever laid
eyes on.”
“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said
Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!”
“You knew?” said Harry. “You knew I’m a — a wizard?”
“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “Knew! Of course we knew!
How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a
letter just like that and disappeared off to that — that school — and came
home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into
rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was — a freak! But for my
mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of
having a witch in the family!”
She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she
had been wanting to say all this for years.
“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had
you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as — as
— abnormal — and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up
and we got landed with you!”
Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, “Blown
up? You told me they died in a car crash!”
“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys
scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily an’ James
Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his own story
when every kid in our world knows his name!”
“But why? What happened?” Harry asked urgently.
The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious.
“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea,
when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of yeh, how
much yeh didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right person ter tell
yeh — but someone’s gotta — yeh can’t go off ter Hogwarts not knowin’.”
He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.
“Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh — mind, I can’t tell yeh
everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry, parts of it. . . .”
He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It
begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t
know his name, everyone in our world knows —”
“Who?”
“Well — I don’ like sayin’ the name if I can help it. No one does.”
“Why not?”
“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult.
See, there was this wizard who went . . . bad. As bad as you could go. Worse.
Worse than worse. His name was . . .”
Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.
“Could you write it down?” Harry suggested.
“Nah — can’t spell it. All right — Voldemort.” Hagrid shuddered. “Don’
make me say it again. Anyway, this — this wizard, about twenty years ago
now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too — some were afraid, some
just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right.
Dark days, Harry. Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with
strange wizards or witches . . . terrible things happened. He was takin’ over.
’Course, some stood up to him — an’ he killed ’em. Horribly. One o’ the only
safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one YouKnow-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then,
anyway.
“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew.
Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why You-
Know-Who never tried to get ’em on his side before . . . probably knew they
were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin’ ter do with the Dark Side.
“Maybe he thought he could persuade ’em . . . maybe he just wanted ’em
outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was
all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter
yer house an’— an’— ”
Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his
nose with a sound like a foghorn.
“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad — knew yer mum an’ dad, an’ nicer
people yeh couldn’t find — anyway . . .
“You-Know-Who killed ’em. An’ then — an’ this is the real myst’ry of the
thing — he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose,
or maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t do it. Never wondered
how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s
what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh — took care of yer
mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it didn’t work on you, an’ that’s why
yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill ’em, no one
except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the best witches an’ wizards of the age —
the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you
lived.”
Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind. As Hagrid’s story
came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly
than he had ever remembered it before — and he remembered something else,
for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.
Hagrid was watching him sadly.
“Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought
yeh ter this lot . . .”
“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had almost
forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have
got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.
“Now, you listen here, boy,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange
about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured — and as
for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the
world’s better off without them in my opinion — asked for all they got,
getting mixed up with these wizarding types — just what I expected, always
knew they’d come to a sticky end —”
But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink
umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he
said, “I’m warning you, Dursley — I’m warning you — one more word . . .”
In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant,
Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and
fell silent.
“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the
sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.
Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.
“But what happened to Vol-, sorry — I mean, You-Know-Who?”
“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill
you. Makes yeh even more famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see . . . he was
gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?
“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough
human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like,
but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of
’em came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was
comin’ back.
“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too
weak to carry on. ’Cause somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was
somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on — I dunno what it was, no
one does — but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.”
Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but
Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a
horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He’d spent his
life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon;
if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they been turned into warty toads every
time they’d tried to lock him in his cupboard? If he’d once defeated the
greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had always been able to kick
him around like a football?
“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t
think I can be a wizard.”
To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.
“Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or
angry?”
Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it . . . every odd
thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened
when he, Harry, had been upset or angry . . . chased by Dudley’s gang, he had
somehow found himself out of their reach . . . dreading going to school with
that ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow back . . . and the very
last time Dudley had hit him, hadn’t he got his revenge, without even
realizing he was doing it? Hadn’t he set a boa constrictor on him?
Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively
beaming at him.
“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, not a wizard — you wait, you’ll be right
famous at Hogwarts.”
But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a fight.
“Haven’t I told you he’s not going?” he hissed. “He’s going to Stonewall
High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those letters and he needs all sorts
of rubbish — spell books and wands and —”
“If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop him,” growled
Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His
name’s been down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest school of
witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won’t know
himself. He’ll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an’ he’ll be
under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled —”
“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH
HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.
But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it
over his head, “NEVER —” he thundered, “— INSULT — ALBUS —
DUMBLEDORE — IN — FRONT — OF — ME!”
He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley
— there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal,
and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped
over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Harry
saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.
Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other room,
he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.
Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.
“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’t work anyway.
Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway
there wasn’t much left ter do.”
He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.
“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts,” he said.
“I’m — er — not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter
do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff — one o’ the reasons
I was so keen ter take on the job —”
“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.
“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — got expelled, ter tell
yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything.
But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”
“Why were you expelled?”
“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly.
“Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an’ that.”
He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.
“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I
still got a couple o’ dormice in one o’ the pockets.”
CHAPTER FIVE
DIAGON ALLEY
H
arry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was
daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.
“It was a dream,” he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called Hagrid
came to tell me I was going to a school for wizards. When I open my eyes I’ll
be at home in my cupboard.”
There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.
And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought, his heart
sinking. But he still didn’t open his eyes. It had been such a good dream.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“All right,” Harry mumbled, “I’m getting up.”
He sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight,
the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and
there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its
beak.
Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large balloon was
swelling inside him. He went straight to the window and jerked it open. The
owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn’t
wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s
coat.
“Don’t do that.”
Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely
at him and carried on savaging the coat.
“Hagrid!” said Harry loudly. “There’s an owl —”
“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.
“What?”
“He wants payin’ fer deliverin’ the paper. Look in the pockets.”
Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets — bunches of
keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags . . . finally,
Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.
“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.
“Knuts?”
“The little bronze ones.”
Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so
Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew
off through the open window.
Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.
“Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an’ buy all yer
stuff fer school.”
Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He had just
thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon inside
him had got a puncture.
“Um — Hagrid?”
“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.
“I haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle Vernon last night . . . he
won’t pay for me to go and learn magic.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head.
“D’yeh think yer parents didn’t leave yeh anything?”
“But if their house was destroyed —”
“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is
Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I
wouldn’ say no teh a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.”
“Wizards have banks?”
“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”
Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.
“Goblins?”
“Yeah — so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh that. Never mess
with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh
want ter keep safe —’cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’ fact, I gotta visit
Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew
himself up proudly. “He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him.
Fetchin’ you — gettin’ things from Gringotts — knows he can trust me, see.
“Got everythin’? Come on, then.”
Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and
the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still
there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.
“How did you get here?” Harry asked, looking around for another boat.
“Flew,” said Hagrid.
“Flew?”
“Yeah — but we’ll go back in this. Not s’pposed ter use magic now I’ve
got yeh.”
They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid, trying to
imagine him flying.
“Seems a shame ter row, though,” said Hagrid, giving Harry another of his
sideways looks. “If I was ter — er — speed things up a bit, would yeh mind
not mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”
“Of course not,” said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the
pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off
toward land.
“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?” Harry asked.
“Spells — enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he
spoke. “They say there’s dragons guardin’ the high-security vaults. And then
yeh gotta find yer way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see.
Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die of hunger tryin’ ter get out, even if
yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat.”
Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the
Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be
left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’d never had so many
questions in his life.
“Ministry o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered, turning
the page.
“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, before he could stop himself.
“’Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister, o’ course,
but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if
ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, askin’
fer advice.”
“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”
“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still
witches an’ wizards up an’ down the country.”
“Why?”
“Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their
problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”
At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded
up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.
Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to
the station. Harry couldn’t blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as
anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters
and saying loudly, “See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”
“Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “did you say there
are dragons at Gringotts?”
“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”
“You’d like one?”
“Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.”
They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’
time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave
the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.
People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat
knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.
“Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted stitches.
Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.
“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything yeh need.”
Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before,
and read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED
THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered aloud.
“If yeh know where to go,” said Hagrid.
Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know
where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary
way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained
loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.
“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said as they
climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with
shops.
Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Harry had to do was
keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger
restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a
magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could
there really be piles of wizard gold buried miles beneath them? Were there
really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some
huge joke that the Dursleys had cooked up? If Harry hadn’t known that the
Dursleys had no sense of humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow,
even though everything Hagrid had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry
couldn’t help trusting him.
“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a
famous place.”
It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn’t pointed it out, Harry
wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it.
Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the
other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the
most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. 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. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was
quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped
when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and
smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual,
Hagrid?”
“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great
hand on Harry’s shoulder and making Harry’s knees buckle.
“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Harry, “is this — can this be —
?”
The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.
“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Harry Potter . . . what an
honor.”
He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his
hand, tears in his eyes.
“Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old
woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out.
Hagrid was beaming.
Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry
found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.
“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”
“So proud, Mr. Potter, I’m just so proud.”
“Always wanted to shake your hand — I’m all of a flutter.”
“Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus
Diggle.”
“I’ve seen you before!” said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle’s top hat fell off in
his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”
“He remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did
you hear that? He remembers me!”
Harry shook hands again and again — Doris Crockford kept coming back
for more.
A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes
was twitching.
“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of
your teachers at Hogwarts.”
“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry’s hand, “ccan’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”
“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”
“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as
though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-PPotter?” He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I
suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He
looked terrified at the very thought.
But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It took
almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to
make himself heard over the babble.
“Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, Harry.”
Doris Crockford shook Harry’s hand one last time, and Hagrid led them
through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was
nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.
Hagrid grinned at Harry.
“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was
tremblin’ ter meet yeh — mind you, he’s usually tremblin’.”
“Is he always that nervous?”
“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin’
outta books but then he took a year off ter get some first-hand experience. . . .
They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o’
trouble with a hag — never been the same since. Scared of the students,
scared of his own subject — now, where’s me umbrella?”
Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was
counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.
“Three up . . . two across . . .” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Harry.”
He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.
The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a small
hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later they were facing
an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street
that twisted and turned out of sight.
“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”
He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped through the archway.
Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly
back into solid wall.
The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop.
Cauldrons — All Sizes — Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring —
Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we gotta get yer money
first.”
Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every
direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the
shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump
woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying,
“Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad. . . .”
A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl
Emporium — Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of
about Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks
in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand
— fastest ever —” There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes
and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked
with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills,
and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon. . . .
“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.
They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little
shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of
scarlet and gold, was —
“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white
stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He
had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very long
fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a
second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said Hagrid.
A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a
vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools
behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass
scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many
doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people
in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter.
“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come ter take some money
outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”
“You have his key, sir?”
“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets
onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s
book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry watched the goblin on
their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.
“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.
The goblin looked at it closely.
“That seems to be in order.”
“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid
importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault
seven hundred and thirteen.”
The goblin read the letter carefully.
“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will have someone take
you down to both vaults. Griphook!”
Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog
biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook toward one
of the doors leading off the hall.
“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” Harry
asked.
“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts
business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”
Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more
marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with
flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway
tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the
tracks toward them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some difficulty — and
were off.
At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry tried to
remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible.
The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn’t
steering.
Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide
open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and
twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they plunged even
deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites
grew from the ceiling and floor.
“I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, “what’s
the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?”
“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’ ask me questions just
now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”
He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small
door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to
stop his knees from trembling.
Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and
as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of
silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.
“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.
All Harry’s — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about
this or they’d have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they
complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there had
been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London.
Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.
“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a
Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that
should be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest safe for yeh.” He
turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can
we go more slowly?”
“One speed only,” said Griphook.
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 leaned over the side to try to 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.
“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with
one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.
“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the
door and trapped in there,” said Griphook.
“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” Harry asked.
“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.
Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault,
Harry was sure, and he leaned 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.
“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back,
it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Hagrid.
One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts.
Harry didn’t know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He
didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that
he was holding more money than he’d had in his whole life — more money
than even Dudley had ever had.
“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam
Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I
slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts
carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam Malkin’s shop
alone, feeling nervous.
Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.
“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Harry started to speak. “Got the lot here
— another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”
In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a
footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. 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.
“Hello,” said the boy, “Hogwarts, too?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street
looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m
going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years
can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll
smuggle it in somehow.”
Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.
“Have you got your own broom?” the boy went on.
“No,” said Harry.
“Play Quidditch at all?”
“No,” Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be.
“I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my House,
and I must say, I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”
“No,” said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.
“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be
in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think
I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”
“Mmm,” said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting.
“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front
window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two
large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.
“That’s Hagrid,” said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn’t.
“He works at Hogwarts.”
“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”
“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Harry. He was liking the boy less and less
every second.
“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a hut on the school
grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up
setting fire to his bed.”
“I think he’s brilliant,” said Harry coldly.
“Do you?” said the boy, with a slight sneer. “Why is he with you? Where
are your parents?”
“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel much like going into the
matter with this boy.
“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all. “But they were our
kind, weren’t they?”
“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”
“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just
not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them
have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think
they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname,
anyway?”
But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my
dear,” and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped
down from the footstool.
“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the drawling boy.
Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him
(chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).
“What’s up?” said Hagrid.
“Nothing,” Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry
cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you
wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”
“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know — not knowin’ about
Quidditch!”
“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pale boy
in Madam Malkin’s.
“— and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed in
—”
“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh were — he’s grown
up knowin’ yer name if his parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what everyone
in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he
know about it, some o’ the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in
’em in a long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a
sister!”
“So what is Quidditch?”
“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in the Muggle world —
everyone follows Quidditch — played up in the air on broomsticks and
there’s four balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.”
“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”
“School Houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o’
duffers, but —”
“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Harry gloomily.
“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a
single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-KnowWho was one.”
“Vol-, sorry — You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?”
“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid.
They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts
where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving
stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk;
books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all.
Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his
hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from Curses
and Counter-curses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with
the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much
More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.
“I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley.”
“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the
Muggle world except in very special circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’
anyway, yeh couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot more
study before yeh get ter that level.”
Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either (“It says pewter
on yer list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients
and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which
was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad
eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of
herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers,
strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked
the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for
Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons
each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).
Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry’s list again.
“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday
present.”
Harry felt himself go red.
“You don’t have to —”
“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads
went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they
make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead
useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”
Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been
dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a
large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her
wing. He couldn’t stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor
Quirrell.
“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta
presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now — only place fer
wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”
A magic wand . . . this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.
The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door
read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a
faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped
inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid
sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict
library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and
looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the
ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and
silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.
“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have
jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off
the spindly chair.
An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like
moons through the gloom of the shop.
“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.
“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry
Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only
yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter
inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”
Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those
silvery eyes were a bit creepy.
“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches.
Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your
father favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”
Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to
nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.
“And that’s where . . .”
Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a long,
white finger.
“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen-anda-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong
hands . . . well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to
do. . . .”
He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, spotted Hagrid.
“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again. . . . Oak, sixteen
inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”
“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.
“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got
expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.
“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the
pieces, though,” he added brightly.
“But you don’t use them?” said Mr. Ollivander sharply.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink
umbrella very tightly as he spoke.
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now
— Mr. Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver
markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”
“Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Harry.
“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoulder to finger,
then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As
he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful
magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and
the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no
two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you
will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”
Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring
between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting
around the shelves, taking down boxes.
“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the
floor. “Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon
heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”
Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr.
Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.
“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —”
Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched
back by Mr. Ollivander.
“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy.
Go on, go on, try it out.”
Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for.
The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair,
but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he
seemed to become.
“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here
somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination —
holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”
Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the
wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a
stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing
dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr.
Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well . . .
how curious . . . how very curious . . .”
He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still
muttering, “Curious . . . curious . . .”
“Sorry,” said Harry, “but what’s curious?”
Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It
so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another
feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined
for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.”
Harry swallowed.
“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things
happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. . . . I think we must expect
great things from you, Mr. Potter. . . . After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
did great things — terrible, yes, but great.”
Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid
seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his
shop.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their
way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky
Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road;
he didn’t even notice how much people were gawking at them on the
Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with
the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry’s lap. Up another escalator, out into
Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped
him on the shoulder.
“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he said.
He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat
them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.
“You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet,” said Hagrid.
Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the best birthday of his
life — and yet — he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words.
“Everyone thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All those people in the
Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander . . . but I don’t know
anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I’m famous
and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for. I don’t know what happened
when Vol-, sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.”
Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he
wore a very kind smile.
“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the
beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard.
Yeh’ve been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll have a great time
at Hogwarts — I did — still do, ’smatter of fact.”
Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the
Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.
“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” he said. “First o’ September — King’s Cross —
it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with
yer owl, she’ll know where to find me. . . . See yeh soon, Harry.”
The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until he
was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window,
but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.
CHAPTER SIX
THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND
THREE-QUARTERS
H
arry’s last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun. True, Dudley was now
so scared of Harry he wouldn’t stay in the same room, while Aunt
Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do
anything, or shout at him — in fact, they didn’t speak to him at all. Half
terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry in it were
empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit
depressing after a while.
Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for company. He had decided to
call her Hedwig, a name he had found in A History of Magic. His school
books were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late into the night,
Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky
that Aunt Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept
bringing back dead mice. Every night before he went to sleep, Harry ticked
off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned to the wall, counting
down to September the first.
On the last day of August he thought he’d better speak to his aunt and uncle
about getting to King’s Cross station the next day, so he went down to the
living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. He cleared
his throat to let them know he was there, and Dudley screamed and ran from
the room.
“Er — Uncle Vernon?”
Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.
“Er — I need to be at King’s Cross tomorrow to — to go to Hogwarts.”
Uncle Vernon grunted again.
“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?”
Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.
“Thank you.”
He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke.
“Funny way to get to a wizards’ school, the train. Magic carpets all got
punctures, have they?”
Harry didn’t say anything.
“Where is this school, anyway?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled the
ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket.
“I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven
o’clock,” he read.
His aunt and uncle stared.
“Platform what?”
“Nine and three-quarters.”
“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no platform nine and
three-quarters.”
“It’s on my ticket.”
“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of them. You’ll see.
You just wait. All right, we’ll take you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to
London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”
“Why are you going to London?” Harry asked, trying to keep things
friendly.
“Taking Dudley to the hospital,” growled Uncle Vernon. “Got to have that
ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings.”
Harry woke at five o’clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous
to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he didn’t want
to walk into the station in his wizard’s robes — he’d change on the train. He
checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he
needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the
room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy
trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley
into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off.
They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry’s
trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this
was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms
with a nasty grin on his face.
“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine — platform ten. Your platform
should be somewhere in the middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet,
do they?”
He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one
platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the
middle, nothing at all.
“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left
without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All
three of them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry. What on earth
was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of
Hedwig. He’d have to ask someone.
He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention platform nine and
three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry
couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get
annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate,
Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said there
wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters.
Harry was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the
arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he
had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a
trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.
Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like
tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he
should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s stand between
platforms nine and ten.
At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a
few words of what they were saying.
“— packed with Muggles, of course —”
Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to
four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like
Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl.
Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so
did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.
“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ mother.
“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was
holding her hand. “Mum, can’t I go . . .”
“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go
first.”
What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten.
Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it — but just as the boy
reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of
tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had
cleared away, the boy had vanished.
“Fred, you next,” the plump woman said.
“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call
yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?”
“Sorry, George, dear.”
“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called
after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he
had gone — but how had he done it?
Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier — he was
almost there — and then, quite suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.
There was nothing else for it.
“Excuse me,” Harry said to the plump woman.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.”
She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and
gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.
“Yes,” said Harry. “The thing is — the thing is, I don’t know how to —”
“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and Harry nodded.
“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier
between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash
into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous. Go
on, go now before Ron.”
“Er — okay,” said Harry.
He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.
He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to platforms
nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into
that barrier and then he’d be in trouble — leaning forward on his cart, he
broke into a heavy run — the barrier was coming nearer and nearer — he
wouldn’t be able to stop — the cart was out of control — he was a foot away
— he closed his eyes ready for the crash —
It didn’t come . . . he kept on running . . . he opened his eyes.
A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people.
A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock. Harry looked behind
him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the
words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. He had done it.
Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd,
while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls
hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the
scraping of heavy trunks.
The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging
out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry
pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. He passed a
round-faced boy who was saying, “Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”
“Oh, Neville,” he heard the old woman sigh.
A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.
“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”
The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him
shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.
Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment
near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove
and heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift it up the steps but
could hardly raise one end and twice he dropped it painfully on his foot.
“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired twins he’d followed through
the barrier.
“Yes, please,” Harry panted.
“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”
With the twins’ help, Harry’s trunk was at last tucked away in a corner of
the compartment.
“Thanks,” said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.
“What’s that?” said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry’s lightning
scar.
“Blimey,” said the other twin. “Are you — ?”
“He is,” said the first twin. “Aren’t you?” he added to Harry.
“What?” said Harry.
“Harry Potter,” chorused the twins.
“Oh, him,” said Harry. “I mean, yes, I am.”
The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning red. Then, to
his relief, a voice came floating in through the train’s open door.
“Fred? George? Are you there?”
“Coming, Mum.”
With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.
Harry sat down next to the window where, half hidden, he could watch the
red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their
mother had just taken out her handkerchief.
“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.”
The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and
began rubbing the end of his nose.
“Mum — geroff.” He wriggled free.
“Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?” said one of the twins.
“Shut up,” said Ron.
“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.
“He’s coming now.”
The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had already changed into his
billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny red-and-gold
badge on his chest with the letter P on it.
“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the prefects have got two
compartments to themselves —”
“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins, with an air of great
surprise. “You should have said something, we had no idea.”
“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it,” said the
other twin. “Once —”
“Or twice —”
“A minute —”
“All summer —”
“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect.
“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said one of the twins.
“Because he’s a prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All right, dear, well,
have a good term — send me an owl when you get there.”
She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.
“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl
telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up a toilet or —”
“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”
“Great idea though, thanks, Mum.”
“It’s not funny. And look after Ron.”
“Don’t worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.”
“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and
his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.
“Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?”
Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see him looking.
“You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know
who he is?”
“Who?”
“Harry Potter!”
Harry heard the little girl’s voice.
“Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please. . . .”
“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn’t something you
goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?”
“Asked him. Saw his scar. It’s really there — like lightning.”
“Poor dear — no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite
when he asked how to get onto the platform.”
“Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks
like?”
Their mother suddenly became very stern.
“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As though he needs
reminding of that on his first day at school.”
“All right, keep your hair on.”
A whistle sounded.
“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the train.
They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their
younger sister began to cry.
“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”
“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”
“George!”
“Only joking, Mum.”
The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother waving and their
sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it
gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.
Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the
corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement.
He didn’t know what he was going to — but it had to be better than what he
was leaving behind.
The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded boy
came in.
“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry.
“Everywhere else is full.”
Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then
looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw he
still had a black mark on his nose.
“Hey, Ron.”
The twins were back.
“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train — Lee Jordan’s got a
giant tarantula down there.”
“Right,” mumbled Ron.
“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George
Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.”
“Bye,” said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut
behind them.
“Are you really Harry Potter?” Ron blurted out.
Harry nodded.
“Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” said
Ron. “And have you really got — you know . . .”
He pointed at Harry’s forehead.
Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared.
“So that’s where You-Know-Who — ?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I can’t remember it.”
“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly.
“Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else.”
“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as
though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out of
the window again.
“Are all your family wizards?” asked Harry, who found Ron just as
interesting as Ron found him.
“Er — yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mum’s got a second cousin
who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.”
“So you must know loads of magic already.”
The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale boy
in Diagon Alley had talked about.
“I heard you went to live with Muggles,” said Ron. “What are they like?”
“Horrible — well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are,
though. Wish I’d had three wizard brothers.”
“Five,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. “I’m the sixth
in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill
and Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of
Quidditch. Now Percy’s a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but
they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny.
Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal,
because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five
brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”
Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was
asleep.
“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got
an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff — I mean,
I got Scabbers instead.”
Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said too much, because he
went back to staring out of the window.
Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford
an owl. After all, he’d never had any money in his life until a month ago, and
he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old clothes and never
getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer Ron up.
“. . . and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything about being a wizard
or about my parents or Voldemort —”
Ron gasped.
“What?” said Harry.
“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” said Ron, sounding both shocked and
impressed. “I’d have thought you, of all people —”
“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,” said Harry, “I
just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn. . . . I
bet,” he added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying
him a lot lately, “I bet I’m the worst in the class.”
“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from Muggle families
and they learn quick enough.”
While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London.
Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet
for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.
Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor
and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, “Anything off
the cart, dears?”
Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron’s ears went
pink again and he muttered that he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into
the corridor.
He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he
had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars
Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have Mars Bars. What she did
have were Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum,
Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a
number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting
to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver
Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.
Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped it
onto an empty seat.
“Hungry, are you?”
“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty.
Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four
sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, “She always forgets
I don’t like corned beef.”
“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a pasty. “Go on —”
“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She hasn’t got much time,” he
added quickly, “you know, with five of us.”
“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had anything to share
before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there
with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, and candies (the
sandwiches lay forgotten).
“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs.
“They’re not really frogs, are they?” He was starting to feel that nothing
would surprise him.
“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.”
“What?”
“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs have cards inside
them, you know, to collect — famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five
hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”
Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a
man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and
flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the
name Albus Dumbledore.
“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry.
“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said Ron. “Can I have a
frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks —”
Harry turned over his card and read:
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS
Considered
by many the greatest wizard of modern times,
Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard
Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of
dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas
Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin
bowling.
Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that
Dumbledore’s face had disappeared.
“He’s gone!”
“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” said Ron. “He’ll be
back. No, I’ve got Morgana again and I’ve got about six of her . . . do you
want it? You can start collecting.”
Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.
“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the Muggle world, people
just stay put in photos.”
“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded amazed. “Weird!”
Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and
gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the frogs than
looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn’t keep
his eyes off them. Soon he had not only Dumbledore and Morgana, but
Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin. He
finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, who was scratching her
nose, to open a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.
“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned Harry. “When they say
every flavor, they mean every flavor — you know, you get all the ordinary
ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you can get
spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger-flavored one
once.”
Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a corner.
“Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.”
They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast,
coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even
brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn’t touch,
which turned out to be pepper.
The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The
neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green
hills.
There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced
boy Harry had passed on platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked
tearful.
“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”
When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting
away from me!”
“He’ll turn up,” said Harry.
“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him . . .”
He left.
“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d brought a toad I’d
lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”
The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap.
“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in
disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting,
but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look . . .”
He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking
wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.
“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway —”
He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again.
The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was
already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.
“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. She had a bossy sort
of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.
“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl wasn’t
listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.
“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”
She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.
“Er — all right.”
He cleared his throat.
“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,
Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”
He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast
asleep.
“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, it’s not very good, is
it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me.
Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my
letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of
witchcraft there is, I’ve heard — I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of
course, I just hope it will be enough — I’m Hermione Granger, by the way,
who are you?”
She said all this very fast.
Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he
hadn’t learned all the course books by heart either.
“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.
“Harry Potter,” said Harry.
“Are you really?” said Hermione. “I know all about you, of course — I got
a few extra books for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical
History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of
the Twentieth Century.”
“Am I?” said Harry, feeling dazed.
“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it
was me,” said Hermione. “Do either of you know what House you’ll be in?
I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the
best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t
be too bad. . . . Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two
had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there soon.”
And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.
“Whatever House I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said Ron. He threw his
wand back into his trunk. “Stupid spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew
it was a dud.”
“What House are your brothers in?” asked Harry.
“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. “Mum
and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t
suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in
Slytherin.”
“That’s the House Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?”
“Yeah,” said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.
“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are a bit lighter,” said
Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off Houses. “So what do your oldest brothers
do now that they’ve left, anyway?”
Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he’d finished school.
“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in Africa doing
something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did you hear about Gringotts? It’s been
all over the Daily Prophet, but I don’t suppose you get that with the Muggles
— someone tried to rob a high security vault.”
Harry stared.
“Really? What happened to them?”
“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t been caught. My dad
says it must’ve been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they
don’t think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ’Course, everyone gets
scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind
it.”
Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a prickle of
fear every time You-Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this was all
part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable
saying “Voldemort” without worrying.
“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked.
“Er — I don’t know any,” Harry confessed.
“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. “Oh, you wait, it’s the best game in the
world —” And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the
positions of the seven players, describing famous games he’d been to with his
brothers and the broomstick he’d like to get if he had the money. He was just
taking Harry through the finer points of the game when the compartment door
slid open yet again, but it wasn’t Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione
Granger this time.
Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: It was
the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s robe shop. He was looking at Harry with
a lot more interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley.
“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s
in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”
“Yes,” said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were
thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy,
they looked like bodyguards.
“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale boy carelessly, noticing
where Harry was looking. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”
Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco
Malfoy looked at him.
“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father
told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they
can afford.”
He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are
much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the
wrong sort. I can help you there.”
He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry didn’t take it.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said
coolly.
Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks.
“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. “Unless you’re a bit
politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was
good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that
Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”
Both Harry and Ron stood up.
“Say that again,” Ron said, his face as red as his hair.
“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy sneered.
“Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because
Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron.
“But we don’t feel like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve eaten all our food and
you still seem to have some.”
Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron — Ron leapt
forward, but before he’d so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible
yell.
Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into
Goyle’s knuckle — Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung
Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally flew off and
hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought
there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they’d heard
footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.
“What has been going on?” she said, looking at the sweets all over the floor
and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail.
“I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry. He looked closer at
Scabbers. “No — I don’t believe it — he’s gone back to sleep.”
And so he had.
“You’ve met Malfoy before?”
Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.
“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were some of the first to
come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been
bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an
excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He turned to Hermione. “Can we help
you with something?”
“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve just been up to the front
to ask the conductor, and he says we’re nearly there. You haven’t been
fighting, have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”
“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” said Ron, scowling at her. “Would
you mind leaving while we change?”
“All right — I only came in here because people outside are behaving very
childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” said Hermione in a sniffy
voice. “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?”
Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It was getting
dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train
did seem to be slowing down.
He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes.
Ron’s were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers underneath them.
A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five
minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the
school separately.”
Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under
his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and
joined the crowd thronging the corridor.
The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way
toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold
night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry
heard a familiar voice: “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there,
Harry?”
Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.
“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’
years follow me!”
Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a
steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought
there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who
kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.
“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his
shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”
There was a loud “Oooooh!”
The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake.
Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the
starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.
“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats
sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat
by Neville and Hermione.
“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then —
FORWARD!”
And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake,
which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great
castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the
cliff on which it stood.
“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all
bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that
hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel,
which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they
reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks
and pebbles.
“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who was checking the
boats as people climbed out of them.
“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they
clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last
onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.
They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak
front door.
“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”
Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SORTING HAT
T
he door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green
robes stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry’s first thought
was that this was not someone to cross.
“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.
“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”
She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have fit
the whole of the Dursleys’ house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming
torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a
magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.
They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry
could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right — the
rest of the school must already be here — but Professor McGonagall showed
the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in,
standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering
about nervously.
“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term
banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall,
you will be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important
ceremony because, while you are here, your House will be something like
your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your
House, sleep in your House dormitory, and spend free time in your House
common room.
“The four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and
Slytherin. Each House has its own noble history and each has produced
outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs
will earn your House points, while any rule-breaking will lose House points.
At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House
Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever House
becomes yours.
“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest
of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can
while you are waiting.”
Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, which was fastened
under his left ear, and on Ron’s smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to
flatten his hair.
“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall.
“Please wait quietly.”
She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.
“How exactly do they sort us into Houses?” he asked Ron.
“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was
joking.”
Harry’s heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole school? But
he didn’t know any magic yet — what on earth would he have to do? He
hadn’t expected something like this the moment they arrived. He looked
around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified, too. No one was
talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering very fast about
all the spells she’d learned and wondering which one she’d need. Harry tried
hard not to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never, not even when
he’d had to take a school report home to the Dursleys saying that he’d
somehow turned his teacher’s wig blue. He kept his eyes fixed on the door.
Any second now, Professor McGonagall would come back and lead him to his
doom.
Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the air —
several people behind him screamed.
“What the — ?”
He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just
streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they
glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first
years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was
saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance —”
“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He
gives us all a bad name and you know, he’s not really even a ghost — I say,
what are you all doing here?”
A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.
Nobody answered.
“New students!” said the Fat Friar, smiling around at them. “About to be
Sorted, I suppose?”
A few people nodded mutely.
“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said the Friar. “My old House, you
know.”
“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to
start.”
Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away
through the opposite wall.
“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first years, “and follow
me.”
Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line
behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and they walked out of
the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the
Great Hall.
Harry had never even imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit
by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four
long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid
with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another
long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first
years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students,
with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked
like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among
the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring
eyes, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars.
He heard Hermione whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I
read about it in Hogwarts: A History.”
It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great
Hall didn’t simply open on to the heavens.
Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed
a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a
pointed wizard’s hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty.
Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have let it in the house.
Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry thought wildly, that
seemed the sort of thing — noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring
at the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there was complete silence.
Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth — and
the hat began to sing:
“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,
But don’t judge on what you see,
I’ll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There’s nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can’t see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you’ve a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don’t be afraid!
And don’t get in a flap!
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)
For I’m a Thinking Cap!”
The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to
each of the four tables and then became quite still again.
“So we’ve just got to try on the hat!” Ron whispered to Harry. “I’ll kill
Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll.”
Harry smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot better than having to
do a spell, but he did wish they could have tried it on without everyone
watching. The hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn’t feel brave or
quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a
House for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him.
Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of
parchment.
“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be
sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat,
which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause —
“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.
The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at
the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at
her.
“Bones, Susan!”
“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next
to Hannah.
“Boot, Terry!”
“RAVENCLAW!”
The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood
up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.
“Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but “Brown, Lavender”
became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with
cheers; Harry could see Ron’s twin brothers catcalling.
“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin. Perhaps it was Harry’s
imagination, after all he’d heard about Slytherin, but he thought they looked
like an unpleasant lot.
He was starting to feel definitely sick now. He remembered being picked
for teams during gym at his old school. He had always been last to be chosen,
not because he was no good, but because no one wanted Dudley to think they
liked him.
“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”
“HUFFLEPUFF!”
Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the House at once, but at
others it took a little while to decide. “Finnigan, Seamus,” the sandy-haired
boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost a whole minute
before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.
“Granger, Hermione!”
Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.
“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat. Ron groaned.
A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts always do when
you’re very nervous. What if he wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there
with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off
his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he’d better get back
on the train?
When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his toad, was called,
he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time to decide with
Neville. When it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR,” Neville ran off still
wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to
“MacDougal, Morag.”
Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at
once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”
Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with
himself.
There weren’t many people left now.
“Moon” . . . , “Nott” . . . , “Parkinson” . . . , then a pair of twin girls, “Patil”
and “Patil” . . . , then “Perks, Sally-Anne” . . . , and then, at last —
“Potter, Harry!”
As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing
fires all over the hall.
“Potter, did she say?”
“The Harry Potter?”
The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall
full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking
at the black inside of the hat. He waited.
“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of
courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes —
and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting. . . . So where shall I
put you?”
Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Slytherin, not
Slytherin.
“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you sure? You could be
great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the
way to greatness, no doubt about that — no? Well, if you’re sure — better be
GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the
hat and walked shakily toward the Gryffindor table. He was so relieved to
have been chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed that he was
getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and shook his hand
vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, “We got Potter! We got Potter!”
Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff he’d seen earlier. The ghost
patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just plunged it
into a bucket of ice-cold water.
He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat
Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned back.
And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus
Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once from the card he’d gotten out of
the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing
in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. Harry spotted Professor
Quirrell, too, the nervous young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was
looking very peculiar in a large purple turban.
And now there were only four people left to be sorted. “Thomas, Dean,” a
black boy even taller than Ron, joined Harry at the Gryffindor table. “Turpin,
Lisa,” became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He was pale green by
now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a second later the hat had
shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”
Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next to
him.
“Well done, Ron, excellent,” said Percy Weasley pompously across Harry
as “Zabini, Blaise,” was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up
her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.
Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how
hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago.
Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students,
his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see
them all there.
“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we
begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit!
Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
“Thank you!”
He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn’t know
whether to laugh or not.
“Is he — a bit mad?” he asked Percy uncertainly.
“Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he
is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?”
Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with
food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast
beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak,
boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy,
ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.
The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed
to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry
really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of
everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.
“That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut
up his steak.
“Can’t you — ?”
“I haven’t eaten for nearly five hundred years,” said the ghost. “I don’t
need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself?
Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost of
Gryffindor Tower.”
“I know who you are!” said Ron suddenly. “My brothers told me about you
— you’re Nearly Headless Nick!”
“I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy —” the ghost began
stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted.
“Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?”
Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn’t going at
all the way he wanted.
“Like this,” he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His whole
head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder as if it was on a hinge.
Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it properly.
Looking pleased at the stunned looks on their faces, Nearly Headless Nick
flipped his head back onto his neck, coughed, and said, “So — new
Gryffindors! I hope you’re going to help us win the House Championship this
year? Gryffindors have never gone so long without winning. Slytherins have
got the Cup six years in a row! The Bloody Baron’s becoming almost
unbearable — he’s the Slytherin ghost.”
Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting
there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver
blood. He was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to see, didn’t
look too pleased with the seating arrangements.
“How did he get covered in blood?” asked Seamus with great interest.
“I’ve never asked,” said Nearly Headless Nick delicately.
When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food
faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later
the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of,
apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle,
strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding . . .
As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.
“I’m half-and-half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle. Mum didn’t tell
him she was a witch ’til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for
him.”
The others laughed.
“What about you, Neville?” said Ron.
“Well, my gran brought me up and she’s a witch,” said Neville, “but the
family thought I was all-Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying
to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me — he pushed me
off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned — but nothing happened
until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was
hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie
Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced — all
the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran
was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I
got in here — they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see.
Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad.”
On Harry’s other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking about
lessons (“I do hope they start right away, there’s so much to learn, I’m
particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something into
something else, of course, it’s supposed to be very difficult —”; “You’ll be
starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of thing —”).
Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at the High
Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor
McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his
absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose,
and sallow skin.
It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell’s
turban straight into Harry’s eyes — and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar
on Harry’s forehead.
“Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.
“What is it?” asked Percy.
“N-nothing.”
The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the
feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher’s look — a feeling that he didn’t
like Harry at all.
“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he asked Percy.
“Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he’s looking so
nervous, that’s Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn’t want to —
everyone knows he’s after Quirrell’s job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark
Arts, Snape.”
Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t look at him again.
At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his
feet again. The hall fell silent.
“Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I
have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all
pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as
well.”
Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.
“I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that
no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.
“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone
interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.
“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the
right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very
painful death.”
Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.
“He’s not serious?” he muttered to Percy.
“Must be,” said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. “It’s odd, because he
usually gives us a reason why we’re not allowed to go somewhere — the
forest’s full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he might
have told us prefects, at least.”
“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried
Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers’ smiles had become rather
fixed.
Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off
the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the
tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.
“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”
And the school bellowed:
“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they’re bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we’ve forgot,
Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.”
Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley
twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore
conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he
was one of those who clapped loudest.
“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here!
And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”
The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds,
out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like lead
again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy
even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors
whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through
doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed
more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just
wondering how much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt.
A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as
Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him.
“Peeves,” Percy whispered to the first years. “A poltergeist.” He raised his
voice, “Peeves — show yourself.”
A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.
“Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?”
There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide mouth
appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks.
“Oooooooh!” he said, with an evil cackle. “Ickle Firsties! What fun!”
He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.
“Go away, Peeves, or the Baron’ll hear about this, I mean it!” barked Percy.
Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on
Neville’s head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as he
passed.
“You want to watch out for Peeves,” said Percy, as they set off again. “The
Bloody Baron’s the only one who can control him, he won’t even listen to us
prefects. Here we are.”
At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat woman in a
pink silk dress.
“Password?” she said.
“Caput Draconis,” said Percy, and the portrait swung forward to reveal a
round hole in the wall. They all scrambled through it — Neville needed a leg
up — and found themselves in the Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round
room full of squashy armchairs.
Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the boys
through another. At the top of a spiral staircase — they were obviously in one
of the towers — they found their beds at last: five four-posters hung with
deep red, velvet curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Too tired
to talk much, they pulled on their pajamas and fell into bed.
“Great food, isn’t it?” Ron muttered to Harry through the hangings. “Get
off, Scabbers! He’s chewing my sheets.”
Harry was going to ask Ron if he’d had any of the treacle tart, but he fell
asleep almost at once.
Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange
dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to
him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it was his
destiny. Harry told the turban he didn’t want to be in Slytherin; it got heavier
and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully — and there was
Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it — then Malfoy turned into the
hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold — there was a
burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.
He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day, he didn’t
remember the dream at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE POTIONS MASTER
T
here, look.”
“Where?”
“Next to the tall kid with the red hair.”
“Wearing the glasses?”
“Did you see his face?”
“Did you see his scar?”
Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next
day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him,
or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they
wouldn’t, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide,
sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a
Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to
jump. Then there were doors that wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or
tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t really doors at
all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also very hard to remember where
anything was, because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the
portraits kept going to visit each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor
could walk.
The ghosts didn’t help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of
them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly
Headless Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right
direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick
staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would drop
wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you
with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and
screech, “GOT YOUR CONK!”
Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus
Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on their very
first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door that
unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the
third floor. He wouldn’t believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to
break into it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons
when they were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing.
Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with
bulging, lamplike eyes just like Filch’s. She patrolled the corridors alone.
Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of line, and she’d whisk off
for Filch, who’d appear, wheezing, two seconds later. Filch knew the secret
passageways of the school better than anyone (except perhaps the Weasley
twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all
hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good
kick.
And then, once you had managed to find them, there were the classes
themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than
waving your wand and saying a few funny words.
They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday
at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the
planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the
castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout,
where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and
found out what they were used for.
Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one
taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had
fallen asleep in front of the staffroom fire and got up next morning to teach,
leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on while they scribbled
down names and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed
up.
Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to
stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class he
took the roll call, and when he reached Harry’s name he gave an excited
squeak and toppled out of sight.
Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to
think she wasn’t a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talkingto the moment they sat down in her first class.
“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you
will learn at Hogwarts,” she said. “Anyone messing around in my class will
leave and not come back. You have been warned.”
Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very
impressed and couldn’t wait to get started, but soon realized they weren’t
going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a
lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to
turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only Hermione Granger had
made any difference to her match; Professor McGonagall showed the class
how it had gone all silver and pointy and gave Hermione a rare smile.
The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense
Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell’s lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke.
His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward
off a vampire he’d met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to
get him one of these days. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by
an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but
they weren’t sure they believed this story. For one thing, when Seamus
Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought off the zombie,
Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had
noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins
insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected
wherever he went.
Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn’t miles behind everyone
else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, hadn’t had
any idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so much to learn that
even people like Ron didn’t have much of a head start.
Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally managed to
find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost once.
“What have we got today?” Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar on his
porridge.
“Double Potions with the Slytherins,” said Ron. “Snape’s Head of Slytherin
House. They say he always favors them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.”
“Wish McGonagall favored us,” said Harry. Professor McGonagall was
head of Gryffindor House, but it hadn’t stopped her from giving them a huge
pile of homework the day before.
Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but it had
given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls
had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables
until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.
Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to
nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery
with the other school owls. This morning, however, she fluttered down
between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s
plate. Harry tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:
Dear Harry,
I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and
have a cup of tea with me around three? I want to hear all about your
first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.
Hagrid
Harry borrowed Ron’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later on the back
of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.
It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because the
Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that had happened to him so
far.
At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor Snape
disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he’d been wrong.
Snape didn’t dislike Harry — he hated him.
Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here
than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without
the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.
Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like
Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.
“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity.”
Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their
hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes
were black like Hagrid’s, but they had none of Hagrid’s warmth. They were
cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels.
“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,”
he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every
word — like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class
silent without effort. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of
you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand
the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the
delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the
mind, ensnaring the senses. . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew
glory, even stopper death — if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I
usually have to teach.”
More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks
with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and
looked desperate to start proving that she wasn’t a dunderhead.
“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root
of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron, who
looked as stumped as he was; Hermione’s hand had shot into the air.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.
Snape’s lips curled into a sneer.
“Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything.”
He ignored Hermione’s hand.
“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a
bezoar?”
Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her
leaving her seat, but Harry didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. He
tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with
laughter.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?”
Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He had
looked through his books at the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to
remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?
Snape was still ignoring Hermione’s quivering hand.
“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon
ceiling.
“I don’t know,” said Harry quietly. “I think Hermione does, though, why
don’t you try her?”
A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus’s eye, and Seamus winked.
Snape, however, was not pleased.
“Sit down,” he snapped at Hermione. “For your information, Potter,
asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as
the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a
goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and
wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.
Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”
There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise,
Snape said, “And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek,
Potter.”
Things didn’t improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson continued.
Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to
cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh
dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except
Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just telling everyone to look at the
perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green
smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed
to melt Seamus’s cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping
across the stone floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within seconds, the
whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been
drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry
red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.
“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave
of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the
cauldron off the fire?”
Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.
“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at Seamus. Then he
rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.
“You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought
he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That’s another point
you’ve lost for Gryffindor.”
This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked
him behind their cauldron.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, “I’ve heard Snape can turn very nasty.”
As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry’s mind
was racing and his spirits were low. He’d lost two points for Gryffindor in his
very first week — why did Snape hate him so much?
“Cheer up,” said Ron, “Snape’s always taking points off Fred and George.
Can I come and meet Hagrid with you?”
At five to three they left the castle and made their way across the grounds.
Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A
crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door.
When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside and
several booming barks. Then Hagrid’s voice rang out, saying, “Back, Fang —
back.”
Hagrid’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open.
“Hang on,” he said. “Back, Fang.”
He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous black
boarhound.
There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from
the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner
stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.
“Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded
straight at Ron and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly not
as fierce as he looked.
“This is Ron,” Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a
large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate.
“Another Weasley, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Ron’s freckles. “I spent
half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.”
The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their
teeth, but Harry and Ron pretended to be enjoying them as they told Hagrid
all about their first lessons. Fang rested his head on Harry’s knee and drooled
all over his robes.
Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call Filch “that old git.”
“An’ as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I’d like ter introduce her to Fang
sometime. D’yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me
everywhere? Can’t get rid of her — Filch puts her up to it.”
Harry told Hagrid about Snape’s lesson. Hagrid, like Ron, told Harry not to
worry about it, that Snape liked hardly any of the students.
“But he seemed to really hate me.”
“Rubbish!” said Hagrid. “Why should he?”
Yet Harry couldn’t help thinking that Hagrid didn’t quite meet his eyes
when he said that.
“How’s yer brother Charlie?” Hagrid asked Ron. “I liked him a lot — great
with animals.”
Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. While Ron
told Hagrid all about Charlie’s work with dragons, Harry picked up a piece of
paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the
Daily Prophet:
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July,
widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches
unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The
vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses
out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts
spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had tried to rob
Gringotts, but Ron hadn’t mentioned the date.
“Hagrid!” said Harry, “that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday! It
might’ve been happening while we were there!”
There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn’t meet Harry’s eyes this
time. He grunted and offered him another rock cake. Harry read the story
again. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same
day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if you could call it
emptying, taking out that grubby little package. Had that been what the
thieves were looking for?
As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for dinner, their pockets
weighed down with rock cakes they’d been too polite to refuse, Harry thought
that none of the lessons he’d had so far had given him as much to think about
as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid collected that package just in time? Where
was it now? And did Hagrid know something about Snape that he didn’t want
to tell Harry?
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 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
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.
“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 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
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 firstyear 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 —”
“— a century,” said Harry, shoveling pie into his mouth. He felt
particularly hungry after the excitement of the afternoon. “Wood told me.”
Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at Harry.
“I start training next week,” said Harry. “Only don’t tell anyone, Wood
wants to keep it a secret.”
Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, spotted Harry, and
hurried over.
“Well done,” said George in a low voice. “Wood told us. We’re on the team
too — Beaters.”
“I tell you, we’re going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year,” said
Fred. “We haven’t won since Charlie left, but this year’s team is going to be
brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told
us.”
“Anyway, we’ve got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he’s found a new secret
passageway out of the school.”
“Bet it’s that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in
our first week. See you.”
Fred and George had hardly disappeared when someone far less welcome
turned up: Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
“Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the
Muggles?”
“You’re a lot braver now that you’re back on the ground and you’ve got
your little friends with you,” said Harry coolly. There was of course nothing
at all little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table was full of
teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.
“I’d take you on anytime on my own,” said Malfoy. “Tonight, if you want.
Wizard’s duel. Wands only — no contact. What’s the matter? Never heard of
a wizard’s duel before, I suppose?”
“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling around. “I’m his second, who’s
yours?”
Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.
“Crabbe,” he said. “Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room;
that’s always unlocked.”
When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each other.
“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do you mean, you’re my
second?”
“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said Ron casually, getting
started at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry’s face, he added
quickly, “But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards.
The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither
of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to
refuse, anyway.”
“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?”
“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” Ron suggested.
“Excuse me.”
They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.
“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” said Ron.
Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.
“I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying —”
“Bet you could,” Ron muttered.
“— and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of the
points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be. It’s
really very selfish of you.”
“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry.
“Good-bye,” said Ron.
All the same, it wasn’t what you’d call the perfect end to the day, Harry
thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Dean and Seamus falling
asleep (Neville wasn’t back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent all
evening giving him advice such as “If he tries to curse you, you’d better
dodge it, because I can’t remember how to block them.” There was a very
good chance they were going to get caught by Filch or Mrs. Norris, and Harry
felt he was pushing his luck, breaking another school rule today. On the other
hand, Malfoy’s sneering face kept looming up out of the darkness — this was
his big chance to beat Malfoy face-to-face. He couldn’t miss it.
“Half-past eleven,” Ron muttered at last, “we’d better go.”
They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their wands, and crept across the
tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common room.
A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning all the armchairs
into hunched black shadows. They had almost reached the portrait hole when
a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I can’t believe you’re going to do
this, Harry.”
A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, wearing a pink bathrobe
and a frown.
“You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!”
“I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, “Percy — he’s a prefect,
he’d put a stop to this.”
Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.
“Come on,” he said to Ron. He pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady
and climbed through the hole.
Hermione wasn’t going to give up that easily. She followed Ron through
the portrait hole, hissing at them like an angry goose.
“Don’t you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I
don’t want Slytherin to win the House Cup, and you’ll lose all the points I got
from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells.”
“Go away.”
“All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you’re on
the train home tomorrow, you’re so —”
But what they were, they didn’t find out. Hermione had turned to the
portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an empty
painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and Hermione was
locked out of Gryffindor Tower.
“Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly.
“That’s your problem,” said Ron. “We’ve got to go, we’re going to be late.”
They hadn’t even reached the end of the corridor when Hermione caught
up with them.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“You are not.”
“D’you think I’m going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me? If
he finds all three of us I’ll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and
you can back me up.”
“You’ve got some nerve —” said Ron loudly.
“Shut up, both of you!” said Harry sharply. “I heard something.”
It was a sort of snuffling.
“Mrs. Norris?” breathed Ron, squinting through the dark.
It wasn’t Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor, fast
asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer.
“Thank goodness you found me! I’ve been out here for hours, I couldn’t
remember the new password to get in to bed.”
“Keep your voice down, Neville. The password’s ‘Pig snout’ but it won’t
help you now, the Fat Lady’s gone off somewhere.”
“How’s your arm?” said Harry.
“Fine,” said Neville, showing them. “Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a
minute.”
“Good — well, look, Neville, we’ve got to be somewhere, we’ll see you
later —”
“Don’t leave me!” said Neville, scrambling to his feet, “I don’t want to stay
here alone, the Bloody Baron’s been past twice already.”
Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and Neville.
“If either of you get us caught, I’ll never rest until I’ve learned that Curse
of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you.”
Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron exactly how to use the
Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them all
forward.
They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high
windows. At every turn Harry expected to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but
they were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed toward
the trophy room.
Malfoy and Crabbe weren’t there yet. The crystal trophy cases glimmered
where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked
silver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, keeping their
eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry took out his wand in case
Malfoy leapt in and started at once. The minutes crept by.
“He’s late, maybe he’s chickened out,” Ron whispered.
Then a noise in the next room made them jump. Harry had only just raised
his wand when they heard someone speak — and it wasn’t Malfoy.
“Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner.”
It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry waved madly at
the other three to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurried silently
toward the door, away from Filch’s voice. Neville’s robes had barely whipped
round the corner when they heard Filch enter the trophy room.
“They’re in here somewhere,” they heard him mutter, “probably hiding.”
“This way!” Harry mouthed to the others and, petrified, they began to creep
down a long gallery full of suits of armor. They could hear Filch getting
nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak and broke into a run — he
tripped, grabbed Ron around the waist, and the pair of them toppled right into
a suit of armor.
The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.
“RUN!” Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted down the gallery, not
looking back to see whether Filch was following — they swung around the
doorpost and galloped down one corridor then another, Harry in the lead,
without any idea where they were or where they were going — they ripped
through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtled
along it and came out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was
miles from the trophy room.
“I think we’ve lost him,” Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall and
wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and spluttering.
“I — told — you,” Hermione gasped, clutching at the stitch in her chest, “I
— told — you.”
“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Ron, “quickly as
possible.”
“Malfoy tricked you,” Hermione said to Harry. “You realize that, don’t
you? He was never going to meet you — Filch knew someone was going to
be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off.”
Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Let’s go.”
It wasn’t going to be that simple. They hadn’t gone more than a dozen
paces when a doorknob rattled and something came shooting out of a
classroom in front of them.
It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a squeal of delight.
“Shut up, Peeves — please — you’ll get us thrown out.”
Peeves cackled.
“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty,
naughty, you’ll get caughty.”
“Not if you don’t give us away, Peeves, please.”
“Should tell Filch, I should,” said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his eyes
glittered wickedly. “It’s for your own good, you know.”
“Get out of the way,” snapped Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves — this was a
big mistake.
“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, “STUDENTS OUT OF
BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!”
Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right to the end of the
corridor where they slammed into a door — and it was locked.
“This is it!” Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at the door, “We’re
done for! This is the end!”
They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could toward
Peeves’s shouts.
“Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry’s wand, tapped the
lock, and whispered, “Alohomora!”
The lock clicked and the door swung open — they piled through it, shut it
quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening.
“Which way did they go, Peeves?” Filch was saying. “Quick, tell me.”
“Say ‘please.’”
“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?”
“Shan’t say nothing if you don’t say please,” said Peeves in his annoying
singsong voice.
“All right — please.”
“NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn’t say nothing if you didn’t say
please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!” And they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing
away and Filch cursing in rage.
“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered. “I think we’ll be okay —
get off, Neville!” For Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of Harry’s
bathrobe for the last minute. “What?”
Harry turned around — and saw, quite clearly, what. For a moment, he was
sure he’d walked into a nightmare — this was too much, on top of everything
that had happened so far.
They weren’t in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The
forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was
forbidden.
They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that
filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three
pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their
direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from
yellowish fangs.
It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knew that
the only reason they weren’t already dead was that their sudden appearance
had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no
mistaking what those thunderous growls meant.
Harry groped for the doorknob — between Filch and death, he’d take Filch.
They fell backward — Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran, they
almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for
them somewhere else, because they didn’t see him anywhere, but they hardly
cared — all they wanted to do was put as much space as possible between
them and that monster. They didn’t stop running until they reached the
portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.
“Where on earth have you all been?” she asked, looking at their bathrobes
hanging off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces.
“Never mind that — pig snout, pig snout,” panted Harry, and the portrait
swung forward. They scrambled into the common room and collapsed,
trembling, into armchairs.
It was a while before any of them said anything. Neville, indeed, looked as
if he’d never speak again.
“What do they think they’re doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a
school?” said Ron finally. “If any dog needs exercise, that one does.”
Hermione had got both her breath and her bad temper back again.
“You don’t use your eyes, any of you, do you?” she snapped. “Didn’t you
see what it was standing on?”
“The floor?” Harry suggested. “I wasn’t looking at its feet, I was too busy
with its heads.”
“No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It’s obviously guarding
something.”
She stood up, glaring at them.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed — or
worse, expelled. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”
Ron stared after her, his mouth open.
“No, we don’t mind,” he said. “You’d think we dragged her along,
wouldn’t you?”
But Hermione had given Harry something else to think about as he climbed
back into bed. The dog was guarding something. . . . What had Hagrid said?
Gringotts was the safest place in the world for something you wanted to hide
— except perhaps Hogwarts.
It looked as though Harry had found out where the grubby little package
from vault seven hundred and thirteen was.
CHAPTER TEN
HALLOWEEN
M
alfoy couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that Harry and Ron were
still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful.
Indeed, by the next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting the threeheaded dog had been an excellent adventure, and they were quite keen to have
another one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the package that
seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and they spent a lot
of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection.
“It’s either really valuable or really dangerous,” said Ron.
“Or both,” said Harry.
But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was
about two inches long, they didn’t have much chance of guessing what it was
without further clues.
Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest interest in what lay
underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never going
near the dog again.
Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was such a
bossy know-it-all that they saw this as an added bonus. All they really wanted
now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their great delight, just such
a thing arrived in the mail about a week later.
As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, everyone’s attention was
caught at once by a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls.
Harry was just as interested as everyone else to see what was in this large
parcel, and was amazed when the owls soared down and dropped it right in
front of him, knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly fluttered out of
the way when another owl dropped a letter on top of the parcel.
Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, because it said:
DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.
It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don’t want
everybody knowing you’ve got a broomstick or they’ll all want one.
Oliver Wood will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven
o’clock for your first training session.
Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the note to Ron to read.
“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Ron moaned enviously. “I’ve never even
touched one.”
They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the broomstick in private
before their first class, but halfway across the entrance hall they found the
way upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized the package from
Harry and felt it.
“That’s a broomstick,” he said, throwing it back to Harry with a mixture of
jealousy and spite on his face. “You’ll be in for it this time, Potter, first years
aren’t allowed them.”
Ron couldn’t resist it.
“It’s not any old broomstick,” he said, “it’s a Nimbus Two Thousand. What
did you say you’ve got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?” Ron grinned at
Harry. “Comets look flashy, but they’re not in the same league as the
Nimbus.”
“What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn’t afford half the
handle,” Malfoy snapped back. “I suppose you and your brothers have to save
up twig by twig.”
Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy’s elbow.
“Not arguing, I hope, boys?” he squeaked.
“Potter’s been sent a broomstick, Professor,” said Malfoy quickly.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry.
“Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter.
And what model is it?”
“A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,” said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the
look of horror on Malfoy’s face. “And it’s really thanks to Malfoy here that
I’ve got it,” he added.
Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at Malfoy’s
obvious rage and confusion.
“Well, it’s true,” Harry chortled as they reached the top of the marble
staircase, “If he hadn’t stolen Neville’s Remembrall I wouldn’t be on the
team. . . .”
“So I suppose you think that’s a reward for breaking rules?” came an angry
voice from just behind them. Hermione was stomping up the stairs, looking
disapprovingly at the package in Harry’s hand.
“I thought you weren’t speaking to us?” said Harry.
“Yes, don’t stop now,” said Ron, “it’s doing us so much good.”
Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.
Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that day. It kept
wandering up to the dormitory where his new broomstick was lying under his
bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field where he’d be learning to play that
night. He bolted his dinner that evening without noticing what he was eating,
and then rushed upstairs with Ron to unwrap the Nimbus Two Thousand at
last.
“Wow,” Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto Harry’s bedspread.
Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different brooms, thought it
looked wonderful. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail
of neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand written in gold near the top.
As seven o’clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and set off in the dusk
toward the Quidditch field. He’d never been inside the stadium before.
Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the field so that the spectators
were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the field were
three golden poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of the little
plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles through, except that they were
fifty feet high.
Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry mounted his broomstick and
kicked off from the ground. What a feeling — he swooped in and out of the
goalposts and then sped up and down the field. The Nimbus Two Thousand
turned wherever he wanted at his lightest touch.
“Hey, Potter, come down!”
Oliver Wood had arrived. He was carrying a large wooden crate under his
arm. Harry landed next to him.
“Very nice,” said Wood, his eyes glinting. “I see what McGonagall
meant . . . you really are a natural. I’m just going to teach you the rules this
evening, then you’ll be joining team practice three times a week.”
He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized balls.
“Right,” said Wood. “Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if
it’s not too easy to play. There are seven players on each side. Three of them
are called Chasers.”
“Three Chasers,” Harry repeated, as Wood took out a bright red ball about
the size of a soccer ball.
“This ball’s called the Quaffle,” said Wood. “The Chasers throw the
Quaffle to each other and try and get it through one of the hoops to score a
goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the hoops. Follow
me?”
“The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score,”
Harry recited. “So — that’s sort of like basketball on broomsticks with six
hoops, isn’t it?”
“What’s basketball?” said Wood curiously.
“Never mind,” said Harry quickly.
“Now, there’s another player on each side who’s called the Keeper — I’m
Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly around our hoops and stop the other team
from scoring.”
“Three Chasers, one Keeper,” said Harry, who was determined to
remember it all. “And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are
they for?” He pointed at the three balls left inside the box.
“I’ll show you now,” said Wood. “Take this.”
He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat.
“I’m going to show you what the Bludgers do,” Wood said. “These two are
the Bludgers.”
He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the
red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to escape the
straps holding them inside the box.
“Stand back,” Wood warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the
Bludgers.
At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at
Harry’s face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose,
and sent it zigzagging away into the air — it zoomed around their heads and
then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground.
“See?” Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and
strapping it down safely. “The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock
players off their brooms. That’s why you have two Beaters on each team —
the Weasley twins are ours — it’s their job to protect their side from the
Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So — think you’ve
got all that?”
“Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the
goalposts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team,” Harry reeled
off.
“Very good,” said Wood.
“Er — have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry asked, hoping he
sounded offhand.
“Never at Hogwarts. We’ve had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse
than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That’s you. And
you don’t have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers —”
“— unless they crack my head open.”
“Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers — I
mean, they’re like a pair of human Bludgers themselves.”
Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared
with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large
walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings.
“This,” said Wood, “is the Golden Snitch, and it’s the most important ball
of the lot. It’s very hard to catch because it’s so fast and difficult to see. It’s
the Seeker’s job to catch it. You’ve got to weave in and out of the Chasers,
Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team’s Seeker,
because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra hundred
and fifty points, so they nearly always win. That’s why Seekers get fouled so
much. A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go
on for ages — I think the record is three months, they had to keep bringing on
substitutes so the players could get some sleep.
“Well, that’s it — any questions?”
Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to do all right, it was
doing it that was going to be the problem.
“We won’t practice with the Snitch yet,” said Wood, carefully shutting it
back inside the crate, “it’s too dark, we might lose it. Let’s try you out with a
few of these.”
He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket and a few minutes
later, he and Harry were up in the air, Wood throwing the golf balls as hard as
he could in every direction for Harry to catch.
Harry didn’t miss a single one, and Wood was delighted. After half an hour,
night had really fallen and they couldn’t carry on.
“That Quidditch Cup’ll have our name on it this year,” said Wood happily
as they trudged back up to the castle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turn out
better than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for England if he
hadn’t gone off chasing dragons.”
Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch practice
three evenings a week on top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly
believe it when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts two months.
The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had. His lessons, too,
were becoming more and more interesting now that they had mastered the
basics.
On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking
pumpkin wafting through the corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick
announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects
fly, something they had all been dying to try since they’d seen him make
Neville’s toad zoom around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the class
into pairs to practice. Harry’s partner was Seamus Finnigan (which was a
relief, because Neville had been trying to catch his eye). Ron, however, was
to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell whether Ron or
Hermione was angrier about this. She hadn’t spoken to either of them since
the day Harry’s broomstick had arrived.
“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!”
squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual.
“Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words
properly is very important, too — never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’
instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”
It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and flicked, but the feather
they were supposed to be sending skyward just lay on the desktop. Seamus
got so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and set fire to it — Harry
had to put it out with his hat.
Ron, at the next table, wasn’t having much more luck.
“Wingardium Leviosa!” he shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.
“You’re saying it wrong,” Harry heard Hermione snap. “It’s Wing-gardium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.”
“You do it, then, if you’re so clever,” Ron snarled.
Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said,
“Wingardium Leviosa!”
Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their
heads.
“Oh, well done!” cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. “Everyone see here,
Miss Granger’s done it!”
Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class.
“It’s no wonder no one can stand her,” he said to Harry as they pushed their
way into the crowded corridor, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.”
Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione.
Harry caught a glimpse of her face — and was startled to see that she was in
tears.
“I think she heard you.”
“So?” said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. “She must’ve noticed
she’s got no friends.”
Hermione didn’t turn up for the next class and wasn’t seen all afternoon.
On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast, Harry and Ron
overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying
in the girls’ bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Ron looked still more
awkward at this, but a moment later they had entered the Great Hall, where
the Halloween decorations put Hermione out of their minds.
A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand
more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the
pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had
at the start-of-term banquet.
Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato when Professor Quirrell
came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone
stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair, slumped against the table,
and gasped, “Troll — in the dungeons — thought you ought to know.”
He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.
There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the
end of Professor Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.
“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the dormitories
immediately!”
Percy was in his element.
“Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you
follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming
through! Excuse me, I’m a prefect!”
“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they climbed the stairs.
“Don’t ask me, they’re supposed to be really stupid,” said Ron. “Maybe
Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke.”
They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions. As
they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry
suddenly grabbed Ron’s arm.
“I’ve just thought — Hermione.”
“What about her?”
“She doesn’t know about the troll.”
Ron bit his lip.
“Oh, all right,” he snapped. “But Percy’d better not see us.”
Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the other way, slipped
down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the girls’ bathroom.
They had just turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps behind them.
“Percy!” hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large stone griffin.
Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but Snape. He crossed the
corridor and disappeared from view.
“What’s he doing?” Harry whispered. “Why isn’t he down in the dungeons
with the rest of the teachers?”
“Search me.”
Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after Snape’s fading
footsteps.
“He’s heading for the third floor,” Harry said, but Ron held up his hand.
“Can you smell something?”
Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a mixture of old socks
and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean.
And then they heard it — a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of
gigantic feet. Ron pointed — at the end of a passage to the left, something
huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and watched as
it emerged into a patch of moonlight.
It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite gray, its
great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a
coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell
coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which
dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.
The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its long
ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.
“The key’s in the lock,” Harry muttered. “We could lock it in.”
“Good idea,” said Ron nervously.
They edged toward the open door, mouths dry, praying the troll wasn’t
about to come out of it. With one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key,
slam the door, and lock it.
“Yes!”
Flushed with their victory, they started to run back up the passage, but as
they reached the corner they heard something that made their hearts stop — a
high, petrified scream — and it was coming from the chamber they’d just
chained up.
“Oh, no,” said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron.
“It’s the girls’ bathroom!” Harry gasped.
“Hermione!” they said together.
It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what choice did they have?
Wheeling around, they sprinted back to the door and turned the key, fumbling
in their panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran inside.
Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if
she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off
the walls as it went.
“Confuse it!” Harry said desperately to Ron, and, seizing a tap, he threw it
as hard as he could against the wall.
The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around, blinking
stupidly, to see what had made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It
hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club as it went.
“Oy, pea-brain!” yelled Ron from the other side of the chamber, and he
threw a metal pipe at it. The troll didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting
its shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again, turning its ugly snout
toward Ron instead, giving Harry time to run around it.
“Come on, run, run!” Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her toward
the door, but she couldn’t move, she was still flat against the wall, her mouth
open with terror.
The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll berserk. It
roared again and started toward Ron, who was nearest and had no way to
escape.
Harry then did something that was both very brave and very stupid: He
took a great running jump and managed to fasten his arms around the troll’s
neck from behind. The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging there, but even a troll
will notice if you stick a long bit of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wand had
still been in his hand when he’d jumped — it had gone straight up one of the
troll’s nostrils.
Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its club, with Harry clinging
on for dear life; any second, the troll was going to rip him off or catch him a
terrible blow with the club.
Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled out his own wand —
not knowing what he was going to do he heard himself cry the first spell that
came into his head: “Wingardium Leviosa!”
The club flew suddenly out of the troll’s hand, rose high, high up into the
air, turned slowly over — and dropped, with a sickening crack, onto its
owner’s head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat on its face, with a
thud that made the whole room tremble.
Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of breath. Ron was standing
there with his wand still raised, staring at what he had done.
It was Hermione who spoke first.
“Is it — dead?”
“I don’t think so,” said Harry, “I think it’s just been knocked out.”
He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll’s nose. It was covered in
what looked like lumpy gray glue.
“Urgh – troll boogers.”
He wiped it on the troll’s trousers.
A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the three of them look up.
They hadn’t realized what a racket they had been making, but of course,
someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll’s roars. A
moment later, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room,
closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took
one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on a toilet,
clutching his heart.
Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron and
Harry. Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were white. Hopes of
winning fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry’s mind.
“What on earth were you thinking of?” said Professor McGonagall, with
cold fury in her voice. Harry looked at Ron, who was still standing with his
wand in the air. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. Why aren’t you in your
dormitory?”
Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked at the floor. He
wished Ron would put his wand down.
Then a small voice came out of the shadows.
“Please, Professor McGonagall — they were looking for me.”
“Miss Granger!”
Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last.
“I went looking for the troll because I — I thought I could deal with it on
my own — you know, because I’ve read all about them.”
Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a
teacher?
“If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now. Harry stuck his wand up its
nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn’t have time to
come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived.”
Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story wasn’t new to them.
“Well — in that case . . .” said Professor McGonagall, staring at the three
of them, “Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a
mountain troll on your own?”
Hermione hung her head. 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.
“Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this,” said
Professor McGonagall. “I’m very disappointed in you. If you’re not hurt at
all, you’d better get off to Gryffindor Tower. Students are finishing the feast
in their Houses.”
Hermione left.
Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron.
“Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken
on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points.
Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go.”
They hurried out of the chamber and didn’t speak at all until they had
climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from the smell of the troll,
quite apart from anything else.
“We should have gotten more than ten points,” Ron grumbled.
“Five, you mean, once she’s taken off Hermione’s.”
“Good of her to get us out of trouble like that,” Ron admitted. “Mind you,
we did save her.”
“She might not have needed saving if we hadn’t locked the thing in with
her,” Harry reminded him.
They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.
“Pig snout,” they said and entered.
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. Then, none of them looking at
each other, they all said “Thanks,” and hurried off to get plates.
But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became their friend. There
are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and
knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
QUIDDITCH
A
s they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains
around the school became icy gray 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 field, bundled up
in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin
boots.
The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing in
his first match after weeks of training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If
Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the House
Championship.
Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as
their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But the news that he
was playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry didn’t know which
was worse — people telling him he’d be brilliant or people telling him they’d
be running around underneath him holding a mattress.
It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermione as a friend. He didn’t
know how he’d have gotten through all his homework without her, what with
all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do. She had
also lent him Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a very
interesting read.
Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of committing a
Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World Cup match
in 1473; that Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest players, and that
most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to happen to them; that although
people rarely died playing Quidditch, referees had been known to vanish and
turn up months later in the Sahara Desert.
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.
The day before Harry’s first Quidditch match the three of them were out in
the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured them up a bright
blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar. They were standing with
their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape crossed the yard. Harry noticed at
once that Snape was limping. Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer
together to block the fire from view; they were sure it wouldn’t be allowed.
Unfortunately, something about their guilty faces caught Snape’s eye. He
limped over. He hadn’t seen the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason
to tell them off anyway.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Potter?”
It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.
“Library books are not to be taken outside the school,” said Snape. “Give it
to me. Five points from Gryffindor.”
“He’s just made that rule up,” Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped
away. “Wonder what’s wrong with his leg?”
“Dunno, but I hope it’s really hurting him,” said Ron bitterly.
The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and
Ron’s Charms homework for them. She would never let them copy (“How
will you learn?”), but by asking her to read it through, they got the right
answers anyway.
Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back, to take his
mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of Snape?
Getting up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask Snape if he could
have it.
“Better you than me,” they said together, but Harry had an idea that Snape
wouldn’t refuse if there were other teachers listening.
He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was no
answer. He knocked again. Nothing.
Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He pushed the
door ajar and peered inside — and a horrible scene met his eyes.
Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his
knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape
bandages.
“Blasted thing,” Snape was saying. “How are you supposed to keep your
eyes on all three heads at once?”
Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but —
“POTTER!”
Snape’s face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide
his leg. Harry gulped.
“I just wondered if I could have my book back.”
“GET OUT! OUT!”
Harry left, before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. He
sprinted back upstairs.
“Did you get it?” Ron asked as Harry joined them. “What’s the matter?”
In a low whisper, Harry told them what he’d seen.
“You know what this means?” he finished breathlessly. “He tried to get past
that three-headed dog at Halloween! That’s where he was going when we saw
him — he’s after whatever it’s guarding! And I’d bet my broomstick he let
that troll in, to make a diversion!”
Hermione’s eyes were wide.
“No — he wouldn’t,” she said. “I know he’s not very nice, but he wouldn’t
try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe.”
“Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something,”
snapped Ron. “I’m with Harry. I wouldn’t put anything past Snape. But
what’s he after? What’s that dog guarding?”
Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the same question. Neville
was snoring loudly, but Harry couldn’t sleep. He tried to empty his mind —
he needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch match in a few hours
— but the expression on Snape’s face when Harry had seen his leg wasn’t
easy to forget.
The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the
delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking
forward to a good Quidditch match.
“You’ve got to eat some breakfast.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Just a bit of toast,” wheedled Hermione.
“I’m not hungry.”
Harry felt terrible. In an hour’s time he’d be walking onto the field.
“Harry, you need your strength,” said Seamus Finnigan. “Seekers are
always the ones who get clobbered by the other team.”
“Thanks, Seamus,” said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on his
sausages.
By eleven o’clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the
Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be raised
high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes.
Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean the West Ham fan up
in the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted a large banner on one
of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for President, and Dean, who
was good at drawing, had done a large Gryffindor lion underneath. Then
Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that the paint flashed
different colors.
Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of the team were
changing into their scarlet Quidditch robes (Slytherin would be playing in
green).
Wood cleared his throat for silence.
“Okay, men,” he said.
“And women,” said Chaser Angelina Johnson.
“And women,” Wood agreed. “This is it.”
“The big one,” said Fred Weasley.
“The one we’ve all been waiting for,” said George.
“We know Oliver’s speech by heart,” Fred told Harry, “we were on the
team last year.”
“Shut up, you two,” said Wood. “This is the best team Gryffindor’s had in
years. We’re going to win. I know it.”
He glared at them all as if to say, “Or else.”
“Right. It’s time. Good luck, all of you.”
Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker room and, hoping his
knees weren’t going to give way, walked onto the field to loud cheers.
Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting
for the two teams, her broom in her hand.
“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you,” she said, once they were all
gathered around her. Harry noticed that she seemed to be speaking
particularly to the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a fifth year. Harry thought
Flint looked as if he had some troll blood in him. Out of the corner of his eye
he saw the fluttering banner high above, flashing Potter for President over the
crowd. His heart skipped. He felt braver.
“Mount your brooms, please.”
Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand.
Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.
Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.
“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor
— what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too —”
“JORDAN!”
“Sorry, Professor.”
The Weasley twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for the
match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.
“And she’s really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a
good find of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve — back to Johnson and
— no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint
gains the Quaffle and off he goes — Flint flying like an eagle up there — he’s
going to sc– no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood
and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor
there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and — OUCH — that must have
hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger — Quaffle taken by the
Slytherins — that’s Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goalposts, but he’s
blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by Fred or George Weasley,
can’t tell which — nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson
back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes — she’s
really flying — dodges a speeding Bludger — the goalposts are ahead —
come on, now, Angelina — Keeper Bletchley dives — misses —
GRYFFINDOR SCORE!”
Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and moans from the
Slytherins.
“Budge up there, move along.”
“Hagrid!”
Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid enough space to join
them.
“Bin watchin’ from me hut,” said Hagrid, patting a large pair of binoculars
around his neck, “But it isn’t the same as bein’ in the crowd. No sign of the
Snitch yet, eh?”
“Nope,” said Ron. “Harry hasn’t had much to do yet.”
“Kept outta trouble, though, that’s somethin’,” said Hagrid, raising his
binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that was Harry.
Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about for
some sign of the Snitch. This was part of his and Wood’s game plan.
“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the Snitch,” Wood had said.
“We don’t want you attacked before you have to be.”
When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple of loop-the-loops to
let off his feelings. Now he was back to staring around for the Snitch. Once he
caught sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection from one of the
Weasleys’ wristwatches, and once a Bludger decided to come pelting his way,
more like a cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it and Fred Weasley
came chasing after it.
“All right there, Harry?” he had time to yell, as he beat the Bludger
furiously toward Marcus Flint.
“Slytherin in possession,” Lee Jordan was saying, “Chaser Pucey ducks
two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the — wait
a moment — was that the Snitch?”
A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too
busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left ear.
Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived downward after the
streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck and
neck they hurtled toward the Snitch — all the Chasers seemed to have
forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as they hung in midair to
watch.
Harry was faster than Higgs — he could see the little round ball, wings
fluttering, darting up ahead — he put on an extra spurt of speed —
WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors below — Marcus
Flint had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry’s broom spun off course,
Harry holding on for dear life.
“Foul!” screamed the Gryffindors.
Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free shot at the
goalposts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion, of course, the Golden
Snitch had disappeared from sight again.
Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, “Send him off, ref! Red
card!”
“What are you talking about, Dean?” said Ron.
“Red card!” said Dean furiously. “In soccer you get shown the red card and
you’re out of the game!”
“But this isn’t soccer, Dean,” Ron reminded him.
Hagrid, however, was on Dean’s side.
“They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the air.”
Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.
“So — after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating —”
“Jordan!” growled Professor McGonagall.
“I mean, after that open and revolting foul —”
“Jordan, I’m warning you —”
“All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could
happen to anyone, I’m sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who
puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession.”
It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously
past his head, that it happened. His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch.
For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped the broom
tightly with both his hands and knees. He’d never felt anything like that.
It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off.
But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off.
Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goalposts — he had half a
mind to ask Wood to call time-out — and then he realized that his broom was
completely out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t direct it at all. It
was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent
swishing movements that almost unseated him.
Lee was still commentating.
“Slytherin in possession — Flint with the Quaffle — passes Spinnet —
passes Bell — hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose —
only joking, Professor — Slytherins score — oh no . . .”
The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry’s
broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying him slowly higher, away from
the game, jerking and twitching as it went.
“Dunno what Harry thinks he’s doing,” Hagrid mumbled. He stared
through his binoculars. “If I didn’ know better, I’d say he’d lost control of his
broom . . . but he can’t have. . . .”
Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom
had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on.
Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry’s broom had given a wild jerk and Harry
swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.
“Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?” Seamus whispered.
“Can’t have,” Hagrid said, his voice shaking. “Can’t nothing interfere with
a broomstick except powerful Dark magic — no kid could do that to a
Nimbus Two Thousand.”
At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid’s binoculars, but instead of
looking up at Harry, she started looking frantically at the crowd.
“What are you doing?” moaned Ron, gray-faced.
“I knew it,” Hermione gasped, “Snape — look.”
Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle of the stands opposite
them. He had his eyes fixed on Harry and was muttering nonstop under his
breath.
“He’s doing something — jinxing the broom,” said Hermione.
“What should we do?”
“Leave it to me.”
Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had disappeared. Ron
turned the binoculars back on Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was
almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on
its feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry
safely onto one of their brooms, but it was no good — every time they got
near him, the broom would jump higher still. They dropped lower and circled
beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell. Marcus Flint seized the
Quaffle and scored five times without anyone noticing.
“Come on, Hermione,” Ron muttered desperately.
Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape stood, and
was now racing along the row behind him; she didn’t even stop to say sorry as
she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in front. Reaching
Snape, she crouched down, pulled out her wand, and whispered a few, wellchosen words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto the hem of
Snape’s robes.
It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on fire. A
sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him into a
little jar in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row — Snape would
never know what had happened.
It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on
to his broom.
“Neville, you can look!” Ron said. Neville had been sobbing into Hagrid’s
jacket for the last five minutes.
Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his
hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick — he hit the field on all
fours — coughed — and something gold fell into his hand.
“I’ve got the Snitch!” he shouted, waving it above his head, and the game
ended in complete confusion.
“He didn’t catch it, he nearly swallowed it,” Flint was still howling twenty
minutes later, but it made no difference — Harry hadn’t broken any rules and
Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the results — Gryffindor had won by
one hundred and seventy points to sixty. Harry heard none of this, though. He
was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid’s hut, with Ron and
Hermione.
“It was Snape,” Ron was explaining, “Hermione and I saw him. He was
cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Rubbish,” said Hagrid, who hadn’t heard a word of what had gone on next
to him in the stands. “Why would Snape do somethin’ like that?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, wondering what to tell
him. Harry decided on the truth.
“I found out something about him,” he told Hagrid. “He tried to get past
that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying to
steal whatever it’s guarding.”
Hagrid dropped the teapot.
“How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.
“Fluffy?”
“Yeah — he’s mine — bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las’
year — I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the —”
“Yes?” said Harry eagerly.
“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” said Hagrid gruffly. “That’s top secret, that
is.”
“But Snape’s trying to steal it.”
“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’
of the sort.”
“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried Hermione.
The afternoon’s events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about
Snape.
“I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve got
to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”
“I’m tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’ know why Harry’s
broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to
me, all three of yeh — yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s
dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s
between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel —”
“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is
there?”
Hagrid looked furious with himself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE MIRROR OF ERISED
C
hristmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke
to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and
the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that
they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. The few
owls that managed to battle their way through the stormy sky to deliver mail
had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could fly off again.
No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Gryffindor common
room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy
and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were
Professor Snape’s classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a
mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.
“I do feel so sorry,” said Draco Malfoy, one Potions class, “for all those
people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not
wanted at home.”
He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled.
Harry, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish, ignored them.
Malfoy had been even more unpleasant than usual since the Quidditch match.
Disgusted that the Slytherins had lost, he had tried to get everyone laughing at
how a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. Then
he’d realized that nobody found this funny, because they were all so
impressed at the way Harry had managed to stay on his bucking broomstick.
So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone back to taunting Harry about having
no proper family.
It was true that Harry wasn’t going back to Privet Drive for Christmas.
Professor McGonagall had come around the week before, making a list of
students who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had signed up at
once. He didn’t feel sorry for himself at all; this would probably be the best
Christmas he’d ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying, too, because Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania to visit Charlie.
When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large fir
tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at the
bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind it.
“Hi, Hagrid, want any help?” Ron asked, sticking his head through the
branches.
“Nah, I’m all right, thanks, Ron.”
“Would you mind moving out of the way?” came Malfoy’s cold drawl from
behind them. “Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping to
be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose — that hut of
Hagrid’s must seem like a palace compared to what your family’s used to.”
Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs.
“WEASLEY!”
Ron let go of the front of Malfoy’s robes.
“He was provoked, Professor Snape,” said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy
face out from behind the tree. “Malfoy was insultin’ his family.”
“Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,” said Snape
silkily. “Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn’t more.
Move along, all of you.”
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the tree, scattering needles
everywhere and smirking.
“I’ll get him,” said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy’s back, “one of these
days, I’ll get him —”
“I hate them both,” said Harry, “Malfoy and Snape.”
“Come on, cheer up, it’s nearly Christmas,” said Hagrid. “Tell yeh what,
come with me an’ see the Great Hall, looks a treat.”
So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off to the Great Hall,
where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were busy with the
Christmas decorations.
“Ah, Hagrid, the last tree — put it in the far corner, would you?”
The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung all
around the walls, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stood
around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with
hundreds of candles.
“How many days you got left until yer holidays?” Hagrid asked.
“Just one,” said Hermione. “And that reminds me — Harry, Ron, we’ve got
half an hour before lunch, we should be in the library.”
“Oh yeah, you’re right,” said Ron, tearing his eyes away from Professor
Flitwick, who had golden bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was
trailing them over the branches of the new tree.
“The library?” said Hagrid, following them out of the hall. “Just before the
holidays? Bit keen, aren’t yeh?”
“Oh, we’re not working,” Harry told him brightly. “Ever since you
mentioned Nicolas Flamel we’ve been trying to find out who he is.”
“You what?” Hagrid looked shocked. “Listen here — I’ve told yeh — drop
it. It’s nothin’ to you what that dog’s guardin’.”
“We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that’s all,” said Hermione.
“Unless you’d like to tell us and save us the trouble?” Harry added. “We
must’ve been through hundreds of books already and we can’t find him
anywhere — just give us a hint — I know I’ve read his name somewhere.”
“I’m sayin’ nothin’,” said Hagrid flatly.
“Just have to find out for ourselves, then,” said Ron, and they left Hagrid
looking disgruntled and hurried off to the library.
They had indeed been searching books for Flamel’s name ever since Hagrid
had let it slip, because how else were they going to find out what Snape was
trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to know where to begin, not
knowing what Flamel might have done to get himself into a book. He wasn’t
in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable Magical Names of Our
Time; he was missing, too, from Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and
A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry. And then, of course, there was
the sheer size of the library; tens of thousands of books; thousands of shelves;
hundreds of narrow rows.
Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had decided to search
while Ron strode off down a row of books and started pulling them off the
shelves at random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted Section. He had
been wondering for a while if Flamel wasn’t somewhere in there.
Unfortunately, you needed a specially signed note from one of the teachers to
look in any of the restricted books, and he knew he’d never get one. These
were the books containing powerful Dark Magic never taught at Hogwarts,
and only read by older students studying advanced Defense Against the Dark
Arts.
“What are you looking for, boy?”
“Nothing,” said Harry.
Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather duster at him.
“You’d better get out, then. Go on — out!”
Wishing he’d been a bit quicker at thinking up some story, Harry left the
library. He, Ron, and Hermione had already agreed they’d better not ask
Madam Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure she’d be able to
tell them, but they couldn’t risk Snape hearing what they were up to.
Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other two had found
anything, but he wasn’t very hopeful. They had been looking for two weeks,
after all, but as they only had odd moments between lessons it wasn’t
surprising they’d found nothing. What they really needed was a nice long
search without Madam Pince breathing down their necks.
Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, shaking their heads.
They went off to lunch.
“You will keep looking while I’m away, won’t you?” said Hermione. “And
send me an owl if you find anything.”
“And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is,” said Ron.
“It’d be safe to ask them.”
“Very safe, as they’re both dentists,” said Hermione.
Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were having too good a time to
think much about Flamel. They had the dormitory to themselves and the
common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the good
armchairs by the fire. They sat by the hour eating anything they could spear
on a toasting fork — bread, English muffins, marshmallows — and plotting
ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk about even if they
wouldn’t work.
Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly like
Muggle chess except that the figures were alive, which made it a lot like
directing troops in battle. Ron’s set was very old and battered. Like
everything else he owned, it had once belonged to someone else in his family
— in this case, his grandfather. However, old chessmen weren’t a drawback at
all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble getting them to do what he
wanted.
Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they
didn’t trust him at all. He wasn’t a very good player yet and they kept
shouting different bits of advice at him, which was confusing. “Don’t send me
there, can’t you see his knight? Send him, we can afford to lose him.”
On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward to the next day for
the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all. When he woke
early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a small pile of
packages at the foot of his bed.
“Merry Christmas,” said Ron sleepily as Harry scrambled out of bed and
pulled on his bathrobe.
“You, too,” said Harry. “Will you look at this? I’ve got some presents!”
“What did you expect, turnips?” said Ron, turning to his own pile, which
was a lot bigger than Harry’s.
Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and
scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut
wooden flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry blew it — it
sounded a bit like an owl.
A second, very small parcel contained a note.
We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped to the note was a fifty-pence piece.
“That’s friendly,” said Harry.
Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.
“Weird!” he said, “What a shape! This is money?”
“You can keep it,” said Harry, laughing at how pleased Ron was. “Hagrid
and my aunt and uncle — so who sent these?”
“I think I know who that one’s from,” said Ron, turning a bit pink and
pointing to a very lumpy parcel. “My mum. I told her you didn’t expect any
presents and — oh, no,” he groaned, “she’s made you a Weasley sweater.”
Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in
emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge.
“Every year she makes us a sweater,” said Ron, unwrapping his own, “and
mine’s always maroon.”
“That’s really nice of her,” said Harry, trying the fudge, which was very
tasty.
His next present also contained candy — a large box of Chocolate Frogs
from Hermione.
This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very light. He
unwrapped it.
Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it lay in
gleaming folds. Ron gasped.
“I’ve heard of those,” he said in a hushed voice, dropping the box of Every
Flavor Beans he’d gotten from Hermione. “If that’s what I think it is —
they’re really rare, and really valuable.”
“What is it?”
Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to the
touch, like water woven into material.
“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” said Ron, a look of awe on his face. “I’m sure it
is — try it on.”
Harry threw the Cloak around his shoulders and Ron gave a yell.
“It is! Look down!”
Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He dashed to the mirror.
Sure enough, his reflection looked back at him, just his head suspended in
midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the Cloak over his head and
his reflection vanished completely.
“There’s a note!” said Ron suddenly. “A note fell out of it!”
Harry pulled off the Cloak and seized the letter. Written in narrow, loopy
writing he had never seen before were the following words:
Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was
returned to you.
Use it well.
A Very Merry Christmas to you
There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron was admiring the
Cloak.
“I’d give anything for one of these,” he said. “Anything. What’s the
matter?”
“Nothing,” said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had sent the Cloak? Had
it really once belonged to his father?
Before he could say or think anything else, the dormitory door was flung
open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the Cloak
quickly out of sight. He didn’t feel like sharing it with anyone else yet.
“Merry Christmas!”
“Hey, look — Harry’s got a Weasley sweater, too!”
Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one with a large yellow F on
it, the other a G.
“Harry’s is better than ours, though,” said Fred, holding up Harry’s sweater.
“She obviously makes more of an effort if you’re not family.”
“Why aren’t you wearing yours, Ron?” George demanded. “Come on, get it
on, they’re lovely and warm.”
“I hate maroon,” Ron moaned halfheartedly as he pulled it over his head.
“You haven’t got a letter on yours,” George observed. “I suppose she thinks
you don’t forget your name. But we’re not stupid — we know we’re called
Gred and Forge.”
“What’s all this noise?”
Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, looking disapproving. He
had clearly gotten halfway through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried
a lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized.
“P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we’re all wearing ours, even
Harry got one.”
“I — don’t — want —” said Percy thickly, as the twins forced the sweater
over his head, knocking his glasses askew.
“And you’re not sitting with the prefects today, either,” said George.
“Christmas is a time for family.”
They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his side by his
sweater.
Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas dinner. A hundred fat,
roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of chipolatas;
tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy and cranberry sauce
— and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet along the table. These
fantastic party favors were nothing like the feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys
usually bought, with their little plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside.
Harry pulled a wizard cracker with Fred and it didn’t just bang, it went off
with a blast like a cannon and engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke,
while from the inside exploded a rear admiral’s hat and several live, white
mice. Up at the High Table, Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard’s
hat for a flowered bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor
Flitwick had just read him.
Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. Percy nearly broke his
teeth on a silver Sickle embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid getting
redder and redder in the face as he called for more wine, finally kissing
Professor McGonagall on the cheek, who, to Harry’s amazement, giggled and
blushed, her top hat lopsided.
When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down with a stack of things
out of the crackers, including a pack of non-explodable, luminous balloons, a
Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess set. The white
mice had disappeared and Harry had a nasty feeling they were going to end
up as Mrs. Norris’s Christmas dinner.
Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon having a furious snowball
fight on the grounds. Then, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they returned to
the fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry broke in his new chess
set by losing spectacularly to Ron. He suspected he wouldn’t have lost so
badly if Percy hadn’t tried to help him so much.
After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake,
everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and watch
Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor Tower because they’d stolen
his prefect badge.
It had been Harry’s best Christmas day ever. Yet something had been
nagging at the back of his mind all day. Not until he climbed into bed was he
free to think about it: the Invisibility Cloak and whoever had sent it.
Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing mysterious to bother him, fell
asleep almost as soon as he’d drawn the curtains of his four-poster. Harry
leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the Cloak out from under it.
His father’s . . . this had been his father’s. He let the material flow over his
hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well, the note had said.
He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and wrapped the Cloak around
himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight and shadows. It
was a very funny feeling.
Use it well.
Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was open to him
in this Cloak. Excitement flooded through him as he stood there in the dark
and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere, and Filch would never
know.
Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him? Something held him
back — his father’s Cloak — he felt that this time — the first time — he
wanted to use it alone.
He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the common room,
and climbed through the portrait hole.
“Who’s there?” squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said nothing. He walked
quickly down the corridor.
Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing, and thought. And then it
came to him. The Restricted Section in the library. He’d be able to read as
long as he liked, as long as it took to find out who Flamel was. He set off,
drawing the Invisibility Cloak tight around him as he walked.
The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a lamp to see his way
along the rows of books. The lamp looked as if it was floating along in
midair, and even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it, the sight gave
him the creeps.
The Restricted Section was right at the back of the library. Stepping
carefully over the rope that separated these books from the rest of the library,
he held up his lamp to read the titles.
They didn’t tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold letters spelled words
in languages Harry couldn’t understand. Some had no title at all. One book
had a dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The hairs on the back of
Harry’s neck prickled. Maybe he was imagining it, maybe not, but he thought
a faint whispering was coming from the books, as though they knew someone
was there who shouldn’t be.
He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down carefully on the floor, he
looked along the bottom shelf for an interesting-looking book. A large black
and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it out with difficulty, because it
was very heavy, and, balancing it on his knee, let it fall open.
A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence — the book was
screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but the shriek went on and on, one high,
unbroken, earsplitting note. He stumbled backward and knocked over his
lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he heard footsteps coming down the
corridor outside — stuffing the shrieking book back on the shelf, he ran for it.
He passed Filch in the doorway; Filch’s pale, wild eyes looked straight
through him, and Harry slipped under Filch’s outstretched arm and streaked
off up the corridor, the book’s shrieks still ringing in his ears.
He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of armor. He had been so
busy getting away from the library, he hadn’t paid attention to where he was
going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn’t recognize where he was at all.
There was a suit of armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he must be five
floors above there.
“You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering
around at night, and somebody’s been in the library — Restricted Section.”
Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he was, Filch must
know a shortcut, because his soft, greasy voice was getting nearer, and to his
horror, it was Snape who replied, “The Restricted Section? Well, they can’t be
far, we’ll catch them.”
Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around the corner
ahead. They couldn’t see him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor and if
they came much nearer they’d knock right into him — the Cloak didn’t stop
him from being solid.
He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to his left. It was
his only hope. He squeezed through it, holding his breath, trying not to move
it, and to his relief he managed to get inside the room without their noticing
anything. They walked straight past, and Harry leaned against the wall,
breathing deeply, listening to their footsteps dying away. That had been close,
very close. It was a few seconds before he noticed anything about the room he
had hidden in.
It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs
were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket —
but propped against the wall facing him was something that didn’t look as if it
belonged there, something that looked as if someone had just put it there to
keep it out of the way.
It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold
frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around
the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.
His panic fading now that there was no sound of Filch and Snape, Harry
moved nearer to the mirror, wanting to look at himself but see no reflection
again. He stepped in front of it.
He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He
whirled around. His heart was pounding far more furiously than when the
book had screamed — for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but a
whole crowd of people standing right behind him.
But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly back to the
mirror.
There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected
behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder — but
still, no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was he in fact in a
room full of invisible people and this mirror’s trick was that it reflected them,
invisible or not?
He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his
reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt the
air behind him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their reflections were
so close together, but he felt only air — she and the others existed only in the
mirror.
She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes — her
eyes are just like mine, Harry thought, edging a little closer to the glass.
Bright green — exactly the same shape, but then he noticed that she was
crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man
standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was
very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry’s did.
Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that
of his reflection.
“Mum?” he whispered. “Dad?”
They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces
of the other people in the mirror, and saw other pairs of green eyes like his,
other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had
Harry’s knobbly knees — Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in
his life.
The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at
them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall
right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him,
half joy, half terrible sadness.
How long he stood there, he didn’t know. The reflections did not fade and
he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his senses. He
couldn’t stay here, he had to find his way back to bed. He tore his eyes away
from his mother’s face, whispered, “I’ll come back,” and hurried from the
room.
“You could have woken me up,” said Ron, crossly.
“You can come tonight, I’m going back, I want to show you the mirror.”
“I’d like to see your mum and dad,” Ron said eagerly.
“And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you’ll be able to show
me your other brothers and everyone.”
“You can see them any old time,” said Ron. “Just come round my house
this summer. Anyway, maybe it only shows dead people. Shame about not
finding Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why aren’t you
eating anything?”
Harry couldn’t eat. He had seen his parents and would be seeing them
again tonight. He had almost forgotten about Flamel. It didn’t seem very
important anymore. Who cared what the three-headed dog was guarding?
What did it matter if Snape stole it, really?
“Are you all right?” said Ron. “You look odd.”
What Harry feared most was that he might not be able to find the mirror room
again. With Ron covered in the Cloak, too, they had to walk much more
slowly the next night. They tried retracing Harry’s route from the library,
wandering around the dark passageways for nearly an hour.
“I’m freezing,” said Ron. “Let’s forget it and go back.”
“No!” Harry hissed. “I know it’s here somewhere.”
They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but
saw no one else. Just as Ron started moaning that his feet were dead with
cold, Harry spotted the suit of armor.
“It’s here — just here — yes!”
They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the Cloak from around his
shoulders and ran to the mirror.
There they were. His mother and father beamed at the sight of him.
“See?” Harry whispered.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Look! Look at them all . . . there are loads of them. . . .”
“I can only see you.”
“Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am.”
Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the mirror, he couldn’t see his
family anymore, just Ron in his paisley pajamas.
Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image.
“Look at me!” he said.
“Can you see all your family standing around you?”
“No — I’m alone — but I’m different — I look older — and I’m Head
Boy!”
“What?”
“I am — I’m wearing the badge like Bill used to — and I’m holding the
House Cup and the Quidditch Cup — I’m Quidditch captain, too!”
Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to look excitedly at Harry.
“Do you think this mirror shows the future?”
“How can it? All my family are dead — let me have another look —”
“You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit more time.”
“You’re only holding the Quidditch Cup, what’s interesting about that? I
want to see my parents.”
“Don’t push me —”
A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to their discussion. They
hadn’t realized how loudly they had been talking.
“Quick!”
Ron threw the Cloak back over them as the luminous eyes of Mrs. Norris
came round the door. Ron and Harry stood quite still, both thinking the same
thing — did the Cloak work on cats? After what seemed an age, she turned
and left.
“This isn’t safe — she might have gone for Filch, I bet she heard us. Come
on.”
And Ron pulled Harry out of the room.
The snow still hadn’t melted the next morning.
“Want to play chess, Harry?” said Ron.
“No.”
“Why don’t we go down and visit Hagrid?”
“No . . . you go . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking about, Harry, that mirror. Don’t go back
tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I dunno, I’ve just got a bad feeling about it — and anyway, you’ve had too
many close shaves already. Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are wandering
around. So what if they can’t see you? What if they walk into you? What if
you knock something over?”
“You sound like Hermione.”
“I’m serious, Harry, don’t go.”
But Harry only had one thought in his head, which was to get back in front
of the mirror, and Ron wasn’t going to stop him.
That third night he found his way more quickly than before. He was walking
so fast he knew he was making more noise than was wise, but he didn’t meet
anyone.
And there were his mother and father smiling at him again, and one of his
grandfathers nodding happily. Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of
the mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying here all night with his
family. Nothing at all.
Except —
“So — back again, Harry?”
Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind him.
Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus
Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to get to
the mirror he hadn’t noticed him.
“I — I didn’t see you, sir.”
“Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you,” said Dumbledore,
and Harry was relieved to see that he was smiling.
“So,” said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry,
“you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of
Erised.”
“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.”
“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”
“It — well — it shows me my family —”
“And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy.”
“How did you know — ?”
“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said Dumbledore gently. “Now,
can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?”
Harry shook his head.
“Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the
Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see
himself exactly as he is. Does that help?”
Harry thought. Then he said slowly, “It shows us what we want . . .
whatever we want . . .”
“Yes and no,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It shows us nothing more or less
than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never
known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who has
always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the
best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or
truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or
been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.
“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you
not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be
prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.
Now, why don’t you put that admirable Cloak back on and get off to bed?”
Harry stood up.
“Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?”
“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. “You may ask me
one more thing, however.”
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”
Harry stared.
“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas
has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving
me books.”
It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore
might not have been quite truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved
Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal question.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NICOLAS FLAMEL
D
umbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the Mirror of
Erised again, and for the rest of the Christmas holidays the Invisibility
Cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry wished he could forget
what he’d seen in the mirror as easily, but he couldn’t. He started having
nightmares. Over and over again he dreamed about his parents disappearing
in a flash of green light, while a high voice cackled with laughter.
“You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad,” said
Ron, when Harry told him about these dreams.
Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a different
view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea of Harry being out of
bed, roaming the school three nights in a row (“If Filch had caught you!”),
and disappointment that he hadn’t at least found out who Nicolas Flamel was.
They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a library book,
even though Harry was still sure he’d read the name somewhere. Once term
had started, they were back to skimming through books for ten minutes during
their breaks. Harry had even less time than the other two, because Quidditch
practice had started again.
Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless rain that
had replaced the snow couldn’t dampen his spirits. The Weasleys complained
that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on Wood’s side. If they
won their next match, against Hufflepuff, they would overtake Slytherin in
the House Championship for the first time in seven years. Quite apart from
wanting to win, Harry found that he had fewer nightmares when he was tired
out after training.
Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session, Wood gave
the team a bit of bad news. He’d just gotten very angry with the Weasleys,
who kept dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off their brooms.
“Will you stop messing around!” he yelled. “That’s exactly the sort of thing
that’ll lose us the match! Snape’s refereeing this time, and he’ll be looking for
any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!”
George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.
“Snape’s refereeing?” he spluttered through a mouthful of mud. “When’s he
ever refereed a Quidditch match? He’s not going to be fair if we might
overtake Slytherin.”
The rest of the team landed next to George to complain, too.
“It’s not my fault,” said Wood. “We’ve just got to make sure we play a
clean game, so Snape hasn’t got an excuse to pick on us.”
Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had another reason for not
wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch. . . .
The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual at the end of
practice, but Harry headed straight back to the Gryffindor common room,
where he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was the only thing
Hermione ever lost at, something Harry and Ron thought was very good for
her.
“Don’t talk to me for a moment,” said Ron when Harry sat down next to
him, “I need to concen —” He caught sight of Harry’s face. “What’s the
matter with you? You look terrible.”
Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the other two
about Snape’s sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.
“Don’t play,” said Hermione at once.
“Say you’re ill,” said Ron.
“Pretend to break your leg,” Hermione suggested.
“Really break your leg,” said Ron.
“I can’t,” said Harry. “There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor
can’t play at all.”
At that moment Neville toppled into the common room. How he had
managed to climb through the portrait hole was anyone’s guess, because his
legs had been stuck together with what they recognized at once as the LegLocker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to Gryffindor
Tower.
Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who leapt up and performed
the countercurse. Neville’s legs sprang apart and he got to his feet, trembling.
“What happened?” Hermione asked him, leading him over to sit with Harry
and Ron.
“Malfoy,” said Neville shakily. “I met him outside the library. He said he’d
been looking for someone to practice that on.”
“Go to Professor McGonagall!” Hermione urged Neville. “Report him!”
Neville shook his head.
“I don’t want more trouble,” he mumbled.
“You’ve got to stand up to him, Neville!” said Ron. “He’s used to walking
all over people, but that’s no reason to lie down in front of him and make it
easier.”
“There’s no need to tell me I’m not brave enough to be in Gryffindor,
Malfoy’s already done that,” Neville choked out.
Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate Frog, the
very last one from the box Hermione had given him for Christmas. He gave it
to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.
“You’re worth twelve of Malfoy,” Harry said. “The Sorting Hat chose you
for Gryffindor, didn’t it? And where’s Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin.”
Neville’s lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the frog.
“Thanks, Harry . . . I think I’ll go to bed. . . . D’you want the card, you
collect them, don’t you?”
As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card.
“Dumbledore again,” he said, “He was the first one I ever —”
He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked up at Ron and
Hermione.
“I’ve found him!” he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I told you I’d read the
name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming here — listen to this:
‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard
Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood,
and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel’!”
Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn’t looked so excited since they’d
gotten back the marks for their very first piece of homework.
“Stay there!” she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to the girls’
dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had time to exchange mystified looks
before she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.
“I never thought to look in here!” she whispered excitedly. “I got this out of
the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”
“Light?” said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she’d looked
something up, and started flicking frantically through the pages, muttering to
herself.
At last she found what she was looking for.
“I knew it! I knew it!”
“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily. Hermione ignored him.
“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the only known maker of
the Sorcerer’s Stone!”
This didn’t have quite the effect she’d expected.
“The what?” said Harry and Ron.
“Oh, honestly, don’t you two read? Look — read that, there.”
She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and Ron read:
The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the
Sorcerer’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers.
The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces
the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.
There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone over the
centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr.
Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel,
who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year,
enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred
and fifty-eight).
“See?” said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. “The dog must be
guarding Flamel’s Sorcerer’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it safe
for him, because they’re friends and he knew someone was after it, that’s why
he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!”
“A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!” said Harry. “No
wonder Snape’s after it! Anyone would want it.”
“And no wonder we couldn’t find Flamel in that Study of Recent
Developments in Wizardry,” said Ron. “He’s not exactly recent if he’s six
hundred and sixty-five, is he?”
The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while copying down
different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Ron were still discussing
what they’d do with a Sorcerer’s Stone if they had one. It wasn’t until Ron
said he’d buy his own Quidditch team that Harry remembered about Snape
and the coming match.
“I’m going to play,” he told Ron and Hermione. “If I don’t, all the
Slytherins will think I’m just too scared to face Snape. I’ll show them . . . it’ll
really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win.”
“Just as long as we’re not wiping you off the field,” said Hermione.
As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more nervous,
whatever he told Ron and Hermione. The rest of the team wasn’t too calm,
either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the House Championship was
wonderful, no one had done it for seven years, but would they be allowed to,
with such a biased referee?
Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but he seemed to
keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times, he even wondered
whether Snape was following him, trying to catch him on his own. Potions
lessons were turning into a sort of weekly torture, Snape was so horrible to
Harry. Could Snape possibly know they’d found out about the Sorcerer’s
Stone? Harry didn’t see how he could — yet he sometimes had the horrible
feeling that Snape could read minds.
Harry knew, when they wished him good luck outside the locker rooms the
next afternoon, that Ron and Hermione were wondering whether they’d ever
see him alive again. This wasn’t what you’d call comforting. Harry hardly
heard a word of Wood’s pep talk as he pulled on his Quidditch robes and
picked up his Nimbus Two Thousand.
Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands next to
Neville, who couldn’t understand why they looked so grim and worried, or
why they had both brought their wands to the match. Little did Harry know
that Ron and Hermione had been secretly practicing the Leg-Locker Curse.
They’d gotten the idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were ready to use
it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.
“Now, don’t forget, it’s Locomotor Mortis,” Hermione muttered as Ron
slipped his wand up his sleeve.
“I know,” Ron snapped. “Don’t nag.”
Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry aside.
“Don’t want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early capture of
the Snitch it’s now. Finish the game before Snape can favor Hufflepuff too
much.”
“The whole school’s out there!” said Fred Weasley, peering out of the door.
“Even — blimey — Dumbledore’s come to watch!”
Harry’s heart did a somersault.
“Dumbledore?” he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred was right.
There was no mistaking that silver beard.
Harry could have laughed out loud with relief. He was safe. There was
simply no way that Snape would dare to try to hurt him if Dumbledore was
watching.
Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams marched
onto the field, something that Ron noticed, too.
“I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told Hermione. “Look — they’re
off. Ouch!”
Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.
“Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there.”
Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.
“Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone
want a bet? What about you, Weasley?”
Ron didn’t answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because
George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her fingers
crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was circling the game
like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.
“You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?” said
Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another
penalty for no reason at all. “It’s people they feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter,
who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasleys, who’ve got no money — you
should be on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”
Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.
“I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” he stammered.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still not daring
to take his eyes from the game, said, “You tell him, Neville.”
“Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s
saying something.”
Ron’s nerves were already stretched to the breaking point with anxiety
about Harry.
“I’m warning you, Malfoy — one more word —”
“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, “Harry — !”
“What? Where?”
Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and
cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her mouth,
as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.
“You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the
ground!” said Malfoy.
Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Ron was on top of
him, wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over the
back of his seat to help.
“Come on, Harry!” Hermione screamed, leaping onto her seat to watch as
Harry sped straight at Snape — she didn’t even notice Malfoy and Ron rolling
around under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from the whirl of fists
that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.
Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to see something
scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches — the next second, Harry had
pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the Snitch clasped in his
hand.
The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever remember the
Snitch being caught so quickly.
“Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve won!
Gryffindor is in the lead!” shrieked Hermione, dancing up and down on her
seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.
Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn’t believe it.
He’d done it — the game was over; it had barely lasted five minutes. As
Gryffindors came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land nearby, white-
faced and tight-lipped — then Harry felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up
into Dumbledore’s smiling face.
“Well done,” said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry could hear. “Nice
to see you haven’t been brooding about that mirror . . . been keeping busy . . .
excellent . . .”
Snape spat bitterly on the ground.
Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to take his Nimbus Two
Thousand back to the broomshed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling happier.
He’d really done something to be proud of now — no one could say he was
just a famous name any more. The evening air had never smelled so sweet.
He walked over the damp grass, reliving the last hour in his head, which was
a happy blur: Gryffindors running to lift him onto their shoulders; Ron and
Hermione in the distance, jumping up and down, Ron cheering through a
heavy nosebleed.
Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door and looked
up at Hogwarts, with its windows glowing red in the setting sun. Gryffindor
in the lead. He’d done it, he’d shown Snape. . . .
And speaking of Snape . . .
A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. Clearly not
wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible toward the forbidden forest.
Harry’s victory faded from his mind as he watched. He recognized the
figure’s prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the forest while everyone else
was at dinner — what was going on?
Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off. Gliding
silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest at a run. He followed.
The trees were so thick he couldn’t see where Snape had gone. He flew in
circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of trees until he heard
voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly in a towering beech
tree.
He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to his
broomstick, trying to see through the leaves.
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone. Quirrell
was there, too. Harry couldn’t make out the look on his face, but he was
stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying.
“. . . d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places,
Severus . . .”
“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his voice icy. “Students
aren’t supposed to know about the Sorcerer’s Stone, after all.”
Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape
interrupted him.
“Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?”
“B-b-but Severus, I —”
“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said Snape, taking a step
toward him.
“I-I don’t know what you —”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied
himself in time to hear Snape say, “— your little bit of hocus-pocus. I’m
waiting.”
“B-but I d-d-don’t —”
“Very well,” Snape cut in. “We’ll have another little chat soon, when
you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.”
He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was
almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as though
he was petrified.
“Harry, where have you been?” Hermione squeaked.
“We won! You won! We won!” shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back.
“And I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and
Goyle single-handed! He’s still out cold but Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be all
right — talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone’s waiting for you in the
common room, we’re having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and
stuff from the kitchens.”
“Never mind that now,” said Harry breathlessly. “Let’s find an empty room,
you wait ’til you hear this. . . .”
He made sure Peeves wasn’t inside before shutting the door behind them,
then he told them what he’d seen and heard.
“So we were right, it is the Sorcerer’s Stone, and Snape’s trying to force
Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past Fluffy — and
he said something about Quirrell’s ‘hocus-pocus’— I reckon there are other
things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of enchantments, probably,
and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts spell that Snape needs to
break through —”
“So you mean the Stone’s only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to
Snape?” said Hermione in alarm.
“It’ll be gone by next Tuesday,” said Ron.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK
Q
uirrell, however, must have been braver than they’d thought. In the
weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner, but it
didn’t look as though he’d cracked yet.
Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron, and Hermione
would press their ears to the door to check that Fluffy was still growling
inside. Snape was sweeping about in his usual bad temper, which surely
meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever Harry passed Quirrell these
days he gave him an encouraging sort of smile, and Ron had started telling
people off for laughing at Quirrell’s stutter.
Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the Sorcerer’s Stone. She
had started drawing up study schedules and color-coding all her notes. Harry
and Ron wouldn’t have minded, but she kept nagging them to do the same.
“Hermione, the exams are ages away.”
“Ten weeks,” Hermione snapped. “That’s not ages, that’s like a second to
Nicolas Flamel.”
“But we’re not six hundred years old,” Ron reminded her. “Anyway, what
are you studying for, you already know it all.”
“What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to pass these
exams to get into the second year? They’re very important, I should have
started studying a month ago, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. . . .”
Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the same lines as
Hermione. They piled so much homework on them that the Easter holidays
weren’t nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It was hard to relax with
Hermione next to you reciting the twelve uses of dragon’s blood or practicing
wand movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron spent most of their
free time in the library with her, trying to get through all their extra work.
“I’ll never remember this,” Ron burst out one afternoon, throwing down his
quill and looking longingly out of the library window. It was the first really
fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a clear, forget-me-not blue, and
there was a feeling in the air of summer coming.
Harry, who was looking up “Dittany” in One Thousand Magical Herbs and
Fungi, didn’t look up until he heard Ron say, “Hagrid! What are you doing in
the library?”
Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back. He looked
very out of place in his moleskin overcoat.
“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, in a shifty voice that got their interest at once. “An’
what’re you lot up ter?” He looked suddenly suspicious. “Yer not still lookin’
fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?”
“Oh, we found out who he is ages ago,” said Ron impressively. “And we
know what that dog’s guarding, it’s a Sorcerer’s St —”
“Shhhh!” Hagrid looked around quickly to see if anyone was listening.
“Don’ go shoutin’ about it, what’s the matter with yeh?”
“There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a matter of fact,” said
Harry, “about what’s guarding the Stone apart from Fluffy —”
“SHHHH!” said Hagrid again. “Listen — come an’ see me later, I’m not
promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here,
students aren’ s’pposed ter know. They’ll think I’ve told yeh —”
“See you later, then,” said Harry.
Hagrid shuffled off.
“What was he hiding behind his back?” said Hermione thoughtfully.
“Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?”
“I’m going to see what section he was in,” said Ron, who’d had enough of
working. He came back a minute later with a pile of books in his arms and
slammed them down on the table.
“Dragons!” he whispered. “Hagrid was looking up stuff about dragons!
Look at these: Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland; From Egg to
Inferno, A Dragon Keeper’s Guide.”
“Hagrid’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever met
him,” said Harry.
“But it’s against our laws,” said Ron. “Dragon breeding was outlawed by
the Warlocks’ Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It’s hard to stop
Muggles from noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in the back garden —
anyway, you can’t tame dragons, it’s dangerous. You should see the burns
Charlie’s got off wild ones in Romania.”
“But there aren’t wild dragons in Britain?” said Harry.
“Of course there are,” said Ron. “Common Welsh Green and Hebridean
Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our
kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles who’ve spotted them, to make
them forget.”
“So what on earth’s Hagrid up to?” said Hermione.
When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper’s hut an hour later, they
were surprised to see that all the curtains were closed. Hagrid called “Who is
it?” before he let them in, and then shut the door quickly behind them.
It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a warm day, there was a
blazing fire in the grate. Hagrid made them tea and offered them stoat
sandwiches, which they refused.
“So — yeh wanted to ask me somethin’?”
“Yes,” said Harry. There was no point beating around the bush. “We were
wondering if you could tell us what’s guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone apart
from Fluffy.”
Hagrid frowned at him.
“O’ course I can’t,” he said. “Number one, I don’ know meself. Number
two, yeh know too much already, so I wouldn’ tell yeh if I could. That Stone’s
here fer a good reason. It was almost stolen outta Gringotts — I s’ppose
yeh’ve worked that out an’ all? Beats me how yeh even know abou’ Fluffy.”
“Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, but you do know, you
know everything that goes on round here,” said Hermione in a warm,
flattering voice. Hagrid’s beard twitched and they could tell he was smiling.
“We only wondered who had done the guarding, really.” Hermione went on.
“We wondered who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him, apart from
you.”
Hagrid’s chest swelled at these last words. Harry and Ron beamed at
Hermione.
“Well, I don’ s’pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that . . . let’s see . . . he
borrowed Fluffy from me . . . then some o’ the teachers did enchantments . . .
Professor Sprout — Professor Flitwick — Professor McGonagall —” he
ticked them off on his fingers, “Professor Quirrell — an’ Dumbledore himself
did somethin’, o’ course. Hang on, I’ve forgotten someone. Oh yeah,
Professor Snape.”
“Snape?”
“Yeah — yer not still on abou’ that, are yeh? Look, Snape helped protect
the Stone, he’s not about ter steal it.”
Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the same as he was. If Snape
had been in on protecting the Stone, it must have been easy to find out how
the other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew everything — except, it
seemed, Quirrell’s spell and how to get past Fluffy.
“You’re the only one who knows how to get past Fluffy, aren’t you,
Hagrid?” said Harry anxiously. “And you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?
Not even one of the teachers?”
“Not a soul knows except me an’ Dumbledore,” said Hagrid proudly.
“Well, that’s something,” Harry muttered to the others. “Hagrid, can we
have a window open? I’m boiling.”
“Can’t, Harry, sorry,” said Hagrid. Harry noticed him glance at the fire.
Harry looked at it, too.
“Hagrid — what’s that?”
But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of the fire, underneath
the kettle, was a huge, black egg.
“Ah,” said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, “That’s — er . . .”
“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” said Ron, crouching over the fire to get a
closer look at the egg. “It must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Won it,” said Hagrid. “Las’ night. I was down in the village havin’ a few
drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter
get rid of it, ter be honest.”
“But what are you going to do with it when it’s hatched?” said Hermione.
“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling a large book from
under his pillow. “Got this outta the library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure
and Profit — it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. Keep the egg in
the fire, ’cause their mothers breathe on ’em, see, an’ when it hatches, feed it
on a bucket o’ brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An’ see here
— how ter recognize diff’rent eggs — what I got there’s a Norwegian
Ridgeback. They’re rare, them.”
He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn’t.
“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,” she said.
But Hagrid wasn’t listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked the fire.
So now they had something else to worry about: what might happen to Hagrid
if anyone found out he was hiding an illegal dragon in his hut.
“Wonder what it’s like to have a peaceful life,” Ron sighed, as evening
after evening they struggled through all the extra homework they were
getting. Hermione had now started making study schedules for Harry and
Ron, too. It was driving them nuts.
Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry another note from Hagrid.
He had written only two words: It’s hatching.
Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to the hut. Hermione
wouldn’t hear of it.
“Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon
hatching?”
“We’ve got lessons, we’ll get into trouble, and that’s nothing to what
Hagrid’s going to be in when someone finds out what he’s doing —”
“Shut up!” Harry whispered.
Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped dead to listen. How
much had he heard? Harry didn’t like the look on Malfoy’s face at all.
Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology and in the end,
Hermione agreed to run down to Hagrid’s with the other two during morning
break. When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of their lesson, the
three of them dropped their trowels at once and hurried through the grounds
to the edge of the forest. Hagrid greeted them, looking flushed and excited.
“It’s nearly out.” He ushered them inside.
The egg was lying on the table. There were deep cracks in it. Something
was moving inside; a funny clicking noise was coming from it.
They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched with bated breath.
All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split open. The baby
dragon flopped onto the table. It wasn’t exactly pretty; Harry thought it
looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge compared
to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns
and bulging, orange eyes.
It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid murmured. He reached out a hand to stroke the
dragon’s head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs.
“Bless him, look, he knows his mummy!” said Hagrid.
“Hagrid,” said Hermione, “how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow,
exactly?”
Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly drained from his face
— he leapt to his feet and ran to the window.
“What’s the matter?”
“Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains — it’s a kid — he’s
runnin’ back up ter the school.”
Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a distance there was no
mistaking him.
Malfoy had seen the dragon.
Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy’s face during the next week
made Harry, Ron, and Hermione very nervous. They spent most of their free
time in Hagrid’s darkened hut, trying to reason with him.
“Just let him go,” Harry urged. “Set him free.”
“I can’t,” said Hagrid. “He’s too little. He’d die.”
They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times in length in just a
week. Smoke kept furling out of its nostrils. Hagrid hadn’t been doing his
gamekeeping duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy. There were
empty brandy bottles and chicken feathers all over the floor.
“I’ve decided to call him Norbert,” said Hagrid, looking at the dragon with
misty eyes. “He really knows me now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where’s
Mummy?”
“He’s lost his marbles,” Ron muttered in Harry’s ear.
“Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, “give it two weeks and Norbert’s going to be
as long as your house. Malfoy could go to Dumbledore at any moment.”
Hagrid bit his lip.
“I — I know I can’t keep him forever, but I can’t jus’ dump him, I can’t.”
Harry suddenly turned to Ron.
“Charlie,” he said.
“You’re losing it, too,” said Ron. “I’m Ron, remember?”
“No — Charlie — your brother, Charlie. In Romania. Studying dragons.
We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of him and then put him
back in the wild!”
“Brilliant!” said Ron. “How about it, Hagrid?”
And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send an owl to Charlie to ask
him.
The following week dragged by. Wednesday night found Hermione and Harry
sitting alone in the common room, long after everyone else had gone to bed.
The clock on the wall had just chimed midnight when the portrait hole burst
open. Ron appeared out of nowhere as he pulled off Harry’s Invisibility
Cloak. He had been down at Hagrid’s hut, helping him feed Norbert, who was
now eating dead rats by the crate.
“It bit me!” he said, showing them his hand, which was wrapped in a
bloody handkerchief. “I’m not going to be able to hold a quill for a week. I
tell you, that dragon’s the most horrible animal I’ve ever met, but the way
Hagrid goes on about it, you’d think it was a fluffy little bunny rabbit. When
it bit me he told me off for frightening it. And when I left, he was singing it a
lullaby.”
There was a tap on the dark window.
“It’s Hedwig!” said Harry, hurrying to let her in. “She’ll have Charlie’s
answer!”
The three of them put their heads together to read the note.
Dear Ron,
How are you? Thanks for the letter — I’d be glad to take the
Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won’t be easy getting him here. I think
the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine
who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn’t be
seen carrying an illegal dragon.
Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight on
Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it’s
still dark.
Send me an answer as soon as possible.
Love,
Charlie
They looked at one another.
“We’ve got the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It shouldn’t be too difficult
— I think the cloak’s big enough to cover two of us and Norbert.”
It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that the other two agreed
with him. Anything to get rid of Norbert — and Malfoy.
There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron’s bitten hand had swollen to
twice its usual size. He didn’t know whether it was safe to go to Madam
Pomfrey — would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, though, he
had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty shade of green. It looked as if
Norbert’s fangs were poisonous.
Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing at the end of the day to
find Ron in a terrible state in bed.
“It’s not just my hand,” he whispered, “although that feels like it’s about to
fall off. Malfoy told Madam Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of my books
so he could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept threatening to tell her
what really bit me — I’ve told her it was a dog, but I don’t think she believes
me — I shouldn’t have hit him at the Quidditch match, that’s why he’s doing
this.”
Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down.
“It’ll all be over at midnight on Saturday,” said Hermione, but this didn’t
soothe Ron at all. On the contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke into a sweat.
“Midnight on Saturday!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Oh no — oh no — I’ve
just remembered — Charlie’s letter was in that book Malfoy took, he’s going
to know we’re getting rid of Norbert.”
Harry and Hermione didn’t get a chance to answer. Madam Pomfrey came
over at that moment and made them leave, saying Ron needed sleep.
“It’s too late to change the plan now,” Harry told Hermione. “We haven’t got
time to send Charlie another owl, and this could be our only chance to get rid
of Norbert. We’ll have to risk it. And we have got the Invisibility Cloak,
Malfoy doesn’t know about that.”
They found Fang the boarhound sitting outside with a bandaged tail when
they went to tell Hagrid, who opened a window to talk to them.
“I won’t let you in,” he puffed. “Norbert’s at a tricky stage — nothin’ I
can’t handle.”
When they told him about Charlie’s letter, his eyes filled with tears,
although that might have been because Norbert had just bitten him on the leg.
“Aargh! It’s all right, he only got my boot — jus’ playin’— he’s only a
baby, after all.”
The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the windows rattle. Harry and
Hermione walked back to the castle feeling Saturday couldn’t come quickly
enough.
They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say
good-bye to Norbert if they hadn’t been so worried about what they had to do.
It was a very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late arriving at Hagrid’s
hut because they’d had to wait for Peeves to get out of their way in the
entrance hall, where he’d been playing tennis against the wall.
Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate.
“He’s got lots o’ rats an’ some brandy fer the journey,” said Hagrid in a
muffled voice. “An’ I’ve packed his teddy bear in case he gets lonely.”
From inside the crate came ripping noises that sounded to Harry as though
the teddy was having his head torn off.
“Bye-bye, Norbert!” Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and Hermione covered the
crate with the Invisibility Cloak and stepped underneath it themselves.
“Mummy will never forget you!”
How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle, they never knew.
Midnight ticked nearer as they heaved Norbert up the marble staircase in the
entrance hall and along the dark corridors. Up another staircase, then another
— even one of Harry’s shortcuts didn’t make the work much easier.
“Nearly there!” Harry panted as they reached the corridor beneath the
tallest tower.
Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them almost drop the crate.
Forgetting that they were already invisible, they shrank into the shadows,
staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling with each other ten feet
away. A lamp flared.
Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, had Malfoy by
the ear.
“Detention!” she shouted. “And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering
around in the middle of the night, how dare you —”
“You don’t understand, Professor. Harry Potter’s coming — he’s got a
dragon!”
“What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on — I shall see
Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!”
The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower seemed the easiest thing
in the world after that. Not until they’d stepped out into the cold night air did
they throw off the Cloak, glad to be able to breathe properly again. Hermione
did a sort of jig.
“Malfoy’s got detention! I could sing!”
“Don’t,” Harry advised her.
Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert thrashing about in his crate.
About ten minutes later, four broomsticks came swooping down out of the
darkness.
Charlie’s friends were a cheery lot. They showed Harry and Hermione the
harness they’d rigged up, so they could suspend Norbert between them. They
all helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry and Hermione shook
hands with the others and thanked them very much.
At last, Norbert was going . . . going . . . gone.
They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their hearts as light as their
hands, now that Norbert was off them. No more dragon — Malfoy in
detention — what could spoil their happiness?
The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the stairs. As they stepped
into the corridor, Filch’s face loomed suddenly out of the darkness.
“Well, well, well,” he whispered, “we are in trouble.”
They’d left the Invisibility Cloak on top of the tower.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE FORBIDDEN FOREST
T
hings couldn’t have been worse.
Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall’s study on the first
floor, where they sat and waited without saying a word to each other.
Hermione was trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover-up stories chased
each other around Harry’s brain, each more feeble than the last. He couldn’t
see how they were going to get out of trouble this time. They were cornered.
How could they have been so stupid as to forget the Cloak? There was no
reason on earth that Professor McGonagall would accept for their being out of
bed and creeping around the school in the dead of night, let alone being up the
tallest Astronomy Tower, which was out-of-bounds except for classes. Add
Norbert and the Invisibility Cloak, and they might as well be packing their
bags already.
Had Harry thought that things couldn’t have been worse? He was wrong.
When Professor McGonagall appeared, she was leading Neville.
“Harry!” Neville burst out, the moment he saw the other two. “I was trying
to find you to warn you, I heard Malfoy saying he was going to catch you, he
said you had a drag —”
Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but Professor
McGonagall had seen. She looked more likely to breathe fire than Norbert as
she towered over the three of them.
“I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch says you were up
in the Astronomy Tower. It’s one o’clock in the morning. Explain
yourselves.”
It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to answer a teacher’s
question. She was staring at her slippers, as still as a statue.
“I think I’ve got a good idea of what’s been going on,” said Professor
McGonagall. “It doesn’t take a genius to work it out. You fed Draco Malfoy
some cock-and-bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of bed and into
trouble. I’ve already caught him. I suppose you think it’s funny that
Longbottom here heard the story and believed it, too?”
Harry caught Neville’s eye and tried to tell him without words that this
wasn’t true, because Neville was looking stunned and hurt. Poor, blundering
Neville — Harry knew what it must have cost him to try and find them in the
dark, to warn them.
“I’m disgusted,” said Professor McGonagall. “Four students out of bed in
one night! I’ve never heard of such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I
thought you had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter, I thought Gryffindor
meant more to you than this. All three of you will receive detentions — yes,
you too, Mr. Longbottom, nothing gives you the right to walk around school
at night, especially these days, it’s very dangerous — and fifty points will be
taken from Gryffindor.”
“Fifty?” Harry gasped — they would lose the lead, the lead he’d won in
the last Quidditch match.
“Fifty points each,” said Professor McGonagall, breathing heavily through
her long, pointed nose.
“Professor — please —”
“You can’t —”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Potter. Now get back to bed, all of
you. I’ve never been more ashamed of Gryffindor students.”
A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in last place. In one
night, they’d ruined any chance Gryffindor had had for the House Cup. Harry
felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. How could they
ever make up for this?
Harry didn’t sleep all night. He could hear Neville sobbing into his pillow
for what seemed like hours. Harry couldn’t think of anything to say to
comfort him. He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the dawn. What
would happen when the rest of Gryffindor found out what they’d done?
At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses that recorded the House
points the next day thought there’d been a mistake. How could they suddenly
have a hundred and fifty points fewer than yesterday? And then the story
started to spread: Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter, their hero of two
Quidditch matches, had lost them all those points, him and a couple of other
stupid first years.
From being one of the most popular and admired people at the school,
Harry was suddenly the most hated. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned
on him, because everyone had been longing to see Slytherin lose the House
Cup. Everywhere Harry went, people pointed and didn’t trouble to lower their
voices as they insulted him. Slytherins, on the other hand, clapped as he
walked past them, whistling and cheering, “Thanks Potter, we owe you one!”
Only Ron stood by him.
“They’ll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George have lost loads of
points in all the time they’ve been here, and people still like them.”
“They’ve never lost a hundred and fifty points in one go, though, have
they?” said Harry miserably.
“Well — no,” Ron admitted.
It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry swore to himself not to
meddle in things that weren’t his business from now on. He’d had it with
sneaking around and spying. He felt so ashamed of himself that he went to
Wood and offered to resign from the Quidditch team.
“Resign?” Wood thundered. “What good’ll that do? How are we going to
get any points back if we can’t win at Quidditch?”
But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the team wouldn’t speak to
Harry during practice, and if they had to speak about him, they called him
“the Seeker.”
Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn’t have as bad a time
as Harry, because they weren’t as well-known, but nobody would speak to
them, either. Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself in class,
keeping her head down and working in silence.
Harry was almost glad that the exams weren’t far away. All the studying he
had to do kept his mind off his misery. He, Ron, and Hermione kept to
themselves, working late into the night, trying to remember the ingredients in
complicated potions, learn charms and spells by heart, memorize the dates of
magical discoveries and goblin rebellions. . . .
Then, about a week before the exams were due to start, Harry’s new
resolution not to interfere in anything that didn’t concern him was put to an
unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his own one afternoon, he
heard somebody whimpering from a classroom up ahead. As he drew closer,
he heard Quirrell’s voice.
“No — no — not again, please —”
It sounded as though someone was threatening him. Harry moved closer.
“All right — all right —” he heard Quirrell sob.
Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the classroom straightening his
turban. He was pale and looked as though he was about to cry. He strode out
of sight; Harry didn’t think Quirrell had even noticed him. He waited until
Quirrell’s footsteps had disappeared, then peered into the classroom. It was
empty, but a door stood ajar at the other end. Harry was halfway toward it
before he remembered what he’d promised himself about not meddling.
All the same, he’d have gambled twelve Sorcerer’s Stones that Snape had
just left the room, and from what Harry had just heard, Snape would be
walking with a new spring in his step — Quirrell seemed to have given in at
last.
Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was testing Ron on
Astronomy. Harry told them what he’d heard.
“Snape’s done it, then!” said Ron. “If Quirrell’s told him how to break his
Anti-Dark Force spell —”
“There’s still Fluffy, though,” said Hermione.
“Maybe Snape’s found out how to get past him without asking Hagrid,”
said Ron, looking up at the thousands of books surrounding them. “I bet
there’s a book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a giant threeheaded dog. So what do we do, Harry?”
The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron’s eyes, but Hermione
answered before Harry could.
“Go to Dumbledore. That’s what we should have done ages ago. If we try
anything ourselves we’ll be thrown out for sure.”
“But we’ve got no proof!” said Harry. “Quirrell’s too scared to back us up.
Snape’s only got to say he doesn’t know how the troll got in at Halloween and
that he was nowhere near the third floor — who do you think they’ll believe,
him or us? It’s not exactly a secret we hate him, Dumbledore’ll think we made
it up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn’t help us if his life depended on it, he’s
too friendly with Snape, and the more students get thrown out, the better, he’ll
think. And don’t forget, we’re not supposed to know about the Stone or
Fluffy. That’ll take a lot of explaining.”
Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn’t.
“If we just do a bit of poking around —”
“No,” said Harry flatly, “we’ve done enough poking around.”
He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to learn the names of its
moons.
The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry, Hermione, and Neville
at the breakfast table. They were all the same:
Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock tonight.
Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.
Harry had forgotten they still had detentions to do in the furor over the points
they’d lost. He half expected Hermione to complain that this was a whole
night of studying lost, but she didn’t say a word. Like Harry, she felt they
deserved what they’d got.
At eleven o’clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron in the common
room and went down to the entrance hall with Neville. Filch was already
there — and so was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten that Malfoy had gotten
a detention, too.
“Follow me,” said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside.
“I bet you’ll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won’t you,
eh?” he said, leering at them. “Oh yes . . . hard work and pain are the best
teachers if you ask me. . . . It’s just a pity they let the old punishments die
out . . . hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I’ve got the
chains still in my office, keep ’em well oiled in case they’re ever needed. . . .
Right, off we go, and don’t think of running off, now, it’ll be worse for you if
you do.”
They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville kept sniffing. Harry
wondered what their punishment was going to be. It must be something really
horrible, or Filch wouldn’t be sounding so delighted.
The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it kept throwing them
into darkness. Ahead, Harry could see the lighted windows of Hagrid’s hut.
Then they heard a distant shout.
“Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.”
Harry’s heart rose; if they were going to be working with Hagrid it
wouldn’t be so bad. His relief must have showed in his face, because Filch
said, “I suppose you think you’ll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well,
think again, boy — it’s into the forest you’re going and I’m much mistaken if
you’ll all come out in one piece.”
At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks.
“The forest?” he repeated, and he didn’t sound quite as cool as usual. “We
can’t go in there at night — there’s all sorts of things in there — werewolves,
I heard.”
Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry’s robe and made a choking noise.
“That’s your problem, isn’t it?” said Filch, his voice cracking with glee.
“Should’ve thought of them werewolves before you got in trouble, shouldn’t
you?”
Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark, Fang at his heel. He was
carrying his large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder.
“Abou’ time,” he said. “I bin waitin’ fer half an hour already. All right,
Harry, Hermione?”
“I shouldn’t be too friendly to them, Hagrid,” said Filch coldly, “they’re
here to be punished, after all.”
“That’s why yer late, is it?” said Hagrid, frowning at Filch. “Bin lecturin’
them, eh? ’Snot your place ter do that. Yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take over from
here.”
“I’ll be back at dawn,” said Filch, “for what’s left of them,” he added
nastily, and he turned and started back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing
away in the darkness.
Malfoy now turned to Hagrid.
“I’m not going in that forest,” he said, and Harry was pleased to hear the
note of panic in his voice.
“Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” said Hagrid fiercely. “Yeh’ve
done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got ter pay fer it.”
“But this is servant stuff, it’s not for students to do. I thought we’d be
copying lines or something, if my father knew I was doing this, he’d —”
“— tell yer that’s how it is at Hogwarts,” Hagrid growled. “Copyin’ lines!
What good’s that ter anyone? Yeh’ll do summat useful or yeh’ll get out. If yeh
think yer father’d rather you were expelled, then get back off ter the castle an’
pack. Go on!”
Malfoy didn’t move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but then dropped his
gaze.
“Right then,” said Hagrid, “now, listen carefully, ’cause it’s dangerous what
we’re gonna do tonight, an’ I don’ want no one takin’ risks. Follow me over
here a moment.”
He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his lamp up high, he
pointed down a narrow, winding earth track that disappeared into the thick
black trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked into the forest.
“Look there,” said Hagrid, “see that stuff shinin’ on the ground? Silvery
stuff? That’s unicorn blood. There’s a unicorn in there bin hurt badly by
summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead last Wednesday.
We’re gonna try an’ find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its
misery.”
“And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?” said Malfoy, unable
to keep the fear out of his voice.
“There’s nothin’ that lives in the forest that’ll hurt yeh if yer with me or
Fang,” said Hagrid. “An’ keep ter the path. Right, now, we’re gonna split inter
two parties an’ follow the trail in diff’rent directions. There’s blood all over
the place, it must’ve bin staggerin’ around since last night at least.”
“I want Fang,” said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang’s long teeth.
“All right, but I warn yeh, he’s a coward,” said Hagrid. “So me, Harry, an’
Hermione’ll go one way an’ Draco, Neville, an’ Fang’ll go the other. Now, if
any of us finds the unicorn, we’ll send up green sparks, right? Get yer wands
out an’ practice now — that’s it — an’ if anyone gets in trouble, send up red
sparks, an’ we’ll all come an’ find yeh — so, be careful — let’s go.”
The forest was black and silent. A little way into it they reached a fork in
the earth path, and Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid took the left path while
Malfoy, Neville, and Fang took the right.
They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground. Every now and then a ray
of moonlight through the branches above lit a spot of silver-blue blood on the
fallen leaves.
Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried.
“Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?” Harry asked.
“Not fast enough,” said Hagrid. “It’s not easy ter catch a unicorn, they’re
powerful magic creatures. I never knew one ter be hurt before.”
They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could hear running water;
there must be a stream somewhere close by. There were still spots of unicorn
blood here and there along the winding path.
“You all right, Hermione?” Hagrid whispered. “Don’ worry, it can’t’ve
gone far if it’s this badly hurt, an’ then we’ll be able ter — GET BEHIND
THAT TREE!”
Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them off the path behind a
towering oak. He pulled out an arrow and fitted it into his crossbow, raising it,
ready to fire. The three of them listened. Something was slithering over dead
leaves nearby: it sounded like a cloak trailing along the ground. Hagrid was
squinting up the dark path, but after a few seconds, the sound faded away.
“I knew it,” he murmured. “There’s summat in here that shouldn’ be.”
“A werewolf?” Harry suggested.
“That wasn’ no werewolf an’ it wasn’ no unicorn, neither,” said Hagrid
grimly. “Right, follow me, but careful, now.”
They walked more slowly, ears straining for the faintest sound. Suddenly,
in a clearing ahead, something definitely moved.
“Who’s there?” Hagrid called. “Show yerself — I’m armed!”
And into the clearing came — was it a man, or a horse? To the waist, a
man, with red hair and beard, but below that was a horse’s gleaming chestnut
body with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione’s jaws dropped.
“Oh, it’s you, Ronan,” said Hagrid in relief. “How are yeh?”
He walked forward and shook the centaur’s hand.
“Good evening to you, Hagrid,” said Ronan. He had a deep, sorrowful
voice. “Were you going to shoot me?”
“Can’t be too careful, Ronan,” said Hagrid, patting his crossbow. “There’s
summat bad loose in this forest. This is Harry Potter an’ Hermione Granger,
by the way. Students up at the school. An’ this is Ronan, you two. He’s a
centaur.”
“We’d noticed,” said Hermione faintly.
“Good evening,” said Ronan. “Students, are you? And do you learn much,
up at the school?”
“Erm —”
“A bit,” said Hermione timidly.
“A bit. Well, that’s something.” Ronan sighed. He flung back his head and
stared at the sky. “Mars is bright tonight.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, glancing up, too. “Listen, I’m glad we’ve run inter
yeh, Ronan, ’cause there’s a unicorn bin hurt — you seen anythin’?”
Ronan didn’t answer immediately. He stared unblinkingly upward, then
sighed again.
“Always the innocent are the first victims,” he said. “So it has been for
ages past, so it is now.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “but have yeh seen anythin’, Ronan? Anythin’
unusual?”
“Mars is bright tonight,” Ronan repeated, while Hagrid watched him
impatiently. “Unusually bright.”
“Yeah, but I was meanin’ anythin’ unusual a bit nearer home,” said Hagrid.
“So yeh haven’t noticed anythin’ strange?”
Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he said, “The forest hides
many secrets.”
A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid raise his bow again,
but it was only a second centaur, black-haired and -bodied and wilder-looking
than Ronan.
“Hullo, Bane,” said Hagrid. “All right?”
“Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?”
“Well enough. Look, I’ve jus’ bin askin’ Ronan, you seen anythin’ odd in
here lately? There’s a unicorn bin injured — would yeh know anythin’ about
it?”
Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked skyward.
“Mars is bright tonight,” he said simply.
“We’ve heard,” said Hagrid grumpily. “Well, if either of you do see
anythin’, let me know, won’t yeh? We’ll be off, then.”
Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing, staring over their
shoulders at Ronan and Bane until the trees blocked their view.
“Never,” said Hagrid irritably, “try an’ get a straight answer out of a
centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not interested in anythin’ closer’n the moon.”
“Are there many of them in here?” asked Hermione.
“Oh, a fair few. . . . Keep themselves to themselves mostly, but they’re
good enough about turnin’ up if ever I want a word. They’re deep, mind,
centaurs . . . they know things . . . jus’ don’ let on much.”
“D’you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?” said Harry.
“Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask me, that was what’s bin
killin’ the unicorns — never heard anythin’ like it before.”
They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry kept looking
nervously over his shoulder. He had the nasty feeling they were being
watched. He was very glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow with them.
They had just passed a bend in the path when Hermione grabbed Hagrid’s
arm.
“Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!”
“You two wait here!” Hagrid shouted. “Stay on the path, I’ll come back for
yeh!”
They heard him crashing away through the undergrowth and stood looking
at each other, very scared, until they couldn’t hear anything but the rustling of
leaves around them.
“You don’t think they’ve been hurt, do you?” whispered Hermione.
“I don’t care if Malfoy has, but if something’s got Neville . . . it’s our fault
he’s here in the first place.”
The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper than usual. Harry’s
seemed to be picking up every sigh of the wind, every cracking twig. What
was going on? Where were the others?
At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid’s return. Malfoy,
Neville, and Fang were with him. Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed, had
sneaked up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville had panicked
and sent up the sparks.
“We’ll be lucky ter catch anythin’ now, with the racket you two were
makin’. Right, we’re changin’ groups — Neville, you stay with me an’
Hermione, Harry, you go with Fang an’ this idiot. I’m sorry,” Hagrid added in
a whisper to Harry, “but he’ll have a harder time frightenin’ you, an’ we’ve
gotta get this done.”
So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with Malfoy and Fang. They
walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the
path became almost impossible to follow because the trees were so thick.
Harry thought the blood seemed to be getting thicker. There were splashes on
the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing around in
pain close by. Harry could see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches
of an ancient oak.
“Look —” he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy.
Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer.
It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry had never seen anything
so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where
it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on the dark leaves.
Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound made him
freeze where he stood. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered. . . . Then,
out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the ground like
some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked
figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the animal’s
side, and began to drink its blood.
“AAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted — so did Fang. The hooded
figure raised its head and looked right at Harry — unicorn blood was
dribbling down its front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward Harry — he
couldn’t move for fear.
Then a pain like he’d never felt before pierced his head; it was as though
his scar were on fire. Half blinded, he staggered backward. He heard hooves
behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean over Harry, charging at
the figure.
The pain in Harry’s head was so bad he fell to his knees. It took a minute or
two to pass. When he looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur was standing
over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one looked younger; he had white-blond
hair and a palomino body.
“Are you all right?” said the centaur, pulling Harry to his feet.
“Yes — thank you — what was that?”
The centaur didn’t answer. He had astonishingly blue eyes, like pale
sapphires. He looked carefully at Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar that
stood out, livid, on Harry’s forehead.
“You are the Potter boy,” he said. “You had better get back to Hagrid. The
forest is not safe at this time — especially for you. Can you ride? It will be
quicker this way.
“My name is Firenze,” he added, as he lowered himself on to his front legs
so that Harry could clamber onto his back.
There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from the other side of the
clearing. Ronan and Bane came bursting through the trees, their flanks
heaving and sweaty.
“Firenze!” Bane thundered. “What are you doing? You have a human on
your back! Have you no shame? Are you a common mule?”
“Do you realize who this is?” said Firenze. “This is the Potter boy. The
quicker he leaves this forest, the better.”
“What have you been telling him?” growled Bane. “Remember, Firenze,
we are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read what
is to come in the movements of the planets?”
Ronan pawed the ground nervously. “I’m sure Firenze thought he was
acting for the best,” he said in his gloomy voice.
Bane kicked his back legs in anger.
“For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with what
has been foretold! It is not our business to run around like donkeys after stray
humans in our forest!”
Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger, so that Harry had to
grab his shoulders to stay on.
“Do you not see that unicorn?” Firenze bellowed at Bane. “Do you not
understand why it was killed? Or have the planets not let you in on that
secret? I set myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, yes, with
humans alongside me if I must.”
And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on as best he could,
they plunged off into the trees, leaving Ronan and Bane behind them.
Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on.
“Why’s Bane so angry?” he asked. “What was that thing you saved me
from, anyway?”
Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his head bowed in case of
low-hanging branches, but did not answer Harry’s question. They made their
way through the trees in silence for so long that Harry thought Firenze didn’t
want to talk to him anymore. They were passing through a particularly dense
patch of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly stopped.
“Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?”
“No,” said Harry, startled by the odd question. “We’ve only used the horn
and tail hair in Potions.”
“That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn,” said Firenze.
“Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would commit
such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an
inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and
defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life,
from the moment the blood touches your lips.”
Harry stared at the back of Firenze’s head, which was dappled silver in the
moonlight.
“But who’d be that desperate?” he wondered aloud. “If you’re going to be
cursed forever, death’s better, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Firenze agreed, “unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to
drink something else — something that will bring you back to full strength
and power — something that will mean you can never die. Mr. Potter, do you
know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?”
“The Sorcerer’s Stone! Of course — the Elixir of Life! But I don’t
understand who —”
“Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power,
who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?”
It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly around Harry’s heart.
Over the rustling of the trees, he seemed to hear once more what Hagrid had
told him on the night they had met: “Some say he died. Codswallop, in my
opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die.”
“Do you mean,” Harry croaked, “that was Vol —”
“Harry! Harry, are you all right?”
Hermione was running toward them down the path, Hagrid puffing along
behind her.
“I’m fine,” said Harry, hardly knowing what he was saying. “The unicorn’s
dead, Hagrid, it’s in that clearing back there.”
“This is where I leave you,” Firenze murmured as Hagrid hurried off to
examine the unicorn. “You are safe now.”
Harry slid off his back.
“Good luck, Harry Potter,” said Firenze. “The planets have been read
wrongly before now, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of those times.”
He turned and cantered back into the depths of the forest, leaving Harry
shivering behind him.
Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room, waiting for them to return.
He shouted something about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly shook him
awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide-eyed as Harry began to
tell him and Hermione what had happened in the forest.
Harry couldn’t sit down. He paced up and down in front of the fire. He was
still shaking.
“Snape wants the Stone for Voldemort . . . and Voldemort’s waiting in the
forest . . . and all this time we thought Snape just wanted to get rich. . . .”
“Stop saying the name!” said Ron in a terrified whisper, as if he thought
Voldemort could hear them.
Harry wasn’t listening.
“Firenze saved me, but he shouldn’t have done so. . . . Bane was furious . . .
he was talking about interfering with what the planets say is going to
happen. . . . They must show that Voldemort’s coming back. . . . Bane thinks
Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me. . . . I suppose that’s written in the
stars as well.”
“Will you stop saying the name!” Ron hissed.
“So all I’ve got to wait for now is Snape to steal the Stone,” Harry went on
feverishly, “then Voldemort will be able to come and finish me off. . . . Well, I
suppose Bane’ll be happy.”
Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word of comfort.
“Harry, everyone says Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was
ever afraid of. With Dumbledore around, You-Know-Who won’t touch you.
Anyway, who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like fortune-telling to me,
and Professor McGonagall says that’s a very imprecise branch of magic.”
The sky had turned light before they stopped talking. They went to bed
exhausted, their throats sore. But the night’s surprises weren’t over.
When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his Invisibility Cloak folded
neatly underneath them. There was a note pinned to it:
Just in case.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR
I
n years to come, Harry would never quite remember how he had managed
to get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to come
bursting through the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and there
could be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and well behind the locked door.
It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where they did their
written papers. They had been given special, new quills for the exams, which
had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell.
They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick called them one by
one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tap-dance across a
desk. Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox —
points were given for how pretty the snuffbox was, but taken away if it had
whiskers. Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their necks while
they tried to remember how to make a Forgetfulness potion.
Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his
forehead, which had been bothering him ever since his trip into the forest.
Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves because Harry couldn’t
sleep, but the truth was that Harry kept being woken by his old nightmare,
except that it was now worse than ever because there was a hooded figure
dripping blood in it.
Maybe it was because they hadn’t seen what Harry had seen in the forest,
or because they didn’t have scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron and
Hermione didn’t seem as worried about the Stone as Harry. The idea of
Voldemort certainly scared them, but he didn’t keep visiting them in dreams,
and they were so busy with their studying they didn’t have much time to fret
about what Snape or anyone else might be up to.
Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour of answering
questions about batty old wizards who’d invented self-stirring cauldrons and
they’d be free, free for a whole wonderful week until their exam results came
out. When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put down their quills and
roll up their parchment, Harry couldn’t help cheering with the rest.
“That was far easier than I thought it would be,” said Hermione as they
joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. “I needn’t have
learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric
the Eager.”
Hermione always liked to go through their exam papers afterward, but Ron
said this made him feel ill, so they wandered down to the lake and flopped
under a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were tickling the tentacles of
a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows.
“No more studying,” Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. “You
could look more cheerful, Harry, we’ve got a week before we find out how
badly we’ve done, there’s no need to worry yet.”
Harry was rubbing his forehead.
“I wish I knew what this means!” he burst out angrily. “My scar keeps
hurting — it’s happened before, but never as often as this.”
“Go to Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione suggested.
“I’m not ill,” said Harry. “I think it’s a warning . . . it means danger’s
coming. . . .”
Ron couldn’t get worked up, it was too hot.
“Harry, relax, Hermione’s right, the Stone’s safe as long as Dumbledore’s
around. Anyway, we’ve never had any proof Snape found out how to get past
Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he’s not going to try it again in a
hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch for England before Hagrid lets
Dumbledore down.”
Harry nodded, but he couldn’t shake off a lurking feeling that there was
something he’d forgotten to do, something important. When he tried to
explain this, Hermione said, “That’s just the exams. I woke up last night and
was halfway through my Transfiguration notes before I remembered we’d
done that one.”
Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn’t have anything to do with
work, though. He watched an owl flutter toward the school across the bright
blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one who ever sent
him letters. Hagrid would never betray Dumbledore. Hagrid would never tell
anyone how to get past Fluffy . . . never . . . but —
Harry suddenly jumped to his feet.
“Where’re you going?” said Ron sleepily.
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Harry. He had turned white. “We’ve
got to go and see Hagrid, now.”
“Why?” panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit odd,” said Harry, scrambling up the grassy slope,
“that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a stranger
turns up who just happens to have an egg in his pocket? How many people
wander around with dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they found
Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it before?”
“What are you talking about?” said Ron, but Harry, sprinting across the
grounds toward the forest, didn’t answer.
Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house; his trousers and
sleeves were rolled up, and he was shelling peas into a large bowl.
“Hullo,” he said, smiling. “Finished yer exams? Got time fer a drink?”
“Yes, please,” said Ron, but Harry cut him off.
“No, we’re in a hurry. Hagrid, I’ve got to ask you something. You know
that night you won Norbert? What did the stranger you were playing cards
with look like?”
“Dunno,” said Hagrid casually, “he wouldn’ take his cloak off.”
He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his eyebrows.
“It’s not that unusual, yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in the Hog’s Head —
that’s one o’ the pubs down in the village. Mighta bin a dragon dealer,
mightn’ he? I never saw his face, he kept his hood up.”
Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas.
“What did you talk to him about, Hagrid? Did you mention Hogwarts at
all?”
“Mighta come up,” said Hagrid, frowning as he tried to remember.
“Yeah . . . he asked what I did, an’ I told him I was gamekeeper here. . . . He
asked a bit about the sorta creatures I look after . . . so I told him . . . an’ I said
what I’d always really wanted was a dragon . . . an’ then . . . I can’ remember
too well, ’cause he kept buyin’ me drinks. . . . Let’s see . . . yeah, then he said
he had the dragon egg an’ we could play cards fer it if I wanted . . . but he had
ter be sure I could handle it, he didn’ want it ter go ter any old home. . . . So I
told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy. . . .”
“And did he — did he seem interested in Fluffy?” Harry asked, trying to
keep his voice calm.
“Well — yeah — how many three-headed dogs d’yeh meet, even around
Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy’s a piece o’ cake if yeh know how to calm
him down, jus’ play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter sleep —”
Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.
“I shouldn’ta told yeh that!” he blurted out. “Forget I said it! Hey —
where’re yeh goin’?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t speak to each other at all until they came
to a halt in the entrance hall, which seemed very cold and gloomy after the
grounds.
“We’ve got to go to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Hagrid told that stranger
how to get past Fluffy, and it was either Snape or Voldemort under that cloak
— it must’ve been easy, once he’d got Hagrid drunk. I just hope Dumbledore
believes us. Firenze might back us up if Bane doesn’t stop him. Where’s
Dumbledore’s office?”
They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign pointing them in the right
direction. They had never been told where Dumbledore lived, nor did they
know anyone who had been sent to see him.
“We’ll just have to —” Harry began, but a voice suddenly rang across the
hall.
“What are you three doing inside?”
It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of books.
“We want to see Professor Dumbledore,” said Hermione, rather bravely,
Harry and Ron thought.
“See Professor Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall repeated, as though
this was a very fishy thing to want to do. “Why?”
Harry swallowed — now what?
“It’s sort of secret,” he said, but he wished at once he hadn’t, because
Professor McGonagall’s nostrils flared.
“Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago,” she said coldly. “He received
an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and flew off for London at once.”
“He’s gone?” said Harry frantically. “Now?”
“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter, he has many
demands on his time —”
“But this is important.”
“Something you have to say is more important than the Ministry of Magic,
Potter?”
“Look,” said Harry, throwing caution to the winds, “Professor — it’s about
the Sorcerer’s Stone —”
Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it wasn’t that. The books
she was carrying tumbled out of her arms, but she didn’t pick them up.
“How do you know — ?” she spluttered.
“Professor, I think — I know — that Sn — that someone’s going to try and
steal the Stone. I’ve got to talk to Professor Dumbledore.”
She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
“Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow,” she said finally. “I don’t
know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured, no one can
possibly steal it, it’s too well protected.”
“But Professor —”
“Potter, I know what I’m talking about,” she said shortly. She bent down
and gathered up the fallen books. “I suggest you all go back outside and enjoy
the sunshine.”
But they didn’t.
“It’s tonight,” said Harry, once he was sure Professor McGonagall was out
of earshot. “Snape’s going through the trapdoor tonight. He’s found out
everything he needs, and now he’s got Dumbledore out of the way. He sent
that note, I bet the Ministry of Magic will get a real shock when Dumbledore
turns up.”
“But what can we —”
Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round.
Snape was standing there.
“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly.
They stared at him.
“You shouldn’t be inside on a day like this,” he said, with an odd, twisted
smile.
“We were —” Harry began, without any idea what he was going to say.
“You want to be more careful,” said Snape. “Hanging around like this,
people will think you’re up to something. And Gryffindor really can’t afford
to lose any more points, can it?”
Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape called them back.
“Be warned, Potter — any more nighttime wanderings and I will personally
make sure you are expelled. Good day to you.”
He strode off in the direction of the staffroom.
Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others.
“Right, here’s what we’ve got to do,” he whispered urgently. “One of us
has got to keep an eye on Snape — wait outside the staffroom and follow him
if he leaves it. Hermione, you’d better do that.”
“Why me?”
“It’s obvious,” said Ron. “You can pretend to be waiting for Professor
Flitwick, you know.” He put on a high voice, “‘Oh Professor Flitwick, I’m so
worried, I think I got question fourteen b wrong. . . .’”
“Oh, shut up,” said Hermione, but she agreed to go and watch out for
Snape.
“And we’d better stay outside the third-floor corridor,” Harry told Ron.
“Come on.”
But that part of the plan didn’t work. No sooner had they reached the door
separating Fluffy from the rest of the school than Professor McGonagall
turned up again and this time, she lost her temper.
“I suppose you think you’re harder to get past than a pack of
enchantments!” she stormed. “Enough of this nonsense! If I hear you’ve come
anywhere near here again, I’ll take another fifty points from Gryffindor! Yes,
Weasley, from my own House!”
Harry and Ron went back to the common room. Harry had just said, “At
least Hermione’s on Snape’s tail,” when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung
open and Hermione came in.
“I’m sorry, Harry!” she wailed. “Snape came out and asked me what I was
doing, so I said I was waiting for Flitwick, and Snape went to get him, and
I’ve only just got away, I don’t know where Snape went.”
“Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” Harry said.
The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes were glittering.
“I’m going out of here tonight and I’m going to try and get to the Stone
first.”
“You’re mad!” said Ron.
“You can’t!” said Hermione. “After what McGonagall and Snape have
said? You’ll be expelled!”
“SO WHAT?” Harry shouted. “Don’t you understand? If Snape gets hold
of the Stone, Voldemort’s coming back! Haven’t you heard what it was like
when he was trying to take over? There won’t be any Hogwarts to get
expelled from! He’ll flatten it, or turn it into a school for the Dark Arts!
Losing points doesn’t matter anymore, can’t you see? D’you think he’ll leave
you and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the House Cup? If I get caught
before I can get to the Stone, well, I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys and
wait for Voldemort to find me there, it’s only dying a bit later than I would
have, because I’m never going over to the Dark Side! I’m going through that
trapdoor tonight and nothing you two say is going to stop me! Voldemort
killed my parents, remember?”
He glared at them.
“You’re right, Harry,” said Hermione in a small voice.
“I’ll use the Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry. “It’s just lucky I got it back.”
“But will it cover all three of us?” said Ron.
“All — all three of us?”
“Oh, come off it, you don’t think we’d let you go alone?”
“Of course not,” said Hermione briskly. “How do you think you’d get to
the Stone without us? I’d better go and look through my books, there might be
something useful. . . .”
“But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Hermione grimly. “Flitwick told me in secret
that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his exam. They’re not throwing me
out after that.”
After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in the common room.
Nobody bothered them; none of the Gryffindors had anything to say to Harry
any more, after all. This was the first night he hadn’t been upset by it.
Hermione was skimming through all her notes, hoping to come across one of
the enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry and Ron didn’t talk
much. Both of them were thinking about what they were about to do.
Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed.
“Better get the Cloak,” Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan finally left, stretching
and yawning. Harry ran upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the
Cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas.
He pocketed it to use on Fluffy — he didn’t feel much like singing.
He ran back down to the common room.
“We’d better put the Cloak on here, and make sure it covers all three of us
— if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along on its own —”
“What are you doing?” said a voice from the corner of the room. Neville
appeared from behind an armchair, clutching Trevor the toad, who looked as
though he’d been making another bid for freedom.
“Nothing, Neville, nothing,” said Harry, hurriedly putting the Cloak behind
his back.
Neville stared at their guilty faces.
“You’re going out again,” he said.
“No, no, no,” said Hermione. “No, we’re not. Why don’t you go to bed,
Neville?”
Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. They couldn’t afford to
waste any more time, Snape might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep.
“You can’t go out,” said Neville, “you’ll be caught again. Gryffindor will
be in even more trouble.”
“You don’t understand,” said Harry, “this is important.”
But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do something desperate.
“I won’t let you do it,” he said, hurrying to stand in front of the portrait
hole. “I’ll — I’ll fight you!”
“Neville,” Ron exploded, “get away from that hole and don’t be an idiot
—”
“Don’t you call me an idiot!” said Neville. “I don’t think you should be
breaking any more rules! And you were the one who told me to stand up to
people!”
“Yes, but not to us,” said Ron in exasperation. “Neville, you don’t know
what you’re doing.”
He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the toad, who leapt out
of sight.
“Go on then, try and hit me!” said Neville, raising his fists. “I’m ready!”
Harry turned to Hermione.
“Do something,” he said desperately.
Hermione stepped forward.
“Neville,” she said, “I’m really, really sorry about this.”
She raised her wand.
“Petrificus Totalus!” she cried, pointing it at Neville.
Neville’s arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang together. His whole
body rigid, he swayed where he stood and then fell flat on his face, stiff as a
board.
Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville’s jaws were jammed together so he
couldn’t speak. Only his eyes were moving, looking at them in horror.
“What’ve you done to him?” Harry whispered.
“It’s the full Body-Bind,” said Hermione miserably. “Oh, Neville, I’m so
sorry.”
“We had to, Neville, no time to explain,” said Harry.
“You’ll understand later, Neville,” said Ron as they stepped over him and
pulled on the Invisibility Cloak.
But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn’t feel like a very
good omen. In their nervous state, every statue’s shadow looked like Filch,
every distant breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping down on them.
At the foot of the first set of stairs, they spotted Mrs. Norris skulking near
the top.
“Oh, let’s kick her, just this once,” Ron whispered in Harry’s ear, but Harry
shook his head. As they climbed carefully around her, Mrs. Norris turned her
lamplike eyes on them, but didn’t do anything.
They didn’t meet anyone else until they reached the staircase up to the third
floor. Peeves was bobbing halfway up, loosening the carpet so that people
would trip.
“Who’s there?” he said suddenly as they climbed toward him. He narrowed
his wicked black eyes. “Know you’re there, even if I can’t see you. Are you
ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?”
He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at them.
“Should call Filch, I should, if something’s a-creeping around unseen.”
Harry had a sudden idea.
“Peeves,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the Bloody Baron has his own
reasons for being invisible.”
Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught himself in time and
hovered about a foot off the stairs.
“So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, sir,” he said greasily. “My mistake,
my mistake — I didn’t see you — of course I didn’t, you’re invisible —
forgive old Peevsie his little joke, sir.”
“I have business here, Peeves,” croaked Harry. “Stay away from this place
tonight.”
“I will, sir, I most certainly will,” said Peeves, rising up in the air again.
“Hope your business goes well, Baron, I’ll not bother you.”
And he scooted off.
“Brilliant, Harry!” whispered Ron.
A few seconds later, they were there, outside the third-floor corridor — and
the door was already ajar.
“Well, there you are,” Harry said quietly, “Snape’s already got past Fluffy.”
Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress upon all three of them
what was facing them. Underneath the Cloak, Harry turned to the other two.
“If you want to go back, I won’t blame you,” he said. “You can take the
Cloak, I won’t need it now.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Ron.
“We’re coming,” said Hermione.
Harry pushed the door open.
As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their ears. All three of the
dog’s noses sniffed madly in their direction, even though it couldn’t see them.
“What’s that at its feet?” Hermione whispered.
“Looks like a harp,” said Ron. “Snape must have left it there.”
“It must wake up the moment you stop playing,” said Harry. “Well, here
goes . . .”
He put Hagrid’s flute to his lips and blew. It wasn’t really a tune, but from
the first note the beast’s eyes began to droop. Harry hardly drew breath.
Slowly, the dog’s growls ceased — it tottered on its paws and fell to its knees,
then it slumped to the ground, fast asleep.
“Keep playing,” Ron warned Harry as they slipped out of the Cloak and
crept toward the trapdoor. They could feel the dog’s hot, smelly breath as they
approached the giant heads.
“I think we’ll be able to pull the door open,” said Ron, peering over the
dog’s back. “Want to go first, Hermione?”
“No, I don’t!”
“All right.” Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully over the dog’s legs.
He bent and pulled the ring of the trapdoor, which swung up and open.
“What can you see?” Hermione said anxiously.
“Nothing — just black — there’s no way of climbing down, we’ll just have
to drop.”
Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to get his attention and
pointed at himself.
“You want to go first? Are you sure?” said Ron. “I don’t know how deep
this thing goes. Give the flute to Hermione so she can keep him asleep.”
Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds’ silence, the dog growled
and twitched, but the moment Hermione began to play, it fell back into its
deep sleep.
Harry climbed over it and looked down through the trapdoor. There was no
sign of the bottom.
He lowered himself through the hole until he was hanging on by his
fingertips. Then he looked up at Ron and said, “If anything happens to me,
don’t follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore,
right?”
“Right,” said Ron.
“See you in a minute, I hope. . . .”
And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as he fell down, down,
down and —
FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he landed on something soft.
He sat up and felt around, his eyes not used to the gloom. It felt as though he
was sitting on some sort of plant.
“It’s okay!” he called up to the light the size of a postage stamp, which was
the open trapdoor, “it’s a soft landing, you can jump!”
Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to Harry.
“What’s this stuff?” were his first words.
“Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it’s here to break the fall. Come
on, Hermione!”
The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark from the dog, but
Hermione had already jumped. She landed on Harry’s other side.
“We must be miles under the school,” she said.
“Lucky this plant thing’s here, really,” said Ron.
“Lucky!” shrieked Hermione. “Look at you both!”
She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She had to struggle
because the moment she had landed, the plant had started to twist snakelike
tendrils around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron, their legs had already been
bound tightly in long creepers without their noticing.
Hermione had managed to free herself before the plant got a firm grip on
her. Now she watched in horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant off
them, but the more they strained against it, the tighter and faster the plant
wound around them.
“Stop moving!” Hermione ordered them. “I know what this is — it’s
Devil’s Snare!”
“Oh, I’m so glad we know what it’s called, that’s a great help,” snarled
Ron, leaning back, trying to stop the plant from curling around his neck.
“Shut up, I’m trying to remember how to kill it!” said Hermione.
“Well, hurry up, I can’t breathe!” Harry gasped, wrestling with it as it
curled around his chest.
“Devil’s Snare, Devil’s Snare . . . what did Professor Sprout say? — it likes
the dark and the damp —”
“So light a fire!” Harry choked.
“Yes — of course — but there’s no wood!” Hermione cried, wringing her
hands.
“HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ron bellowed. “ARE YOU A WITCH OR
NOT?”
“Oh, right!” said Hermione, and she whipped out her wand, waved it,
muttered something, and sent a jet of the same bluebell flames she had used
on Snape at the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it loosening its
grip as it cringed away from the light and warmth. Wriggling and flailing, it
unraveled itself from their bodies, and they were able to pull free.
“Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione,” said Harry as he joined
her by the wall, wiping sweat off his face.
“Yeah,” said Ron, “and lucky Harry doesn’t lose his head in a crisis
—‘there’s no wood,’ honestly.”
“This way,” said Harry, pointing down a stone passageway, which was the
only way forward.
All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the gentle drip of water
trickling down the walls. The passageway sloped downward, and Harry was
reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant jolt of the heart, he remembered
the dragons said to be guarding vaults in the wizards’ bank. If they met a
dragon, a fully-grown dragon — Norbert had been bad enough . . .
“Can you hear something?” Ron whispered.
Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to be coming from up
ahead.
“Do you think it’s a ghost?”
“I don’t know . . . sounds like wings to me.”
“There’s light ahead — I can see something moving.”
They reached the end of the passageway and saw before them a brilliantly
lit chamber, its ceiling arching high above them. It was full of small, jewelbright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the room. On the opposite side
of the chamber was a heavy wooden door.
“Do you think they’ll attack us if we cross the room?” said Ron.
“Probably,” said Harry. “They don’t look very vicious, but I suppose if they
all swooped down at once . . . well, there’s no other choice . . . I’ll run.”
He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms, and sprinted across
the room. He expected to feel sharp beaks and claws tearing at him any
second, but nothing happened. He reached the door untouched. He pulled the
handle, but it was locked.
The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved at the door, but it
wouldn’t budge, not even when Hermione tried her Alohomora Charm.
“Now what?” said Ron.
“These birds . . . they can’t be here just for decoration,” said Hermione.
They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering — glittering?
“They’re not birds!” Harry said suddenly. “They’re keys! Winged keys —
look carefully. So that must mean . . .” he looked around the chamber while
the other two squinted up at the flock of keys. “. . . yes — look! Broomsticks!
We’ve got to catch the key to the door!”
“But there are hundreds of them!”
Ron examined the lock on the door.
“We’re looking for a big, old-fashioned one — probably silver, like the
handle.”
They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the air, soaring into the
midst of the cloud of keys. They grabbed and snatched, but the bewitched
keys darted and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to catch one.
Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest Seeker in a century. He
had a knack for spotting things other people didn’t. After a minute’s weaving
about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, he noticed a large silver key that
had a bent wing, as if it had already been caught and stuffed roughly into the
keyhole.
“That one!” he called to the others. “That big one — there — no, there —
with bright blue wings — the feathers are all crumpled on one side.”
Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was pointing, crashed into
the ceiling, and nearly fell off his broom.
“We’ve got to close in on it!” Harry called, not taking his eyes off the key
with the damaged wing. “Ron, you come at it from above — Hermione, stay
below and stop it from going down — and I’ll try and catch it. Right, NOW!”
Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key dodged them both, and
Harry streaked after it; it sped toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and with
a nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone with one hand. Ron and
Hermione’s cheers echoed around the high chamber.
They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the key struggling in his
hand. He rammed it into the lock and turned — it worked. The moment the
lock had clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very battered now
that it had been caught twice.
“Ready?” Harry asked the other two, his hand on the door handle. They
nodded. He pulled the door open.
The next chamber was so dark they couldn’t see anything at all. But as they
stepped into it, light suddenly flooded the room to reveal an astonishing sight.
They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, behind the black
chessmen, which were all taller than they were and carved from what looked
like black stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were the white pieces.
Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered slightly — the towering white chessmen
had no faces.
“Now what do we do?” Harry whispered.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Ron. “We’ve got to play our way across the
room.”
Behind the white pieces they could see another door.
“How?” said Hermione nervously.
“I think,” said Ron, “we’re going to have to be chessmen.”
He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out to touch the knight’s
horse. At once, the stone sprang to life. The horse pawed the ground and the
knight turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron.
“Do we — er — have to join you to get across?”
The black knight nodded. Ron turned to the other two.
“This needs thinking about. . . .” he said. “I suppose we’ve got to take the
place of three of the black pieces. . . .”
Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron think. Finally he said,
“Now, don’t be offended or anything, but neither of you are that good at chess
—”
“We’re not offended,” said Harry quickly. “Just tell us what to do.”
“Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione, you go there
instead of that castle.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to be a knight,” said Ron.
The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because at these words a
knight, a bishop, and a castle turned their backs on the white pieces and
walked off the board, leaving three empty squares that Harry, Ron, and
Hermione took.
“White always plays first in chess,” said Ron, peering across the board.
“Yes . . . look . . .”
A white pawn had moved forward two squares.
Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved silently wherever he
sent them. Harry’s knees were trembling. What if they lost?
“Harry — move diagonally four squares to the right.”
Their first real shock came when their other knight was taken. The white
queen smashed him to the floor and dragged him off the board, where he lay
quite still, facedown.
“Had to let that happen,” said Ron, looking shaken. “Leaves you free to
take that bishop, Hermione, go on.”
Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces showed no mercy.
Soon there was a huddle of limp black players slumped along the wall. Twice,
Ron only just noticed in time that Harry and Hermione were in danger. He
himself darted around the board, taking almost as many white pieces as they
had lost black ones.
“We’re nearly there,” he muttered suddenly. “Let me think — let me
think . . .”
The white queen turned her blank face toward him.
“Yes . . .” said Ron softly, “it’s the only way . . . I’ve got to be taken.”
“NO!” Harry and Hermione shouted.
“That’s chess!” snapped Ron. “You’ve got to make some sacrifices! I’ll
make my move and she’ll take me — that leaves you free to checkmate the
king, Harry!”
“But —”
“Do you want to stop Snape or not?”
“Ron —”
“Look, if you don’t hurry up, he’ll already have the Stone!”
There was no alternative.
“Ready?” Ron called, his face pale but determined. “Here I go — now,
don’t hang around once you’ve won.”
He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. She struck Ron hard
across the head with her stone arm, and he crashed to the floor — Hermione
screamed but stayed on her square — the white queen dragged Ron to one
side. He looked as if he’d been knocked out.
Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left.
The white king took off his crown and threw it at Harry’s feet. They had
won. The chessmen parted and bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. With one
last desperate look back at Ron, Harry and Hermione charged through the
door and up the next passageway.
“What if he’s — ?”
“He’ll be all right,” said Harry, trying to convince himself. “What do you
reckon’s next?”
“We’ve had Sprout’s, that was the Devil’s Snare; Flitwick must’ve put
charms on the keys; McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to make them
alive; that leaves Quirrell’s spell, and Snape’s . . .”
They had reached another door.
“All right?” Harry whispered.
“Go on.”
Harry pushed it open.
A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of them pull their robes
up over their noses. Eyes watering, they saw, flat on the floor in front of them,
a troll even larger than the one they had tackled, out cold with a bloody lump
on its head.
“I’m glad we didn’t have to fight that one,” Harry whispered as they
stepped carefully over one of its massive legs. “Come on, I can’t breathe.”
He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly daring to look at what
came next — but there was nothing very frightening in here, just a table with
seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a line.
“Snape’s,” said Harry. “What do we have to do?”
They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a fire sprang up behind
them in the doorway. It wasn’t ordinary fire either; it was purple. At the same
instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward. They were
trapped.
“Look!” Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to the bottles. Harry
looked over her shoulder to read it:
Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,
Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,
One among us seven will let you move ahead,
Another will transport the drinker back instead,
Two among our number hold only nettle wine,
Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.
Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,
To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:
First, however slyly the poison tries to hide
You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;
Second, different are those who stand at either end,
But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;
Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,
Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;
Fourth, the second left and the second on the right
Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.
Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw that she was smiling,
the very last thing he felt like doing.
“Brilliant,” said Hermione. “This isn’t magic — it’s logic — a puzzle. A
lot of the greatest wizards haven’t got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in
here forever.”
“But so will we, won’t we?”
“Of course not,” said Hermione. “Everything we need is here on this paper.
Seven bottles: three are poison; two are wine; one will get us safely through
the black fire, and one will get us back through the purple.”
“But how do we know which to drink?”
“Give me a minute.”
Hermione read the paper several times. Then she walked up and down the
line of bottles, muttering to herself and pointing at them. At last, she clapped
her hands.
“Got it,” she said. “The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire —
toward the Stone.”
Harry looked at the tiny bottle.
“There’s only enough there for one of us,” he said. “That’s hardly one
swallow.”
They looked at each other.
“Which one will get you back through the purple flames?”
Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.
“You drink that,” said Harry. “No, listen, get back and get Ron. Grab
brooms from the flying-key room, they’ll get you out of the trapdoor and past
Fluffy — go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, we need
him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while, but I’m no match for him,
really.”
“But Harry — what if You-Know-Who’s with him?”
“Well — I was lucky once, wasn’t I?” said Harry, pointing at his scar. “I
might get lucky again.”
Hermione’s lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at Harry and threw her
arms around him.
“Hermione!”
“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.”
“I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of
him.
“Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important
things — friendship and bravery and — oh Harry — be careful!”
“You drink first,” said Harry. “You are sure which is which, aren’t you?”
“Positive,” said Hermione. She took a long drink from the round bottle at
the end, and shuddered.
“It’s not poison?” said Harry anxiously.
“No — but it’s like ice.”
“Quick, go, before it wears off.”
“Good luck — take care —”
“GO!”
Hermione turned and walked straight through the purple fire.
Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He turned to
face the black flames.
“Here I come,” he said, and he drained the little bottle in one gulp.
It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He put the bottle down
and walked forward; he braced himself, saw the black flames licking his
body, but couldn’t feel them — for a moment he could see nothing but dark
fire — then he was on the other side, in the last chamber.
There was already someone there — but it wasn’t Snape. It wasn’t even
Voldemort.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE MAN WITH TWO FACES
I
t was Quirrell.
“You!” gasped Harry.
Quirrell smiled. His face wasn’t twitching at all.
“Me,” he said calmly. “I wondered whether I’d be meeting you here,
Potter.”
“But I thought — Snape —”
“Severus?” Quirrell laughed, and it wasn’t his usual quivering treble, either,
but cold and sharp. “Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to
have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to him, who would
suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?”
Harry couldn’t take it in. This couldn’t be true, it couldn’t.
“But Snape tried to kill me!”
“No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally
knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch match.
She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I’d have got
you off that broom. I’d have managed it before then if Snape hadn’t been
muttering a countercurse, trying to save you.”
“Snape was trying to save me?”
“Of course,” said Quirrell coolly. “Why do you think he wanted to referee
your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn’t do it again. Funny,
really . . . he needn’t have bothered. I couldn’t do anything with Dumbledore
watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was trying to stop Gryffindor
from winning, he did make himself unpopular . . . and what a waste of time,
when after all that, I’m going to kill you tonight.”
Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped
themselves tightly around Harry.
“You’re too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on Halloween
like that, for all I knew you’d seen me coming to look at what was guarding
the Stone.”
“You let the troll in?”
“Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must have seen what I
did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else
was running around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went
straight to the third floor to head me off — and not only did my troll fail to
beat you to death, that three-headed dog didn’t even manage to bite Snape’s
leg off properly.
“Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.”
It was only then that Harry realized what was standing behind Quirrell. It
was the Mirror of Erised.
“This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Quirrell murmured, tapping
his way around the frame. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like
this . . . but he’s in London . . . I’ll be far away by the time he gets back. . . .”
All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him
from concentrating on the mirror.
“I saw you and Snape in the forest —” he blurted out.
“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at the back.
“He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I’d got. He
suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could, when I
had Lord Voldemort on my side. . . .”
Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into it.
“I see the Stone . . . I’m presenting it to my master . . . but where is it?”
Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn’t give. He had
to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to the mirror.
“But Snape always seemed to hate me so much.”
“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts
with your father, didn’t you know? They loathed each other. But he never
wanted you dead.”
“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought Snape was
threatening you. . . .”
For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell’s face.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my master’s instructions —
he is a great wizard and I am weak —”
“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” Harry gasped.
“He is with me wherever I go,” said Quirrell quietly. “I met him when I
traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous
ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was.
There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek
it. . . . Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down
many times. He has had to be very hard on me.” Quirrell shivered suddenly.
“He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the Stone from
Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me . . . decided he would
have to keep a closer watch on me. . . .”
Quirrell’s voice trailed away. Harry was remembering his trip to Diagon
Alley — how could he have been so stupid? He’d seen Quirrell there that
very day, shaken hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.
Quirrell cursed under his breath.
“I don’t understand . . . is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?”
Harry’s mind was racing.
What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he
thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I
should see myself finding it — which means I’ll see where it’s hidden! But
how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I’m up to?
He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell
noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell
over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to himself.
“What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!”
And to Harry’s horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come
from Quirrell himself.
“Use the boy . . . Use the boy . . .”
Quirrell rounded on Harry.
“Yes — Potter — come here.”
He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got
slowly to his feet.
“Come here,” Quirrell repeated. “Look in the mirror and tell me what you
see.”
Harry walked toward him.
I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see,
that’s all.
Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that
seemed to come from Quirrell’s turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of
the mirror, and opened them again.
He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later,
the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a
blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket — and as it
did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow —
incredibly — he’d gotten the Stone.
“Well?” said Quirrell impatiently. “What do you see?”
Harry screwed up his courage.
“I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore,” he invented. “I — I’ve
won the House Cup for Gryffindor.”
Quirrell cursed again.
“Get out of the way,” he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer’s
Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?
But he hadn’t walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell
wasn’t moving his lips.
“He lies . . . He lies . . .”
“Potter, come back here!” Quirrell shouted. “Tell me the truth! What did
you just see?”
The high voice spoke again.
“Let me speak to him . . . face-to-face. . . .”
“Master, you are not strong enough!”
“I have strength enough . . . for this. . . .”
Harry felt as if Devil’s Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn’t
move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to
unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell’s head
looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn’t make a sound. Where there
should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible
face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits
for nostrils, like a snake.
“Harry Potter . . .” it whispered.
Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn’t move.
“See what I have become?” the face said. “Mere shadow and vapor . . . I
have form only when I can share another’s body . . . but there have always
been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. . . . Unicorn blood
has strengthened me, these past weeks . . . you saw faithful Quirrell drinking
it for me in the forest . . . and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to
create a body of my own. . . . Now . . . why don’t you give me that Stone in
your pocket?”
So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry’s legs. He
stumbled backward.
“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your own life and join
me . . . or you’ll meet the same end as your parents. . . . They died begging
me for mercy. . . .”
“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly.
Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see
him. The evil face was now smiling.
“How touching . . .” it hissed. “I always value bravery. . . . Yes, boy, your
parents were brave. . . . I killed your father first, and he put up a courageous
fight . . . but your mother needn’t have died . . . she was trying to protect
you. . . . Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”
“NEVER!”
Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed “SEIZE
HIM!” and the next second, Harry felt Quirrell’s hand close on his wrist. At
once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry’s scar; his head felt as though it
was about to split in two; he yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his
surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head lessened — he looked
around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain,
looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his eyes.
“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged,
knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of him, both hands around
Harry’s neck — Harry’s scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could
see Quirrell howling in agony.
“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!”
And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go of
his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they
looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.
“Then kill him, fool, and be done!” screeched Voldemort.
Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct,
reached up and grabbed Quirrell’s face —
“AAAARGH!”
Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew:
Quirrell couldn’t touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his
only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop
him from doing a curse.
Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight
as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in
Harry’s head was building — he couldn’t see — he could only hear Quirrell’s
terrible shrieks and Voldemort’s yells of, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and other
voices, maybe in Harry’s own head, crying, “Harry! Harry!”
He felt Quirrell’s arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and fell
into blackness, down . . . down . . . down . . .
Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to catch it,
but his arms were too heavy.
He blinked. It wasn’t the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How strange.
He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view
above him.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” said Dumbledore.
Harry stared at him. Then he remembered: “Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell!
He’s got the Stone! Sir, quick —”
“Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times,” said
Dumbledore. “Quirrell does not have the Stone.”
“Then who does? Sir, I —”
“Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out.”
Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized he must be in the
hospital wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him
was a table piled high with what looked like half the candy shop.
“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” said Dumbledore, beaming.
“What happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is
a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your
friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send
you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam
Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”
“How long have I been in here?”
“Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved
you have come round, they have been extremely worried.”
“But sir, the Stone —”
“I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell
did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although
you were doing very well on your own, I must say.”
“You got there? You got Hermione’s owl?”
“We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London than it
became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I
arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you —”
“It was you.”
“I feared I might be too late.”
“You nearly were, I couldn’t have kept him off the Stone much longer —”
“Not the Stone, boy, you — the effort involved nearly killed you. For one
terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been
destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” said Harry blankly. “But your friend — Nicolas Flamel —”
“Oh, you know about Nicolas?” said Dumbledore, sounding quite
delighted. “You did do the thing properly, didn’t you? Well, Nicolas and I
have had a little chat, and agreed it’s all for the best.”
“But that means he and his wife will die, won’t they?”
“They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes,
they will die.”
Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry’s face.
“To one as young as you, I’m sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and
Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to
the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the
Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you
could want! The two things most human beings would choose above all —
the trouble is, humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that
are worst for them.”
Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed a little and smiled at
the ceiling.
“Sir?” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking . . . Sir — even if the Stone’s gone,
Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who —”
“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear
of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
“Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort’s going to try other ways of coming back, isn’t
he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has he?”
“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for
another body to share . . . not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left
Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies.
Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it
will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing
battle next time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never
return to power.”
Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made his head hurt. Then he
said, “Sir, there are some other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me . . .
things I want to know the truth about. . . .”
“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and
should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your
questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll
forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”
“Well . . . Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to
stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first
place?”
Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.
“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now.
You will know, one day . . . put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you
are older . . . I know you hate to hear this . . . when you are ready, you will
know.”
And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.
“But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?”
“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot
understand, it is love. He didn’t realize that love as powerful as your mother’s
for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign . . . to have been loved
so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some
protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and
ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this
reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”
Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the windowsill,
which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the sheet. When he had found his
voice again, Harry said, “And the Invisibility Cloak — do you know who sent
it to me?”
“Ah — your father happened to leave it in my possession, and I thought
you might like it.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Useful things . . . your
father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he
was here.”
“And there’s something else . . .”
“Fire away.”
“Quirrell said Snape —”
“Professor Snape, Harry.”
“Yes, him — Quirrell said he hates me because he hated my father. Is that
true?”
“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr.
Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive.”
“What?”
“He saved his life.”
“What?”
“Yes . . .” said Dumbledore dreamily. “Funny, the way people’s minds
work, isn’t it? Professor Snape couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt. . . . I
do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that
would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to hating your
father’s memory in peace. . . .”
Harry tried to understand this but it made his head pound, so he stopped.
“And sir, there’s one more thing . . .”
“Just the one?”
“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?”
“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant
ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something. You see, only one
who wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — would be able to get
it, otherwise they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of
Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes. . . . Now, enough questions. I
suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor
Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomitflavored one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my liking for them —
but I think I’ll be safe with a nice toffee, don’t you?”
He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he
choked and said, “Alas! Ear wax!”
Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict.
“Just five minutes,” Harry pleaded.
“Absolutely not.”
“You let Professor Dumbledore in. . . .”
“Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need rest.”
“I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on, Madam
Pomfrey . . .”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “But five minutes only.”
And she let Ron and Hermione in.
“Harry!”
Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but Harry was
glad she held herself in as his head was still very sore.
“Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to — Dumbledore was so
worried —”
“The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What really happened?”
It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange
and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the
mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were a very good
audience; they gasped in all the right places, and when Harry told them what
was under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud.
“So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally. “Flamel’s just going to die?”
“That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that — what was it? —‘to the
well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.’”
“I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron, looking quite impressed at
how crazy his hero was.
“So what happened to you two?” said Harry.
“Well, I got back all right,” said Hermione. “I brought Ron round — that
took a while — and we were dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore
when we met him in the entrance hall — he already knew — he just said,
‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and hurtled off to the third floor.”
“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. “Sending you your father’s
Cloak and everything?”
“Well,” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say — that’s terrible
— you could have been killed.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny man, Dumbledore. I
think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less
everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we
were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help.
I don’t think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It’s
almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. . . .”
“Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” said Ron proudly. “Listen,
you’ve got to be up for the end-of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in
and Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last Quidditch match, we
were steamrollered by Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.”
At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.
“You’ve had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” she said firmly.
After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to normal.
“I want to go to the feast,” he told Madam Pomfrey as she straightened his
many candy boxes. “I can, can’t I?”
“Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go,” she said sniffily,
as though in her opinion Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts
could be. “And you have another visitor.”
“Oh, good,” said Harry. “Who is it?”
Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual when he was indoors,
Hagrid looked too big to be allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one
look at him, and burst into tears.
“It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his face in his hands. “I
told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he
didn’t know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a dragon egg! I’ll
never drink again! I should be chucked out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!”
“Hagrid!” said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking with grief and
remorse, great tears leaking down into his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found
out somehow, this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found out even
if you hadn’t told him.”
“Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the name!”
“VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so shocked, he stopped
crying. “I’ve met him and I’m calling him by his name. Please cheer up,
Hagrid, we saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a Chocolate Frog,
I’ve got loads. . . .”
Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, “That reminds me.
I’ve got yeh a present.”
“It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry anxiously, and at last Hagrid
gave a weak chuckle.
“Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. ’Course, he
shoulda sacked me instead — anyway, got yeh this . . .”
It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it
curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from
every page were his mother and father.
“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, askin’ fer photos . . .
knew yeh didn’ have any . . . d’yeh like it?”
Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.
Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. He had
been held up by Madam Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving him one
last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It was decked out in the
Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate Slytherin’s winning the House
Cup for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin
serpent covered the wall behind the High Table.
When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody
started talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat between Ron and
Hermione at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that people were
standing up to look at him.
Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble died away.
“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And I must trouble you
with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious
feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than
they were . . . you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty
before next year starts. . . .
“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the
points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve
points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has
four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”
A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table. Harry
could see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It was a sickening
sight.
“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore. “However, recent
events must be taken into account.”
The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded a little.
“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let
me see. Yes . . .
“First — to Mr. Ronald Weasley . . .”
Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn.
“. . . for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I
award Gryffindor House fifty points.”
Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars overhead
seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other prefects, “My
brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past McGonagall’s giant chess
set!”
At last there was silence again.
“Second — to Miss Hermione Granger . . . for the use of cool logic in the
face of fire, I award Gryffindor House fifty points.”
Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly suspected she had
burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table were beside themselves —
they were a hundred points up.
“Third — to Mr. Harry Potter . . .” said Dumbledore. The room went
deadly quiet. “. . . for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor
House sixty points.”
The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves
hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and seventy-two points —
exactly the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the House Cup — if only
Dumbledore had given Harry just one more point.
Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.
“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a
great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up
to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”
Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought some
sort of explosion had taken place, so loud was the noise that erupted from the
Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up to yell and cheer as
Neville, white with shock, disappeared under a pile of people hugging him.
He had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor before. Harry, still
cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs and pointed at Malfoy, who couldn’t have
looked more stunned and horrified if he’d just had the Body-Bind Curse put
on him.
“Which means,” Dumbledore called over the storm of applause, for even
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, “we
need a little change of decoration.”
He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green hangings became scarlet and
the silver became gold; the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a towering
Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking Professor McGonagall’s
hand, with a horrible, forced smile. He caught Harry’s eye and Harry knew at
once that Snape’s feelings toward him hadn’t changed one jot. This didn’t
worry Harry. It seemed as though life would be back to normal next year, or
as normal as it ever was at Hogwarts.
It was the best evening of Harry’s life, better than winning at Quidditch, or
Christmas, or knocking out mountain trolls . . . he would never, ever forget
tonight.
Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results were still to come, but come
they did. To their great surprise, both he and Ron passed with good marks;
Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first years. Even Neville
scraped through, his good Herbology mark making up for his abysmal Potions
one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as stupid as he was mean,
might be thrown out, but he had passed, too. It was a shame, but as Ron said,
you couldn’t have everything in life.
And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their trunks were packed,
Neville’s toad was found lurking in a corner of the toilets; notes were handed
out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays (“I
always hope they’ll forget to give us these,” said Fred Weasley sadly); Hagrid
was there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across the lake;
they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; talking and laughing as the
countryside became greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor
Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off their wizard robes and
putting on jackets and coats; pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at
King’s Cross station.
It took quite a while for them all to get off the platform. A wizened old
guard was up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate in twos
and threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting out of a solid wall at
once and alarming the Muggles.
“You must come and stay this summer,” said Ron, “both of you — I’ll send
you an owl.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look forward to.”
People jostled them as they moved forward toward the gateway back to the
Muggle world. Some of them called:
“Bye, Harry!”
“See you, Potter!”
“Still famous,” said Ron, grinning at him.
“Not where I’m going, I promise you,” said Harry.
He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together.
“There he is, Mum, there he is, look!”
It was Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister, but she wasn’t pointing at
Ron.
“Harry Potter!” she squealed. “Look, Mum! I can see —”
“Be quiet, Ginny, and it’s rude to point.”
Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.
“Busy year?” she said.
“Very,” said Harry. “Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs. Weasley.”
“Oh, it was nothing, dear.”
“Ready, are you?”
It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking
furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of
ordinary people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley, looking terrified
at the very sight of Harry.
“You must be Harry’s family!” said Mrs. Weasley.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Vernon. “Hurry up, boy, we haven’t
got all day.” He walked away.
Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and Hermione.
“See you over the summer, then.”
“Hope you have — er — a good holiday,” said Hermione, looking
uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, shocked that anyone could be so unpleasant.
“Oh, I will,” said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was
spreading over his face. “They don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at
home. I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer. . . .”
Text copyright © 1997 by J.K. Rowling.
Cover illustration by Olly Moss © Pottermore Limited 2015
Interior illustrations by Mary GrandPré © 1998 by Warner Bros.
Harry Potter characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Ent.
Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K. Rowling.
This digital edition first published by Pottermore Limited in 2015
Published in print in the U.S.A. by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-78110-647-1
FOR SEÁN P. F. HARRIS,
GETAWAY DRIVER AND FOUL-WEATHER FRIEND
CONTENTS
ONE
The Worst Birthday
TWO
Dobby’s Warning
THREE
The Burrow
FOUR
At Flourish and Blotts
FIVE
The Whomping Willow
SIX
Gilderoy Lockhart
SEVEN
Mudbloods and Murmurs
EIGHT
The Deathday Party
NINE
The Writing on the Wall
TEN
The Rogue Bludger
ELEVEN
The Dueling Club
TWELVE
The Polyjuice Potion
THIRTEEN
The Very Secret Diary
FOURTEEN
Cornelius Fudge
FIFTEEN
Aragog
SIXTEEN
The Chamber of Secrets
SEVENTEEN
The Heir of Slytherin
EIGHTEEN
Dobby’s Reward
CHAPTER ONE
THE WORST BIRTHDAY
N
ot for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at
number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the
early hours of the morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Harry’s
room.
“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t control that
owl, it’ll have to go!”
Harry tried, yet again, to explain.
“She’s bored,” he said. “She’s used to flying around outside. If I could just
let her out at night —”
“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from
his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”
He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.
Harry tried to argue back but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch
from the Dursleys’ son, Dudley.
“I want more bacon.”
“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia, turning
misty eyes on her massive son. “We must build you up while we’ve got the
chance. . . . I don’t like the sound of that school food. . . .”
“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings,” said
Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley gets enough, don’t you, son?”
Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the
kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.
“Pass the frying pan.”
“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Harry irritably.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible:
Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole
kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her
mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.
“I meant ‘please’!” said Harry quickly. “I didn’t mean —”
“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the
table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”
“But I —”
“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon,
pounding the table with his fist.
“I just —”
“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR
ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”
Harry stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to
heave Dudley to his feet.
“All right,” said Harry, “all right . . .”
Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and
watching Harry closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.
Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon
had been treating him like a bomb that might go off at any moment, because
Harry Potter wasn’t a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he was as not normal as
it is possible to be.
Harry Potter was a wizard — a wizard fresh from his first year at Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to
have him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.
He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomachache.
He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes
(though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the mail arriving by owl,
eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower
dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden
Forest in the grounds, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the
Wizarding world (six tall goalposts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on
broomsticks).
All Harry’s spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top-of-the-line
Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the
stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the
Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House Quidditch team because he
hadn’t practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back
to school without any of his homework done? The Dursleys were what
wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far
as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was a matter of deepest
shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her
cage, to stop her from carrying messages to anyone in the Wizarding world.
Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large
and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horsefaced and bony; Dudley was blond, pink, and porky. Harry, on the other hand,
was small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair that was
always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a thin,
lightning-shaped scar.
It was this scar that made Harry so particularly unusual, even for a wizard.
This scar was the only hint of Harry’s very mysterious past, of the reason he
had been left on the Dursleys’ doorstep eleven years before.
At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the
greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches
and wizards still feared to speak. Harry’s parents had died in Voldemort’s
attack, but Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and somehow —
nobody understood why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the
instant he had failed to kill Harry.
So Harry had been brought up by his dead mother’s sister and her husband.
He had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept
making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys’ story
that he had got his scar in the car crash that had killed his parents.
And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry, and the whole
story had come out. Harry had taken up his place at wizard school, where he
and his scar were famous . . . but now the school year was over, and he was
back with the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like a dog that
had rolled in something smelly.
The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Harry’s
twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given
him a real present, let alone a cake — but to ignore it completely . . .
At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat importantly and said,
“Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”
Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.
“This could well be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” said
Uncle Vernon.
Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon
was talking about the stupid dinner party. He’d been talking of nothing else
for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and
Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon’s
company made drills).
“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle
Vernon. “We should all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be —
?”
“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them
graciously to our home.”
“Good, good. And Dudley?”
“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile.
“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”
“They’ll love him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.
“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. “And
you?”
“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,”
said Harry tonelessly.
“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge,
introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”
“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.
“And, Dudley, you’ll say —”
“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley,
offering his fat arm to an invisible woman.
“My perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Petunia.
“And you?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.
“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said
Harry dully.
“Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few good compliments at
dinner. Petunia, any ideas?”
“Vernon tells me you’re a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason. . . . Do tell me
where you bought your dress, Mrs. Mason. . . .”
“Perfect . . . Dudley?”
“How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr.
Mason, and I wrote about you.’”
This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst
into tears and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they
wouldn’t see him laughing.
“And you, boy?”
Harry fought to keep his face straight as he emerged.
“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” he
said.
“Too right, you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully. “The Masons don’t
know anything about you and it’s going to stay that way. When dinner’s over,
you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I’ll bring the
subject around to drills. With any luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed
before the news at ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this
time tomorrow.”
Harry couldn’t feel too excited about this. He didn’t think the Dursleys
would like him any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.
“Right — I’m off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and
me. And you,” he snarled at Harry. “You stay out of your aunt’s way while
she’s cleaning.”
Harry left through the back door. It was a brilliant, sunny day. He crossed
the lawn, slumped down on the garden bench, and sang under his breath:
“Happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me . . .”
No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending
not to exist. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely.
More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch,
Harry missed his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They,
however, didn’t seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had written to
him all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Harry to come
and stay.
Countless times, Harry had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig’s cage
by magic and sending her to Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn’t
worth the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of
school. Harry hadn’t told the Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror
that he might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking
him in the cupboard under the stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the
first couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering nonsense words
under his breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat
legs would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and Hermione had made
Harry feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had
lost its appeal — and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten his birthday.
What wouldn’t he give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch
or wizard? He’d almost be glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy,
just to be sure it hadn’t all been a dream. . . .
Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last
term, Harry had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort
himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still
terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harry had slipped
through Voldemort’s clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow
escape, and even now, weeks later, Harry kept waking in the night, drenched
in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid
face, his wide, mad eyes —
Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden bench. He had been staring
absent-mindedly into the hedge — and the hedge was staring back. Two
enormous green eyes had appeared among the leaves.
Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.
“I know what day it is,” sang Dudley, waddling toward him.
The huge eyes blinked and vanished.
“What?” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had been.
“I know what day it is,” Dudley repeated, coming right up to him.
“Well done,” said Harry. “So you’ve finally learned the days of the week.”
“Today’s your birthday,” sneered Dudley. “How come you haven’t got any
cards? Haven’t you even got friends at that freak place?”
“Better not let your mum hear you talking about my school,” said Harry
coolly.
Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fat bottom.
“Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously.
“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said
Harry.
Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face.
“You c-can’t — Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic — he said he’ll
chuck you out of the house — and you haven’t got anywhere else to go —
you haven’t got any friends to take you —”
“Jiggery pokery!” said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus pocus — squiggly
wiggly —”
“MUUUUUUM!” howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed back
toward the house. “MUUUUM! He’s doing you know what!”
Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge
was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but he
still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head with the soapy frying
pan. Then she gave him work to do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again
until he’d finished.
While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice cream, Harry cleaned
the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flower beds,
pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed
overhead, burning the back of his neck. Harry knew he shouldn’t have risen to
Dudley’s bait, but Dudley had said the very thing Harry had been thinking
himself . . . maybe he didn’t have any friends at Hogwarts. . . .
Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he thought savagely as he
spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running down his
face.
It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, he heard Aunt
Petunia calling him.
“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”
Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the
fridge stood tonight’s pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared
violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.
“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Aunt Petunia,
pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She
was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.
Harry washed his hands and bolted down his pitiful supper. The moment he
had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away his plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!”
As he passed the door to the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of Uncle
Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. He had only just reached
the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon’s furious face
appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Remember, boy — one sound —”
Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door, and
turned to collapse on his bed.
The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.
CHAPTER TWO
DOBBY’S WARNING
H
arry managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing. The little
creature on the bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the
size of tennis balls. Harry knew instantly that this was what had been
watching him out of the garden hedge that morning.
As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley’s voice from the hall.
“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”
The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long,
thin nose touched the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing what looked
like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.
“Er — hello,” said Harry nervously.
“Harry Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was sure
would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir . . .
Such an honor it is. . . .”
“Th-thank you,” said Harry, edging along the wall and sinking into his desk
chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage. He wanted to ask,
“What are you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead he said,
“Who are you?”
“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature.
“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be rude or anything, but
— this isn’t a great time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom.”
Aunt Petunia’s high, false laugh sounded from the living room. The elf
hung his head.
“Not that I’m not pleased to meet you,” said Harry quickly, “but, er, is there
any particular reason you’re here?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir . . . it
is difficult, sir . . . Dobby wonders where to begin. . . .”
“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.
To his horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy tears.
“S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never . . . never ever . . .”
Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything —”
“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down
by a wizard — like an equal —”
Harry, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the same time, ushered
Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and
very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great
eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery adoration.
“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said Harry, trying to cheer him
up.
Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and started
banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, “Bad Dobby! Bad
Dobby!”
“Don’t — what are you doing?” Harry hissed, springing up and pulling
Dobby back onto the bed — Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud
screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage.
“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who had gone slightly
cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir. . . .”
“Your family?”
“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir. . . . Dobby is a house-elf — bound to
serve one house and one family forever. . . .”
“Do they know you’re here?” asked Harry curiously.
Dobby shuddered.
“Oh, no, sir, no . . . Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for
coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for
this. If they ever knew, sir —”
“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?”
“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for
something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds
me to do extra punishments. . . .”
“But why don’t you leave? Escape?”
“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby
free . . . Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir. . . .”
Harry stared.
“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another four weeks,” he said.
“This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t
I?”
Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn’t spoken. Dobby dissolved again
into wails of gratitude.
“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “please be quiet. If the Dursleys hear
anything, if they know you’re here —”
“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby . . . Dobby has heard of your
greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew. . . .”
Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, “Whatever you’ve
heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at
Hogwarts; that’s Hermione, she —”
But he stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermione was painful.
“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orb-like
eyes aglow. “Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-NotBe-Named —”
“Voldemort?” said Harry.
Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, “Ah, speak not the
name, sir! Speak not the name!”
“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “I know lots of people don’t like it. My friend
Ron —”
He stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful, too.
Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as headlights.
“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord
for a second time, just weeks ago . . . that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”
Harry nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with tears.
“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby
pillowcase he was wearing. “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved
so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to
warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later. . . .
Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”
There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from
downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.
“W-what?” Harry stammered. “But I’ve got to go back — term starts on
September first. It’s all that’s keeping me going. You don’t know what it’s like
here. I don’t belong here. I belong in your world — at Hogwarts.”
“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped.
“Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If
Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”
“Why?” said Harry in surprise.
“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby,
suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry
Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”
“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s plotting them?”
Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically
against the wall.
“All right!” cried Harry, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop him. “You can’t tell
me. I understand. But why are you warning me?” A sudden, unpleasant
thought struck him. “Hang on — this hasn’t got anything to do with Vol- —
sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod,” he added
hastily as Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again.
Slowly, Dobby shook his head.
“Not — not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir —”
But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give Harry a
hint. Harry, however, was completely lost.
“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?”
Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.
“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible
things happen at Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, for one
thing — you know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?”
Dobby bowed his head.
“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had.
Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir” —
Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper — “there are powers
Dumbledore doesn’t . . . powers no decent wizard . . .”
And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized
Harry’s desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with
earsplitting yelps.
A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart thudding
madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have
left his television on again, the little tyke!”
“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door,
and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.
“What — the — devil — are — you — doing?” said Uncle Vernon through
gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry’s. “You’ve just ruined the punch
line of my Japanese golfer joke. . . . One more sound and you’ll wish you’d
never been born, boy!”
He stomped flat-footed from the room.
Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.
“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why I’ve got to go back to
Hogwarts? It’s the only place I’ve got — well, I think I’ve got friends.”
“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly.
“I expect they’ve just been — wait a minute,” said Harry, frowning. “How
do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”
Dobby shuffled his feet.
“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best —”
“Have you been stopping my letters?”
“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harry’s
reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he
was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s untidy
scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts
gamekeeper, Hagrid.
Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.
“Harry Potter mustn’t be angry. . . . Dobby hoped . . . if Harry Potter
thought his friends had forgotten him . . . Harry Potter might not want to go
back to school, sir. . . .”
Harry wasn’t listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped
out of reach.
“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will
not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you
won’t go back, sir!”
“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give me my friends’ letters!”
“Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice,” said the elf sadly.
Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it
open, and sprinted down the stairs.
Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to make a
sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, looking
around for Dobby. From the dining room he heard Uncle Vernon saying, “. . .
tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason.
She’s been dying to hear . . .”
Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear.
Aunt Petunia’s masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and
sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a cupboard in the
corner crouched Dobby.
“No,” croaked Harry. “Please . . . they’ll kill me. . . .”
“Harry Potter must say he’s not going back to school —”
“Dobby . . . please . . .”
“Say it, sir —”
“I can’t —”
Dobby gave him a tragic look.
“Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter’s own good.”
The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream splattered
the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Dobby
vanished.
There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon burst into the
kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head to foot in Aunt
Petunia’s pudding.
At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the
whole thing over. (“Just our nephew — very disturbed — meeting strangers
upsets him, so we kept him upstairs. . . .”) He shooed the shocked Masons
back into the dining room, promised Harry he would flay him to within an
inch of his life when the Masons had left, and handed him a mop. Aunt
Petunia dug some ice cream out of the freezer and Harry, still shaking, started
scrubbing the kitchen clean.
Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal — if it hadn’t
been for the owl.
Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a
huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on
Mrs. Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a
banshee and ran from the house shouting about lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed
just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his wife was mortally afraid of birds
of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a joke.
Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Uncle Vernon
advanced on him, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes.
“Read it!” he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered.
“Go on — read it!”
Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your
place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine.
As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells
outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion
from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage
Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).
We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that
risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a
serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of
Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.
Enjoy your holidays!
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE
Ministry of Magic
Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.
“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said
Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it. . . .
Slipped your mind, I daresay. . . .”
He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared.
“Well, I’ve got news for you, boy. . . . I’m locking you up. . . . You’re never
going back to that school . . . never . . . and if you try and magic yourself out
— they’ll expel you!”
And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back upstairs.
Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a
man to fit bars on Harry’s window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom
door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day.
They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he
was locked in his room around the clock.
Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting, and Harry
couldn’t see any way out of his situation. He lay on his bed watching the sun
sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was
going to happen to him.
What was the good of magicking himself out of his room if Hogwarts
would expel him for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an all-time
low. Now that the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as fruit bats,
he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might have saved Harry from horrible
happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, he’d probably starve
to death anyway.
The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of
canned soup into the room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger,
jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but he drank half
of it in one gulp. Then he crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the
soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food tray. She
ruffled her feathers and gave him a look of deep disgust.
“It’s no good turning your beak up at it — that’s all we’ve got,” said Harry
grimly.
He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back
down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than he had been before the soup.
Supposing he was still alive in another four weeks, what would happen if
he didn’t turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why he hadn’t
come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let him go?
The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind spinning
over the same unanswerable questions, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.
He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card reading UNDERAGE
WIZARD attached to his cage. People goggled through the bars at him as he lay,
starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby’s face in the crowd and
shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, “Harry Potter is safe there,
sir!” and vanished. Then the Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of
the cage, laughing at him.
“Stop it,” Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in his sore head. “Leave
me alone . . . cut it out . . . I’m trying to sleep. . . .”
He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the
window. And someone was goggling through the bars at him: a freckle-faced,
red-haired, long-nosed someone.
Ron Weasley was outside Harry’s window.
CHAPTER THREE
THE BURROW
R
on!” breathed Harry, creeping to the window and pushing it up so they
could talk through the bars. “Ron, how did you — What the — ?”
Harry’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he was seeing hit him.
Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was
parked in midair. Grinning at Harry from the front seats were Fred and
George, Ron’s elder twin brothers.
“All right, Harry?” asked George.
“What’s been going on?” said Ron. “Why haven’t you been answering my
letters? I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home
and said you’d got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles
—”
“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”
“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You know we’re not supposed to
do spells outside school —”
“You should talk,” said Harry, staring at the floating car.
“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only borrowing this. It’s Dad’s,
we didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with
—”
“I told you, I didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain now — look, can
you tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked me up and won’t let
me come back, and obviously I can’t magic myself out, because the
Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell I’ve done in three days, so —”
“Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you home with us.”
“But you can’t magic me out either —”
“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat and
grinning. “You forget who I’ve got with me.”
“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Harry.
“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” said Harry as he tied the rope tightly
around a bar and Fred revved up the car.
“Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.”
Harry moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to have
realized how important this was and kept still and silent. The car revved
louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled
clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up in the air. Harry ran back to
the window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the ground. Panting,
Ron hoisted them up into the car. Harry listened anxiously, but there was no
sound from the Dursleys’ bedroom.
When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed as close
as possible to Harry’s window.
“Get in,” Ron said.
“But all my Hogwarts stuff — my wand — my broomstick —”
“Where is it?”
“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t get out of this room
—”
“No problem,” said George from the front passenger seat. “Out of the way,
Harry.”
Fred and George climbed catlike through the window into Harry’s room.
You had to hand it to them, thought Harry, as George took an ordinary hairpin
from his pocket and started to pick the lock.
“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle
trick,” said Fred, “but we feel they’re skills worth learning, even if they are a
bit slow.”
There was a small click and the door swung open.
“So — we’ll get your trunk — you grab anything you need from your room
and hand it out to Ron,” whispered George.
“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Harry whispered back as the
twins disappeared onto the dark landing.
Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things and passing them out
of the window to Ron. Then he went to help Fred and George heave his trunk
up the stairs. Harry heard Uncle Vernon cough.
At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the trunk through
Harry’s room to the open window. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with
Ron, and Harry and George pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, the
trunk slid through the window.
Uncle Vernon coughed again.
“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling from inside the car. “One good
push —”
Harry and George threw their shoulders against the trunk and it slid out of
the window into the back seat of the car.
“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered.
But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud
screech from behind him, followed immediately by the thunder of Uncle
Vernon’s voice.
“THAT RUDDY OWL!”
“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!”
Harry tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on — he
snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to Ron.
He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon
hammered on the unlocked door — and it crashed open.
For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let
out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.
Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry’s arms and pulled as hard as they
could.
“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING
AWAY!”
But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry’s leg slid out of Uncle
Vernon’s grasp — Harry was in the car — he’d slammed the door shut —
“Put your foot down, Fred!” yelled Ron, and the car shot suddenly toward
the moon.
Harry couldn’t believe it — he was free. He rolled down the window, the
night air whipping his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of
Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging,
dumbstruck, out of Harry’s window.
“See you next summer!” Harry yelled.
The Weasleys roared with laughter and Harry settled back in his seat,
grinning from ear to ear.
“Let Hedwig out,” he told Ron. “She can fly behind us. She hasn’t had a
chance to stretch her wings for ages.”
George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment later, Hedwig soared
joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.
“So — what’s the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently. “What’s been
happening?”
Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Harry and the
fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when he had
finished.
“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.
“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who’s
supposed to be plotting all this stuff?”
“I don’t think he could,” said Harry. “I told you, every time he got close to
letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.”
He saw Fred and George look at each other.
“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harry.
“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way — house-elves have got powerful magic
of their own, but they can’t usually use it without their master’s permission. I
reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone’s
idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”
“Yes,” said Harry and Ron together, instantly.
“Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained. “He hates me.”
“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around. “Not Lucius Malfoy’s son?”
“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said Harry. “Why?”
“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He was a big supporter
of You-Know-Who.”
“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred, craning around to
look at Harry, “Lucius Malfoy came back saying he’d never meant any of it.
Load of dung — Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who’s inner circle.”
Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy’s family before, and they
didn’t surprise him at all. Malfoy made Dudley Dursley look like a kind,
thoughtful, and sensitive boy.
“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf. . . .” said Harry.
“Well, whoever owns him will be an old Wizarding family, and they’ll be
rich,” said Fred.
“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,” said
George. “But all we’ve got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all
over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and
places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in our house. . . .”
Harry was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco Malfoy usually had the
best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see
Malfoy strutting around a large manor house. Sending the family servant to
stop Harry from going back to Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of
thing Malfoy would do. Had Harry been stupid to take Dobby seriously?
“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron. “I was getting really
worried when you didn’t answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s
fault at first —”
“Who’s Errol?”
“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a
delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes —”
“Who?”
“The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made prefect,” said
Fred from the front.
“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said he needed him.”
“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said George, frowning.
“And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up
in his room. . . . I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect
badge. . . . You’re driving too far west, Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass
on the dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel.
“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said Harry, guessing the
answer.
“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully we’ll be able to get
it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.”
“What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?”
“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron. “The Misuse of
Muggle Artifacts Office.”
“The what?”
“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in
case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old
witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman
bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a
nightmare — Dad was working overtime for weeks.”
“What happened?”
“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one
man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad
was going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the
office — and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it
up —”
“But your dad — this car —”
Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles;
our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it
back together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put himself under
arrest. It drives Mum mad.”
“That’s the main road,” said George, peering down through the windshield.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes. . . . Just as well, it’s getting light. . . .”
A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east.
Fred brought the car lower, and Harry saw a dark patchwork of fields and
clumps of trees.
“We’re a little way outside the village,” said George. “Ottery St.
Catchpole.”
Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was
now gleaming through the trees.
“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They
had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry looked
out for the first time at Ron’s house.
It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms
had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked
it looked as though it were held up by magic (which, Harry reminded himself,
it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof.
A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, THE BURROW.
Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron.
Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.
“It’s not much,” said Ron.
“It’s wonderful,” said Harry happily, thinking of Privet Drive.
They got out of the car.
“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and wait for Mum to
call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going,
‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to see Harry
and no one need ever know we flew the car.”
“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, Harry, I sleep at the — at the top —”
Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The other
three wheeled around.
Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a
short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked
like a saber-toothed tiger.
“Ah,” said Fred.
“Oh, dear,” said George.
Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring
from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a
wand sticking out of the pocket.
“So,” she said.
“Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty,
winning voice.
“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly
whisper.
“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”
All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but they cowered
as her rage broke over them.
“Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind
with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until
your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or
Percy —”
“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.
“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S
BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. “You could
have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job
—”
It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse
before she turned on Harry, who backed away.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said. “Come in and have
some breakfast.”
She turned and walked back into the house and Harry, after a nervous
glance at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.
The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden
table and chairs in the middle, and Harry sat down on the edge of his seat,
looking around. He had never been in a wizard house before.
The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at
all. Written around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time to feed
the chickens, and You’re late. Books were stacked three deep on the
mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in
Baking, and One Minute Feasts — It’s Magic! And unless Harry’s ears were
deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming
up was “Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina
Warbeck.”
Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly,
throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan.
Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t know what you were
thinking of,” and “never would have believed it.”
“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping eight or nine sausages
onto his plate. “Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night
we were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you hadn’t written back
to Ron by Friday. But really” (she was now adding three fried eggs to his
plate), “flying an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone could have
seen you —”
She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to
clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.
“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred.
“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snapped.
“They were starving him, Mum!” said George.
“And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a slightly softened
expression that she started cutting Harry bread and buttering it for him.
At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, redheaded
figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal,
and ran out again.
“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My sister. She’s been talking
about you all summer.”
“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred said with a grin, but
he caught his mother’s eye and bent his face over his plate without another
word. Nothing more was said until all four plates were clean, which took a
surprisingly short time.
“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. “I
think I’ll go to bed and —”
“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up
all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting
completely out of hand again —”
“Oh, Mum —”
“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and George. “You can go up to
bed, dear,” she added to Harry. “You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car
—”
But Harry, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help Ron. I’ve never
seen a de-gnoming —”
“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s dull work,” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject —”
And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece. George
groaned.
“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”
Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book. Written across it in
fancy gold letters were the words Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household
Pests. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard
with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always in the Wizarding world,
the photograph was moving; the wizard, who Harry supposed was Gilderoy
Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down
at him.
“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his household pests, all right,
it’s a wonderful book. . . .”
“Mum fancies him,” said Fred, in a very audible whisper.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather pink.
“All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on
with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden when I
come out to inspect it.”
Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with Harry behind
them. The garden was large, and in Harry’s eyes, exactly what a garden
should be. The Dursleys wouldn’t have liked it — there were plenty of weeds,
and the grass needed cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the
walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling from every flower bed, and a big
green pond full of frogs.
“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry told Ron as they
crossed the lawn.
“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” said Ron, bent
double with his head in a peony bush, “like fat little Santa Clauses with
fishing rods. . . .”
There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ron
straightened up. “This is a gnome,” he said grimly.
“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome.
It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking,
with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s
length as it kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he grasped it around
the ankles and turned it upside down.
“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the gnome above his head
(“Gerroff me!”) and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the
shocked look on Harry’s face, Ron added, “It doesn’t hurt them — you’ve
just got to make them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the
gnomeholes.”
He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed
with a thud in the field over the hedge.
“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.”
Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. He decided just
to drop the first one he caught over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing
weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry’s finger and he had a hard job
shaking it off — until —
“Wow, Harry — that must’ve been fifty feet. . . .”
The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.
“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five or six gnomes at
once. “The moment they know the de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to
have a look. You’d think they’d have learned by now just to stay put.”
Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling
line, their little shoulders hunched.
“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the gnomes disappear into the
hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here. . . . Dad’s too soft with
them; he thinks they’re funny. . . .”
Just then, the front door slammed.
“He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!”
They hurried through the garden and back into the house.
Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his
eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as
red as any of his children’s. He was wearing long green robes, which were
dusty and travel-worn.
“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat down
around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a
hex on me when I had my back turned. . . .”
Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.
“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.
“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle,” yawned Mr.
Weasley. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn’t my department,
though. Mortlake was taken away for questioning about some extremely odd
ferrets, but that’s the Committee on Experimental Charms, thank
goodness. . . .”
“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” said George.
“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that keeps
shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it. . . . Of
course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their
key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them,
they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the
face. . . . But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t
believe —”
“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”
Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr.
Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.
“C-cars, Molly, dear?”
“Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a
wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it
was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to
make it fly.”
Mr. Weasley blinked.
“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do
that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife
the truth. . . . There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find. . . . As long as he
wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly wouldn’t —”
“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that
law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all
that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry arrived
this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!”
“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?”
He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.
“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so
much about —”
“Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back last night!” shouted
Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got to say about that, eh?”
“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I
mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was
very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed. . . .”
“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley swelled
like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”
They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an
uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On
the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just caught sight of a pair of bright
brown eyes staring at him before it closed with a snap.
“Ginny,” said Ron. “You don’t know how weird it is for her to be this shy.
She never shuts up normally —”
They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint
and a small plaque on it, saying RONALD’S ROOM.
Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and blinked.
It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed
to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling.
Then Harry realized that Ron had covered nearly every inch of the shabby
wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing
bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.
“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry.
“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread, which
was emblazoned with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth
in the league.”
Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of
comics that all seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad
Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn
on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat, Scabbers, who was snoozing in a
patch of sun.
Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and
looked out of the tiny window. In the field far below he could see a gang of
gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys’ hedge. Then he
turned to look at Ron, who was watching him almost nervously, as though
waiting for his opinion.
“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room you had with the
Muggles. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging
on the pipes and groaning. . . .”
But Harry, grinning widely, said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”
Ron’s ears went pink.
CHAPTER FOUR
AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS
L
ife at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive.
The Dursleys liked everything neat and ordered; the Weasleys’ house
burst with the strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first time he
looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted,“Tuck your
shirt in, scruffy!” The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever
he felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Fred and
George’s bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What Harry found most
unusual about life at Ron’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking
ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like him.
Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of his socks and tried to force him to eat
fourth helpings at every meal. Mr. Weasley liked Harry to sit next to him at
the dinner table so that he could bombard him with questions about life with
Muggles, asking him to explain how things like plugs and the postal service
worked.
“Fascinating!” he would say as Harry talked him through using a
telephone. “Ingenious, really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting
along without magic.”
Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after he had
arrived at the Burrow. He and Ron went down to breakfast to find Mr. and
Mrs. Weasley and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen table. The moment she
saw Harry, Ginny accidentally knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a
loud clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things over whenever
Harry entered a room. She dived under the table to retrieve the bowl and
emerged with her face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending he hadn’t
noticed this, Harry sat down and took the toast Mrs. Weasley offered him.
“Letters from school,” said Mr. Weasley, passing Harry and Ron identical
envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore
already knows you’re here, Harry — doesn’t miss a trick, that man. You
two’ve got them, too,” he added, as Fred and George ambled in, still in their
pajamas.
For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters. Harry’s
told him to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King’s Cross station on
September first. There was also a list of the new books he’d need for the
coming year.
SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart
Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart
Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart
Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart
Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Harry’s.
“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he said. “The new
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan — bet it’s a witch.”
At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and quickly busied himself with
the marmalade.
“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a quick look at his parents.
“Lockhart’s books are really expensive. . . .”
“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Weasley, but she looked worried. “I expect
we’ll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny’s things secondhand.”
“Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?” Harry asked Ginny.
She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair, and put her elbow in
the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Harry, because just then
Ron’s elder brother Percy walked in. He was already dressed, his Hogwarts
prefect badge pinned to his sweater vest.
“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.”
He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost
immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, gray feather duster — at
least, that was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that it was breathing.
“Errol!” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a letter
from under its wing. “Finally — he’s got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her
saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”
He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him
on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining
board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then he ripped open Hermione’s letter
and read it out loud:
“‘Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there,
“‘I hope everything went all right and that Harry is okay and that you
didn’t do anything illegal to get him out, Ron, because that would get Harry
into trouble, too. I’ve been really worried and if Harry is all right, will you
please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a
different owl, because I think another delivery might finish your one off.
“‘I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’ — How can she be?” said Ron
in horror. “We’re on vacation! — ‘and we’re going to London next
Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley?
“‘Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Love from
Hermione.’”
“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said
Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?”
Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small
paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from
view of the village below, meaning that they could practice Quidditch there,
as long as they didn’t fly too high. They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls,
which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away
over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took
turns riding Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom;
Ron’s old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies.
Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their
shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he
was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his
room the rest of the time.
“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning. “He’s not himself.
His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly
gloated at all.”
“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing Harry’s puzzled
look. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy
in the family. I don’t think I could stand the shame.”
Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had
already left Hogwarts. Harry had never met either of them, but knew that
Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt working for the
wizards’ bank, Gringotts.
“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this
year,” said George after a while. “Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny
needs robes and a wand and everything. . . .”
Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault
at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that his parents had left him. Of
course, it was only in the Wizarding world that he had money; you couldn’t
use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. He had never mentioned
his Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their horror of
anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.
Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick
half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs.
Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.
“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more
today. . . . Ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!”
And she offered him the flowerpot.
Harry stared at them all watching him.
“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered.
“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ron suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I
forgot.”
“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy
your school things last year?”
“I went on the Underground —”
“Really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Were there escapators? How exactly
—”
“Not now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear,
but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before —”
“He’ll be all right, Mum,” said Fred. “Harry, watch us first.”
He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the
fire, and threw the powder into the flames.
With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who
stepped right into it, shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished.
“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley told Harry as George dipped
his hand into the flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate. . . .”
“The right what?” said Harry nervously as the fire roared and whipped
George out of sight, too.
“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but
as long as you’ve spoken clearly —”
“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley, helping himself to
Floo powder, too.
“But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain to his aunt and
uncle?”
“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry reassured her. “Dudley would think it was a
brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that —”
“Well . . . all right . . . you go after Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, when
you get into the fire, say where you’re going —”
“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised.
“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot —”
“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace
—”
“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and
George.”
Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and
walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder
into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; he
opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.
“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed.
It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be
spinning very fast — the roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep
his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him feel sick — something
hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning
— now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face — squinting
through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched
glimpses of the rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches were churning inside
him — he closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then —
He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his glasses
snap.
Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding his
broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but where he was, he had
no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of
what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop — but nothing in here was
ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.
A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack
of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the
walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked
instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry
could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley.
The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit
the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently toward the door, but
before he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of
the glass — and one of them was the very last person Harry wanted to meet
when he was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy.
Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to his left;
he shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer
through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into the shop.
The man who followed could only be Draco’s father. He had the same pale,
pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop,
looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before
turning to his son and saying, “Touch nothing, Draco.”
Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I thought you were going
to buy me a present.”
“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his father, drumming his
fingers on the counter.
“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” said Malfoy,
looking sulky and bad-tempered. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand
last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for
Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s famous . . . famous
for having a stupid scar on his forehead. . . .”
Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.
“. . . everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his
broomstick —”
“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” said Mr. Malfoy,
with a quelling look at his son. “And I would remind you that it is not —
prudent — to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our
kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear — ah, Mr.
Borgin.”
A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair
back from his face.
“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Borgin in a voice
as oily as his hair. “Delighted — and young Master Malfoy, too — charmed.
How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very
reasonably priced —”
“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mr. Malfoy.
“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face.
“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,”
said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and
unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few — ah — items at home that
might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call. . . .”
Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.
“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?”
Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled.
“I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain
respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors
about a new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggleloving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it —”
Harry felt a hot surge of anger.
“— and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear —”
“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see . . .”
“Can I have that?” interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its
cushion.
“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list
and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the
holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”
“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,”
said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no
offense meant —”
“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still,
“that may indeed be all he is fit for —”
“It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all have favorites, that
Hermione Granger —”
“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family
beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy.
“Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both
abashed and angry.
“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. “Wizard blood is
counting for less everywhere —”
“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.
“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow.
“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I
am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere
today —”
They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and
nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to
examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card
propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed
— Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.
Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked
forward — he stretched out his hand for the handle —
“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. “Come, Draco —”
Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away.
“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to
pick up the goods.”
The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.
“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven’t
sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor. . . .”
Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry waited
for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the
cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door.
Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared around. He had
emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops
devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked
like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads
and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two
shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway,
muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his
glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be able to find a way out of
here.
An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles
told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never
heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly enough through
his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys’ fire. Trying to stay calm, he
wondered what to do.
“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in his ear, making him jump.
An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly
like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry
backed away.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m just —”
“HARRY! What d’yeh think yer doin’ down there?”
Harry’s heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of fingernails cascaded down
over her feet and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts
gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his
great bristling beard.
“Hagrid!” Harry croaked in relief. “I was lost — Floo powder —”
Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away from
the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them
all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight. Harry saw a
familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance — Gringotts Bank.
Hagrid had steered him right into Diagon Alley.
“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off Harry so forcefully he
nearly knocked him into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary.
“Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, I dunno — dodgy place, Harry — don’
want no one ter see yeh down there —”
“I realized that,” said Harry, ducking as Hagrid made to brush him off
again. “I told you, I was lost — what were you doing down there, anyway?”
“I was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” growled Hagrid. “They’re
ruinin’ the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?”
“I’m staying with the Weasleys but we got separated,” Harry explained.
“I’ve got to go and find them. . . .”
They set off together down the street.
“How come yeh never wrote back ter me?” said Hagrid as Harry jogged
alongside him (he had to take three steps to every stride of Hagrid’s enormous
boots). Harry explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys.
“Lousy Muggles,” growled Hagrid. “If I’d’ve known —”
“Harry! Harry! Over here!”
Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the
white flight of steps to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her bushy
brown hair flying behind her.
“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid — Oh, it’s wonderful to
see you two again — Are you coming into Gringotts, Harry?”
“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Harry.
“Yeh won’t have long ter wait,” Hagrid said with a grin.
Harry and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street were
Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley.
“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only gone one grate too
far. . . .” He mopped his glistening bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s
coming now —”
“Where did you come out?” Ron asked.
“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly.
“Excellent!” said Fred and George together.
“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.
“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid.
Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly
in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other.
“Oh, Harry — oh, my dear — you could have been anywhere —”
Gasping for breath, she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and
began sweeping off the soot Hagrid hadn’t managed to beat away. Mr.
Weasley took Harry’s glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and returned
them, good as new.
“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his hand wrung by Mrs.
Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you hadn’t found him, Hagrid!”). “See yer at
Hogwarts!” And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in
the packed street.
“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry asked Ron and Hermione
as they climbed the Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.”
“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley sharply behind them.
“No, he was selling —”
“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to
get Lucius Malfoy for something. . . .”
“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply as they were bowed
into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting
off more than you can chew —”
“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” said Mr. Weasley
indignantly, but he was distracted almost at once by the sight of Hermione’s
parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran all along the
great marble hall, waiting for Hermione to introduce them.
“But you’re Muggles!” said Mr. Weasley delightedly. “We must have a
drink! What’s that you’ve got there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money.
Molly, look!” He pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr. Granger’s
hand.
“Meet you back here,” Ron said to Hermione as the Weasleys and Harry
were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin.
The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped
along miniature train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry
enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ vault, but felt dreadful,
far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a
very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs.
Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag.
Harry felt even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to block the
contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag.
Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered
vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their friend
from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were going to a
secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers off
to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.
“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,”
said Mrs. Weasley, setting off with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn
Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the winding, cobbled street.
The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry’s pocket was
clamoring to be spent, so he bought three large strawberry-and-peanut-butter
ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley,
examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed longingly at a full set of
Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until
Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door. In Gambol
and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who
were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks,
and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old
cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small
and deeply boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power.
“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers,” Ron read aloud off
the back cover. “That sounds fascinating. . . .”
“Go away,” Percy snapped.
“’Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all planned out. . . . He
wants to be Minister of Magic . . .” Ron told Harry and Hermione in an
undertone as they left Percy to it.
An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means
the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they
saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in.
The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the
upper windows:
GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.
“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I mean, he’s written
almost the whole booklist!”
The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley’s
age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please,
ladies. . . . Don’t push, there . . . mind the books, now. . . .”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long line wound right to the
back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each
grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the
line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs.
Granger.
“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless and
kept patting her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute. . . .”
Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by
large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth
at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that
exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on
his wavy hair.
A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with
a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding
flash.
“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot.
“This is for the Daily Prophet —”
“Big deal,” said Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped
on it.
Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron — and then he
saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It
can’t be Harry Potter?”
The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized
Harry’s arm, and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause.
Harry’s face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who
was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.
“Nice big smile, Harry,” said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth.
“Together, you and I are worth the front page.”
When he finally let go of Harry’s hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers.
He tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around
his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an
extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little
announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!
“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only
wanted to buy my autobiography — which I shall be happy to present him
now, free of charge —” The crowd applauded again. “He had no idea,”
Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to
the end of his nose, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than
my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the
real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in
announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense
Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry!”
The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found himself being presented
with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their
weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the
room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron.
“You have these,” Harry mumbled to her, tipping the books into the
cauldron. “I’ll buy my own —”
“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice Harry had no trouble
recognizing. He straightened up and found himself face-to-face with Draco
Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer.
“Famous Harry Potter,” said Malfoy. “Can’t even go into a bookshop
without making the front page.”
“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny. It was the first time
she had spoken in front of Harry. She was glaring at Malfoy.
“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” drawled Malfoy. Ginny went
scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of
Lockhart’s books.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something
unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here,
eh?”
“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” retorted Malfoy.
“I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”
Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into the cauldron, too, and
started toward Malfoy, but Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his
jacket.
“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. “What are
you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”
“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”
It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco’s shoulder, sneering in
just the same way.
“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.
“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy. “All those raids . . . I
hope they’re paying you overtime?”
He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy
Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to
Transfiguration.
“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a
disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”
Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.
“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard,
Malfoy,” he said.
“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs. Granger,
who were watching apprehensively. “The company you keep, Weasley . . .
and I thought your family could sink no lower —”
There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley
had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf.
Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there
was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley was
shrieking, “No, Arthur, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more
shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the assistant, and then,
louder than all —
“Break it up, there, gents, break it up —”
Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he
had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and
Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. He was
still holding Ginny’s old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes
glittering with malice.
“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your father can give you —”
Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the
shop.
“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid, almost lifting Mr.
Weasley off his feet as he straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the
whole family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth listenin’ ter — bad
blood, that’s what it is — come on now — let’s get outta here.”
The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them leaving, but he
barely came up to Hagrid’s waist and seemed to think better of it. They
hurried up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mrs. Weasley
beside herself with fury.
“A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in public . . . what
Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought —”
“He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as we were leaving? He
was asking that bloke from the Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight
into his report — said it was all publicity —”
But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky
Cauldron, where Harry, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be
traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good-bye to the
Grangers, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side;
Mr. Weasley started to ask them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at
the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face.
Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket before helping
himself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn’t his favorite way to travel.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE WHOMPING WILLOW
T
he end of the summer vacation came too quickly for Harry’s liking. He
was looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but his month at the
Burrow had been the happiest of his life. It was difficult not to feel jealous of
Ron when he thought of the Dursleys and the sort of welcome he could expect
next time he turned up on Privet Drive.
On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a sumptuous dinner that
included all of Harry’s favorite things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle
pudding. Fred and George rounded off the evening with a display of Filibuster
fireworks; they filled the kitchen with red and blue stars that bounced from
ceiling to wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot
chocolate and bed.
It took a long while to get started next morning. They were up at dawn, but
somehow they still seemed to have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed
about in a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people kept colliding
on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley
nearly broke his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed the yard
carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.
Harry couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks, two owls, and a rat
were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. He had reckoned, of course,
without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added.
“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Harry as he opened the trunk and
showed him how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fitted
easily.
When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the back
seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably
side by side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give them credit for,
don’t they?” She and Ginny got into the front seat, which had been stretched
so that it resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it was this
roomy from the outside, would you?”
Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, Harry
turning back for a last look at the house. He barely had time to wonder when
he’d see it again when they were back — George had forgotten his box of
Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard
so that Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had almost reached the
highway when Ginny shrieked that she’d left her diary. By the time she had
clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were
running high.
Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his wife.
“Molly, dear —”
“No, Arthur —”
“No one would see — this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I
installed — that’d get us up in the air — then we fly above the clouds. We’d
be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser —”
“I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight —”
They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr. Weasley dashed
across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all hurried into the
station.
Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part
was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the
Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing
platforms nine and ten. It didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that
none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.
“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at the clock overhead,
which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the
barrier.
Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. Weasley went next; Fred
and George followed.
“I’ll take Ginny and you two come right after us,” Mrs. Weasley told Harry
and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand and setting off. In the blink of an eye they
were gone.
“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said to Harry.
Harry made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely wedged on top of his trunk
and wheeled his trolley around to face the barrier. He felt perfectly confident;
this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder. Both of them bent
low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the
barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and —
CRASH.
Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Ron’s trunk fell off
with a loud thump, Harry was knocked off his feet, and Hedwig’s cage
bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly;
people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes
d’you think you’re doing?”
“Lost control of the trolley,” Harry gasped, clutching his ribs as he got up.
Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot
of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.
“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed to Ron.
“I dunno —”
Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching
them.
“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered. “I don’t understand why
the gateway’s sealed itself —”
Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of his
stomach. Ten seconds . . . nine seconds . . .
He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the
barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid.
Three seconds . . . two seconds . . . one second . . .
“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned. “The train’s left. What if Mum
and Dad can’t get back through to us? Have you got any Muggle money?”
Harry gave a hollow laugh. “The Dursleys haven’t given me pocket money
for about six years.”
Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.
“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely. “What’re we going to do? I don’t
know how long it’ll take Mum and Dad to get back to us.”
They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of
Hedwig’s continuing screeches.
“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said Harry. “We’re attracting
too much atten —”
“Harry!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”
“What about it?”
“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”
“But I thought —”
“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school, haven’t we? And even
underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it’s a real emergency, section
nineteen or something of the Restriction of Thingy —”
“But your mum and dad . . .” said Harry, pushing against the barrier again
in the vain hope that it would give way. “How will they get home?”
“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently. “They know how to
Apparate! You know, just vanish and reappear at home! They only bother
with Floo powder and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not
allowed to Apparate yet. . . .”
Harry’s feeling of panic turned suddenly to excitement.
“Can you fly it?”
“No problem,” said Ron, wheeling his trolley around to face the exit.
“C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we’ll be able to follow the Hogwarts Express
—”
And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of the
station and back onto the side road where the old Ford Anglia was parked.
Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from his wand.
They heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into
the front.
“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the ignition with another
tap of his wand. Harry stuck his head out of the window: Traffic was
rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty.
“Okay,” he said.
Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them
vanished — and so did they. Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him,
hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his glasses on his nose, but
for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet
above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.
“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from his right.
And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping
out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and
glittering, below them.
Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, and Ron reappeared.
“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. “It’s faulty —”
Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again.
“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they
shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.
“Now what?” said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on
them from all sides.
“We need to see the train to know what direction to go in,” said Ron.
“Dip back down again — quickly —”
They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats,
squinting at the ground.
“I can see it!” Harry yelled. “Right ahead — there!”
The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.
“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard. “Okay,
we’ll just have to check on it every half hour or so — hold on —”
And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a
blaze of sunlight.
It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy
cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.
“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said Ron.
They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they
couldn’t stop.
It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This,
thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of
snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in
the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s
jealous faces when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping
lawn in front of Hogwarts castle.
They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther
north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. London
was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn
to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants,
villages with tiny toy churches.
Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to admit that some of
the fun was wearing off. The toffees had made them extremely thirsty and
they had nothing to drink. He and Ron had pulled off their sweaters, but
Harry’s T-shirt was sticking to the back of his seat and his glasses kept sliding
down to the end of his sweaty nose. He had stopped noticing the fantastic
cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where
you could buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump
witch. Why hadn’t they been able to get onto platform nine and threequarters?
“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ron, hours later still, as the sun
started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for
another check on the train?”
It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped mountain.
It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds.
Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he
did so, the engine began to whine.
Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.
“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron. “It’s never been this far before. . . .”
And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and
louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the
blackness. Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the
windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest.
“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to Harry, “not far now,” and he
patted the dashboard nervously.
When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to
squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.
“There!” Harry shouted, making Ron and Hedwig jump. “Straight ahead!”
Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the
many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.
But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.
“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake,
“nearly there, come on —”
The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the
hood. Harry found himself gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they
flew toward the lake.
The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his window, Harry saw the
smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Ron’s knuckles were
white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.
“Come on,” Ron muttered.
They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead — Ron put his foot
down.
There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.
“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence.
The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading
straight for the solid castle wall.
“Noooooo!” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed
the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the
dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns,
losing altitude all the time.
Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his
back pocket —
“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, but
they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them —
“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed, lunging for the
steering wheel, but too late —
CRUNCH.
With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk
and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under
the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-sized lump
was throbbing on Harry’s head where he had hit the windshield; and to his
right, Ron let out a low, despairing groan.
“Are you okay?” Harry said urgently.
“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my wand —”
It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few
splinters.
Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they’d be able to mend it up at
the school, but he never even got started. At that very moment, something hit
his side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending him lurching
sideways into Ron, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.
“What’s happen — ?”
Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harry looked around just
in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit
was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs
were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.
“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his
door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knucklelike twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on
the roof, which seemed to be caving —
“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight against his door, but
next second he had been knocked backward into Harry’s lap by a vicious
uppercut from another branch.
“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor
of the car was vibrating — the engine had restarted.
“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still
trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself
up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.
“That,” panted Ron, “was close. Well done, car —”
The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp clunks,
the doors flew open and Harry felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew
he was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him that the car was
ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and
burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the
castle without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the
car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.
“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand. “Dad’ll
kill me!”
But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust.
“Can you believe our luck?” said Ron miserably, bending down to pick up
Scabbers. “Of all the trees we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its
branches threateningly.
“Come on,” said Harry wearily, “we’d better get up to the school. . . .”
It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and
bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the
grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.
“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron, dropping his trunk at the foot
of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window.
“Hey — Harry — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”
Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered in at the Great Hall.
Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded
tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched
ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars.
Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harry saw a long line
of scared-looking first years filing into the Hall. Ginny was among them,
easily visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Meanwhile, Professor
McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing
the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.
Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new
students into the four Hogwarts Houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw,
and Slytherin). Harry well remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago,
and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. For a
few horrible seconds he had feared that the hat was going to put him in
Slytherin, the House that had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than
any other — but he had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron, Hermione,
and the rest of the Weasleys. Last term, Harry and Ron had helped Gryffindor
win the House Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in seven
years.
A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on
his head. Harry’s eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the
headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard
and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along,
Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at
the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.
“Hang on . . .” Harry muttered to Ron. “There’s an empty chair at the staff
table. . . . Where’s Snape?”
Professor Severus Snape was Harry’s least favorite teacher. Harry also
happened to be Snape’s least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by
everybody except the students from his own House (Slytherin), Snape taught
Potions.
“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully.
“Maybe he’s left,” said Harry, “because he missed out on the Defense
Against the Dark Arts job again!”
“Or he might have been sacked!” said Ron enthusiastically. “I mean,
everyone hates him —”
“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he’s waiting to hear
why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.”
Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood
Severus Snape. He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and
greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he was smiling in a
way that told Harry he and Ron were in very deep trouble.
“Follow me,” said Snape.
Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and Ron followed Snape up
the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming
torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Snape
led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that
led into the dungeons.
“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and
pointing.
They entered Snape’s office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with
shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things
Harry didn’t really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace
was dark and empty. Snape closed the door and turned to look at them.
“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Harry
Potter and his faithful sidekick Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did
we, boys?”
“No, sir, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it —”
“Silence!” said Snape coldly. “What have you done with the car?”
Ron gulped. This wasn’t the first time Snape had given Harry the
impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, he understood, as
Snape unrolled today’s issue of the Evening Prophet.
“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the headline: FLYING FORD
ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES. He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in
London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower . . .
at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing . . .
Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police . . . Six or seven Muggles in
all. I believe your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he
said, looking up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. “Dear, dear . . . his own
son . . .”
Harry felt as though he’d just been walloped in the stomach by one of the
mad tree’s larger branches. If anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched
the car . . . he hadn’t thought of that. . . .
“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to
have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Snape went on.
“That tree did more damage to us than we —” Ron blurted out.
“Silence!” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately, you are not in my
House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and
fetch the people who do have that happy power. You will wait here.”
Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced. Harry didn’t feel hungry
anymore. He now felt extremely sick. He tried not to look at a large, slimy
something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Snape’s desk. If Snape
had gone to fetch Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they
were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than Snape, but she was still
extremely strict.
Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough it was Professor
McGonagall who accompanied him. Harry had seen Professor McGonagall
angry on several occasions, but either he had forgotten just how thin her
mouth could go, or he had never seen her this angry before. She raised her
wand the moment she entered; Harry and Ron both flinched, but she merely
pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted.
“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire.
“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.
Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing
to let them through.
“— so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on the train.”
“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?”
Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.
Harry gaped at her. Now she said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have
done.
“I — I didn’t think —”
“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.”
There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now looking happier than
ever, opened it. There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.
Harry’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave.
He stared down his very crooked nose at them, and Harry suddenly found
himself wishing he and Ron were still being beaten up by the Whomping
Willow.
There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, “Please explain why you
did this.”
It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry hated the
disappointment in his voice. For some reason, he was unable to look
Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told Dumbledore
everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound
as though he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked outside the
station. He knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but
Dumbledore asked no questions about the car. When Harry had finished, he
merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.
“We’ll go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless sort of voice.
“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked Professor McGonagall.
“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.
Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore.
“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore. “But I must impress upon
both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to both
your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this
again, I will have no choice but to expel you.”
Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his throat
and said, “Professor Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for the
Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and
valuable tree — surely acts of this nature —”
“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys’ punishments,
Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly. “They are in her House and are therefore
her responsibility.” He turned to Professor McGonagall. “I must go back to
the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a
delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample —”
Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as he allowed himself to
be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall,
who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.
“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you’re bleeding.”
“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve.
“Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted —”
“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor McGonagall. “Your sister
is also in Gryffindor.”
“Oh, good,” said Ron.
“And speaking of Gryffindor —” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but
Harry cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so
Gryffindor shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should it?” he
finished, watching her anxiously.
Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but he was sure she had
almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.
“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said, and Harry’s heart
lightened considerably. “But you will both get a detention.”
It was better than Harry had expected. As for Dumbledore’s writing to the
Dursleys, that was nothing. Harry knew perfectly well they’d just be
disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t squashed him flat.
Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape’s
desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced
pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.
“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitory,” she said.
“I must also return to the feast.”
When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a long, low whistle.
“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.
“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too.
“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly through a mouthful
of chicken and ham. “Fred and George must’ve flown that car five or six
times and no Muggle ever saw them.” He swallowed and took another huge
bite. “Why couldn’t we get through the barrier?”
Harry shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from now on, though,” he
said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to
the feast. . . .”
“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely. “Doesn’t want people
to think it’s clever, arriving by flying car.”
When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate kept
refilling itself), they rose and left the office, treading the familiar path to
Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over.
They walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armor, and climbed
narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage where the
secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a
very fat woman in a pink silk dress.
“Password?” she said as they approached.
“Er —” said Harry.
They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having met a Gryffindor
prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; they heard hurrying feet
behind them and turned to see Hermione dashing toward them.
“There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors —
someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car —”
“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her.
“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said Hermione, sounding almost
as severe as Professor McGonagall.
“Skip the lecture,” said Ron impatiently, “and tell us the new password.”
“It’s ‘wattlebird,’” said Hermione impatiently, “but that’s not the point —”
Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the fat lady swung
open and there was a sudden storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole
of Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the circular common room,
standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to
arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Harry and Ron inside,
leaving Hermione to scramble in after them.
“Brilliant!” yelled Lee Jordan. “Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car
right into the Whomping Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years
—”
“Good for you,” said a fifth year Harry had never spoken to; someone was
patting him on the back as though he’d just won a marathon; Fred and George
pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said together, “Why couldn’t
we’ve come in the car, eh?” Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning
embarrassedly, but Harry could see one person who didn’t look happy at all.
Percy was visible over the heads of some excited first years, and he seemed to
be trying to get near enough to start telling them off. Harry nudged Ron in the
ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction. Ron got the point at once.
“Got to get upstairs — bit tired,” he said, and the two of them started
pushing their way toward the door on the other side of the room, which led to
a spiral staircase and the dormitories.
“’Night,” Harry called back to Hermione, who was wearing a scowl just
like Percy’s.
They managed to get to the other side of the common room, still having
their backs slapped, and gained the peace of the staircase. They hurried up it,
right to the top, and at last reached the door of their old dormitory, which now
had a sign on it saying SECOND YEARS. They entered the familiar, circular
room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet and its high, narrow
windows. Their trunks had been brought up for them and stood at the ends of
their beds.
Ron grinned guiltily at Harry.
“I know I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed that or anything, but —”
The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second year
Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom.
“Unbelievable!” beamed Seamus.
“Cool,” said Dean.
“Amazing,” said Neville, awestruck.
Harry couldn’t help it. He grinned, too.
CHAPTER SIX
GILDEROY LOCKHART
T
he next day, however, Harry barely grinned once. Things started to go
downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long House tables
were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and
dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy
gray). Harry and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, who
had her copy of Voyages with Vampires propped open against a milk jug.
There was a slight stiffness in the way she said “Morning,” which told Harry
that she was still disapproving of the way they had arrived. Neville
Longbottom, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a roundfaced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Harry had
ever met.
“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a few things I forgot.”
Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure enough, there was a
rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the
hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big,
lumpy package bounced off Neville’s head and, a second later, something
large and gray fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk and
feathers.
“Errol!” said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol
slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red
envelope in his beak.
“Oh, no —” Ron gasped.
“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with
the tip of her finger.
“It’s not that — it’s that.”
Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to Harry, but
Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode.
“What’s the matter?” said Harry.
“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ron faintly.
“You’d better open it, Ron,” said Neville in a timid whisper. “It’ll be worse
if you don’t. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped —
“it was horrible.”
Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.
“What’s a Howler?” he said.
But Ron’s whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to
smoke at the corners.
“Open it,” Neville urged. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes —”
Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol’s beak,
and slit it open. Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears. A split second later,
Harry knew why. He thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound
filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.
“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF
THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I
DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND
I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —”
Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates
and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls.
People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the
Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead
could be seen.
“— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR
FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO
BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —”
Harry had been wondering when his name was going to crop up. He tried
very hard to look as though he couldn’t hear the voice that was making his
eardrums throb.
“— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN
INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT
ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK
HOME.”
A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron’s
hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat stunned, as
though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and,
gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.
Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of
Ron’s head.
“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ron, but you —”
“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ron.
Harry pushed his porridge away. His insides were burning with guilt. Mr.
Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had
done for him over the summer . . .
But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving
along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules. Harry took his and
saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable
patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At
least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think they
had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.
As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing
outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just
joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied
by Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and
with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the Whomping Willow in the
distance, several of its branches now in slings.
Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her
flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her
fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint. Gilderoy Lockhart, however,
was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under
a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.
“Oh, hello there!” he called, beaming around at the assembled students.
“Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping
Willow! But I don’t want you running away with the idea that I’m better at
Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants
on my travels . . .”
“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor Sprout, who was looking
distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.
There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse
one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous
plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door.
Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy
perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. He
was about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out.
“Harry! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if he’s a couple of
minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?”
Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said,
“That’s the ticket,” and closed the greenhouse door in her face.
“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he
shook his head. “Harry, Harry, Harry.”
Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.
“When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked
myself.”
Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was about to say so when
Lockhart went on, “Don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to
Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d done it. Stood out a
mile. Harry, Harry, Harry.”
It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth
even when he wasn’t talking.
“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said Lockhart. “Gave you the
bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait
to do it again.”
“Oh, no, Professor, see —”
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping his
shoulder. “I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you’ve had that first
taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to
your head — but see here, young man, you can’t start flying cars to try and
get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that
when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for
him, he’s an internationally famous wizard already!’ But when I was twelve, I
was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more
of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that
business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” He glanced at the lightning
scar on Harry’s forehead. “I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning
Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have —
but it’s a start, Harry, it’s a start.”
He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry stood stunned for a few
seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he
opened the door and slid inside.
Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the
greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored earmuffs were lying on
the bench. When Harry had taken his place between Ron and Hermione, she
said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the
properties of the Mandrake?”
To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into the air.
“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” said Hermione,
sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. “It is used to
return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state.”
“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout. “The
Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however,
dangerous. Who can tell me why?”
Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harry’s glasses as it shot up again.
“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said
promptly.
“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor Sprout. “Now, the
Mandrakes we have here are still very young.”
She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled
forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in
color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to Harry,
who didn’t have the slightest idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the
Mandrake.
“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout.
There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t pink and
fluffy.
“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely
covered,” said Professor Sprout. “When it is safe to remove them, I will give
you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on.”
Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound completely.
Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the
sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.
Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.
Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of
the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green,
mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.
Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged
the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted
leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the
thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.
“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won’t kill yet,” she said
calmly as though she’d just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia.
“However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of
you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in
place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up.
“Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the
sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.”
She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it
draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by a curly-haired
Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but had never spoken to.
“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking Harry by the hand.
“Know who you are, of course, the famous Harry Potter. . . . And you’re
Hermione Granger — always top in everything” (Hermione beamed as she
had her hand shaken too) “— and Ron Weasley. Wasn’t that your flying car?”
Ron didn’t smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind.
“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t he?” said Justin happily as they began
filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. “Awfully brave chap. Have
you read his books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been cornered in a telephone
booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic.
“My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell you how glad I am I
came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I
made her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see how useful it’ll be
to have a fully trained wizard in the family. . . .”
After that they didn’t have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were back
on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had
made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t. The Mandrakes didn’t like coming
out of the earth, but didn’t seem to want to go back into it either. They
squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harry
spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.
By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and
covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and
then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was
especially difficult. Everything Harry had learned last year seemed to have
leaked out of his head during the summer. He was supposed to be turning a
beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give his beetle a lot of
exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand.
Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with
some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It
kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to
transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of
rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his
beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall
wasn’t pleased.
Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain felt like a wrung
sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except him and Ron, who was
whacking his wand furiously on the desk.
“Stupid — useless — thing —”
“Write home for another one,” Harry suggested as the wand let off a volley
of bangs like a firecracker.
“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ron, stuffing the now
hissing wand into his bag. “‘It’s your own fault your wand got snapped —’”
They went down to lunch, where Ron’s mood was not improved by
Hermione’s showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons she had
produced in Transfiguration.
“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harry, hastily changing the subject.
“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at once.
“Why,” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have you outlined all
Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”
Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.
They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard.
Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with
Vampires again. Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several
minutes before Harry became aware that he was being closely watched.
Looking up, he saw the very small, mousy-haired boy he’d seen trying on the
Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though transfixed. He was clutching
what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry looked
at him, he went bright red.
“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a
tentative step forward. “I’m in Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all
right if — can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully.
“A picture?” Harry repeated blankly.
“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further
forward. “I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived
when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and
everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead” (his
eyes raked Harry’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the
film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.” Colin drew a great shuddering
breath of excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I never knew all the
odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a
milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send
home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you” — he looked
imploringly at Harry — “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand
next to you? And then, could you sign it?”
“Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos, Potter?”
Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed around the courtyard. He
had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his
large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.
“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd. “Harry Potter’s giving out
signed photos!”
“No, I’m not,” said Harry angrily, his fists clenching. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick
as Crabbe’s neck.
“Jealous?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout anymore: Half the
courtyard was listening in. “Of what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my
head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open makes you that special,
myself.”
Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.
“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started
rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.
“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy. “You don’t want to start any
trouble or your mummy’ll have to come and take you away from school.” He
put on a shrill, piercing voice. “‘If you put another toe out of line’ —”
A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this.
“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked Malfoy. “It’d be
worth more than his family’s whole house —”
Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with
Vampires with a snap and whispered, “Look out!”
“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward
them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. “Who’s giving out signed
photos?”
Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm
around his shoulders and thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet
again, Harry!”
Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy
slide smirking back into the crowd.
“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. “A double
portrait, can’t do better than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.”
Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind
them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.
“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set
off back to the castle with Harry, who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing
Spell, still clasped to his side.
“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the
building through a side door. “I covered up for you back there with young
Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won’t think
you’re setting yourself up so much. . . .”
Deaf to Harry’s stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with
staring students and up a staircase.
“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your
career isn’t sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may
well come a time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy wherever
you go, but” — he gave a little chortle — “I don’t think you’re quite there
yet.”
They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and he let Harry go at last. Harry
yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class,
where he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s books in front of
him, so that he could avoid looking at the real thing.
The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on
either side of Harry.
“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ron. “You’d better hope
Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or they’ll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.”
“Shut up,” snapped Harry. The last thing he needed was for Lockhart to
hear the phrase “Harry Potter fan club.”
When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and
silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of
Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the
front.
“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well. “Gilderoy Lockhart,
Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense
League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award
— but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by
smiling at her!”
He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.
“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I
thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to
check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in —”
When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class
and said, “You have thirty minutes — start — now!”
Harry looked down at his paper and read:
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?
3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to
date?
On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift
be?
Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in
front of the class.
“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I
say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with
Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal
birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples —
though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!”
He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with
an expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas,
who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione, on the
other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start
when he mentioned her name.
“. . . but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the
world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In
fact” — he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is Miss Hermione
Granger?”
Hermione raised a trembling hand.
“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart. “Quite excellent! Take ten points for
Gryffindor! And so — to business —”
He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.
“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures
known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this
room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is
that you remain calm.”
In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look
at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had
stopped laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front row seat.
“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice. “It might
provoke them.”
As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.
“Yes,” he said dramatically. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies.”
Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out a snort of laughter
that even Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror.
“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus.
“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are they?” Seamus
choked.
“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at
Seamus. “Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!”
The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed
faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The
moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and
rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people
nearest them.
“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly. “Let’s see what you make of them!”
And he opened the cage.
It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two
of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot
straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The
rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging
rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded
books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, upended the wastebasket,
grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within
minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging
from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.
“Come on now — round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies,”
Lockhart shouted.
He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, “Peskipiksi
Pesternomi!”
It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it
out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk,
narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the
chandelier gave way.
The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm
that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, and
Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, “Well, I’ll ask you three to
just nip the rest of them back into their cage.” He swept past them and shut
the door quickly behind him.
“Can you believe him?” roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him
painfully on the ear.
“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” said Hermione,
immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing
them back into their cage.
“Hands on?” said Harry, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of
reach with its tongue out. “Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was
doing —”
“Rubbish,” said Hermione. “You’ve read his books — look at all those
amazing things he’s done —”
“He says he’s done,” Ron muttered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS
H
arry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight
whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder
to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry’s
schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, “All right,
Harry?” six or seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back, however
exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the disastrous car journey and
Ron’s wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by
shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms and hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick
squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had
struck. So with one thing and another, Harry was quite glad to reach the
weekend. He, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday
morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than he
would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.
“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!”
Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the
pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn’t understand how he
could have slept through the racket the birds were making.
“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.”
“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the
moment, his eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our
new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,” said Wood
heartily. “None of the other teams have started training yet; we’re going to be
first off the mark this year —”
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find
his Quidditch robes.
“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.”
When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for
warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he’d gone and went
down the spiral staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two Thousand on
his shoulder. He had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter
behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his
camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I’ve
got here! I’ve had it developed, I wanted to show you —”
Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his
nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harry
recognized as his own. He was pleased to see that his photographic self was
putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As Harry
watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of
the picture.
“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.
“No,” said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that the room was really
deserted. “Sorry, Colin, I’m in a hurry — Quidditch practice —”
He climbed through the portrait hole.
“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch game before!”
Colin scrambled through the hole after him.
“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face
shining with excitement.
“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you,
Harry? Weren’t you?” said Colin, trotting alongside him. “You must be
brilliant. I’ve never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best
one there is?”
Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like having an extremely
talkative shadow.
“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin breathlessly. “Is it true
there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off
their brooms?”
“Yes,” said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of
Quidditch. “They’re called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team
who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George
Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.”
“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked, tripping down a couple of
steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Harry.
“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is the one that scores
goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try
and get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch — they’re three long
poles with hoops on the end.”
“And the fourth ball —”
“— is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it’s very small, very fast, and
difficult to catch. But that’s what the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of
Quidditch doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever
team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and fifty
points.”
“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said Colin in awe.
“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started across the dewdrenched grass. “And there’s the Keeper, too. He guards the goalposts. That’s
it, really.”
But Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns
to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he reached the
changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a
good seat, Harry!” and hurried off to the stands.
The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood
was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were
sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who
seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers,
Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.
“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood briskly. “Now, I wanted
a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent
the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will
make all the difference. . . .”
Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were
drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different-colored inks. He took out
his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram
like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred
Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s shoulder and he began to
snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was
another board under that, and a third under that one. Harry sank into a stupor
as Wood droned on and on.
“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about
what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is
that clear? Any questions?”
“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had woken with a start.
“Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?”
Wood wasn’t pleased.
“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all. “We should have
won the Quidditch Cup last year. We’re easily the best team. But
unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control —”
Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital
wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had
been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was
clearly still torturing him.
“So this year, we train harder than ever before. . . . Okay, let’s go and put
our new theories into practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and
leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his
team followed.
They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely
now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry
walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously.
“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and
marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s
been teaching us new moves.”
He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the
air. The cool morning air whipped his face, waking him far more effectively
than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. He
soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.
“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Fred as they hurtled around the
corner.
Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats,
his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified
in the deserted stadium.
“Look this way, Harry! This way!” he cried shrilly.
“Who’s that?” said Fred.
“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away
as possible from Colin.
“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air
toward them. “Why’s that first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could
be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program.”
“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly.
“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said George.
“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily.
“Because they’re here in person,” said George, pointing.
Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in
their hands.
“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “I booked the field for today!
We’ll see about this!”
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his
anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and George
followed.
“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. “This is our practice time!
We got up specially! You can clear off now!”
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning
on his face as he replied, “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls on the
Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors,
leering to a man.
“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage. “I
booked it!”
“Ah,” said Flint. “But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor
Snape. ‘I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice
today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.’”
“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted. “Where?”
And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller
boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.
“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking at Malfoy with
dislike.
“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint as the whole
Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. “Let me show you the generous gift
he’s made to the Slytherin team.”
All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brandnew handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus
Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early
morning sun.
“Very latest model. Only came out last month,” said Flint carelessly,
flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. “I believe it outstrips the old
Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps”
— he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both clutching
Cleansweep Fives — “sweeps the board with them.”
None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment.
Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
“Oh, look,” said Flint. “A field invasion.”
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.
“What’s happening?” Ron asked Harry. “Why aren’t you playing? And
what’s he doing here?”
He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.
“I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,” said Malfoy, smugly.
“Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my father’s bought our team.”
Ron gaped, openmouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.
“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly. “But perhaps the Gryffindor
team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could
raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.”
The Slytherin team howled with laughter.
“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said
Hermione sharply. “They got in on pure talent.”
The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered.
“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he spat.
Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because
there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy
to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “How dare you!”,
and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll
pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at
Malfoy’s face.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of
the wrong end of Ron’s wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him
reeling backward onto the grass.
“Ron! Ron! Are you all right?” squealed Hermione.
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an
almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.
The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up,
hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours,
banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron,
who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch
him.
“We’d better get him to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said Harry to Hermione,
who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ron up by the arms.
“What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill? But you can cure him,
can’t you?” Colin had run down from his seat and was now dancing alongside
them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and more slugs dribbled
down his front.
“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera. “Can you hold him
still, Harry?”
“Get out of the way, Colin!” said Harry angrily. He and Hermione
supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of
the forest.
“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the gamekeeper’s cabin came into
view. “You’ll be all right in a minute — almost there —”
They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when the front door
opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes
of palest mauve today, came striding out.
“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush.
Hermione followed, somewhat reluctantly.
“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!” Lockhart was saying
loudly to Hagrid. “If you need help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a
copy of my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one — I’ll sign one
tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!” And he strode away toward the
castle.
Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the
bush and up to Hagrid’s front door. They knocked urgently.
Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression
brightened when he saw who it was.
“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me — come in, come in —
thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again —”
Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed
cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in
the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s slug problem, which Harry
hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair.
“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in
front of him. “Get ’em all up, Ron.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it to stop,” said
Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. “That’s a difficult
curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand —”
Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was
slobbering over Harry.
“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harry asked, scratching
Fang’s ears.
“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,” growled Hagrid,
moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the
teapot. “Like I don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee he banished. If
one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.”
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Harry looked
at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than
usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously
thought he was the best man for the job —”
“He was the on’y man for the job,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of
treacle toffee, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the
on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People
aren’t too keen ter take it on, see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed. No
one’s lasted long fer a while now. So tell me,” said Hagrid, jerking his head at
Ron. “Who was he tryin’ ter curse?”
“Malfoy called Hermione something — it must’ve been really bad, because
everyone went wild.”
“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale
and sweaty. “Malfoy called her ‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid —”
Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their
appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.
“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione.
“He did,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means. I could tell it was
really rude, of course —”
“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” gasped Ron, coming
back up. “Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born —
you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards — like Malfoy’s
family — who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what
people call pure-blood.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his
outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, “I mean, the rest
of us know it doesn’t make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom
— he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.”
“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’ do,” said Hagrid
proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.
“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow
with a shaking hand. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most
wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles
we’d’ve died out.”
He retched and ducked out of sight again.
“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,” said Hagrid loudly
over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing
yer wand backfired. ’Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come marchin’ up ter
school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble.”
Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn’t come much worse than
having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle
toffee had cemented his jaws together.
“Harry,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought. “Gotta
bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How
come I haven’t got one?”
Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.
“I have not been giving out signed photos,” he said hotly. “If Lockhart’s
still spreading that around —”
But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.
“I’m on’y jokin’,” he said, patting Harry genially on the back and sending
him face first into the table. “I knew yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh
didn’ need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin’.”
“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Harry, sitting up and rubbing his chin.
“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. “An’ then I told him
I’d never read one o’ his books an’ he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he
added as Ron reappeared.
“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.”
“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as Harry and Hermione
finished the last of their tea.
In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house were a dozen of the
largest pumpkins Harry had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.
“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily. “Fer the Halloween
feast . . . should be big enough by then.”
“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harry.
Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.
“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help —”
Harry noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall
of the cabin. Harry had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella
was not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression that Hagrid’s old
school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic.
He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry had never
found out why — any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat
loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.
“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione, halfway between
disapproval and amusement. “Well, you’ve done a good job on them.”
“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. “Met her
jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching. “Said
she was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin’ she might
run inter someone else at my house.” He winked at Harry. “If yeh ask me, she
wouldn’ say no ter a signed —”
“Oh, shut up,” said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter and the ground was
sprayed with slugs.
“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.
It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had one bit of treacle toffee
since dawn, he was keen to go back to school to eat. They said good-bye to
Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but
only bringing up two very small slugs.
They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out,
“There you are, Potter — Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking
toward them, looking stern. “You will both do your detentions this evening.”
“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.
“You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,” said
Professor McGonagall. “And no magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the
school.
“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,”
said Professor McGonagall.
“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room, too?” said Harry
desperately.
“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows.
“Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, both of
you.”
Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom,
Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of
expression. Harry didn’t enjoy his shepherd’s pie as much as he’d thought.
Both he and Ron felt they’d got the worse deal.
“Filch’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily. “No magic! There
must be about a hundred cups in that room. I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.”
“I’d swap anytime,” said Harry hollowly. “I’ve had loads of practice with
the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart’s fan mail . . . he’ll be a nightmare. . . .”
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time,
it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet along the
second-floor corridor to Lockhart’s office. He gritted his teeth and knocked.
The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.
“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said. “Come in, Harry, come in —”
Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless
framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another
large pile lay on his desk.
“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry, as though this was a
huge treat. “This first one’s to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine
—”
The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart’s voice wash over him,
occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then he
caught a phrase like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as
celebrity does, remember that.”
The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many
moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his aching hand over
what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley’s
address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it
be nearly time. . . .
And then he heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of
the dying candles and Lockhart’s prattle about his fans.
It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking,
ice-cold venom.
“Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me
kill you. . . .”
Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica
Smethley’s street.
“What?” he said loudly.
“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list!
Broke all records!”
“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice!”
“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?”
“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?”
Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.
“What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you’re getting a little
drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time! We’ve been here nearly four hours!
I’d never have believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”
Harry didn’t answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but
there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn’t expect a
treat like this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed, Harry left.
It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty. Harry
went straight up to the dormitory. Ron wasn’t back yet. Harry pulled on his
pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, Ron arrived, nursing his
right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into the darkened room.
“My muscles have all seized up,” he groaned, sinking on his bed. “Fourteen
times he made me buff up that Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied. And
then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award for Services to the
School. Took ages to get the slime off. . . . How was it with Lockhart?”
Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Harry
told Ron exactly what he had heard.
“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” said Ron. Harry could see him
frowning in the moonlight. “D’you think he was lying? But I don’t get it —
even someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.”
“I know,” said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and staring at the canopy
above him. “I don’t get it either.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE DEATHDAY PARTY
O
ctober arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the
castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of
colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly,
though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward.
Ginny Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by
Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that
her whole head was on fire.
Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on
end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s
pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood’s enthusiasm for
regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry
was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before
Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and splattered
with mud.
Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn’t been a happy practice session.
Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for
themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They
reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs,
shooting through the air like missiles.
As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he came across somebody
who looked just as preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of
Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his
breath, “. . . don’t fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that . . .”
“Hello, Nick,” said Harry.
“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He
wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff,
which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He
was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark sky and
torrential rain outside.
“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as
he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.
“So do you,” said Harry.
“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no
importance. . . . It’s not as though I really wanted to join. . . . Thought I’d
apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements’ —”
In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.
“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the
letter back out of his pocket, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with
a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”
“Oh — yes,” said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree.
“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean,
and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great
deal of pain and ridicule. However —” Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter
open and read furiously:
“‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with
their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise
for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback HeadJuggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I
must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best
wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.’”
Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.
“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! Most people
would think that’s good and beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir
Properly Decapitated-Podmore.”
Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far
calmer tone, “So — what’s bothering you? Anything I can do?”
“No,” said Harry. “Not unless you know where we can get seven free
Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly —”
The rest of Harry’s sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling
from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing
into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat
who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless
battle against students.
“You’d better get out of here, Harry,” said Nick quickly. “Filch isn’t in a
good mood — he’s got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered
frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been cleaning all
morning, and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place —”
“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris,
but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that
seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a
tapestry to Harry’s right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rulebreaker. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose
was unusually purple.
“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he
pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch robes.
“Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me,
Potter!”
So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed
Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor.
Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most
students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil
lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about
the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels,
Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever
punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A
highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind
Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging
Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.
Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around
looking for parchment.
“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies . . . frog
brains . . . rat intestines . . . I’ve had enough of it . . . make an example . . .
where’s the form . . . yes . . .”
He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it
out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.
“Name . . . Harry Potter. Crime . . .”
“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry.
“It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an extra hour scrubbing!”
shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose.
“Crime . . . befouling the castle . . . suggested sentence . . .”
Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry, who
waited with bated breath for his sentence to fall.
But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of
the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.
“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage.
“I’ll have you this time, I’ll have you!”
And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the
office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.
Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to
cause havoc and distress. Harry didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help
feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it
sounded as though he’d wrecked something very big this time) would distract
Filch from Harry.
Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harry sank
into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart
from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver
lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch
wasn’t on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read:
KWIKSPELL
_____________________________________
A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic
Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of
parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said:
Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making
excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful
wandwork?
There is an answer!
Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course.
Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell
method!
Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:
“I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke!
Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and
friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!”
Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:
“My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your
fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak!
Thank you, Kwikspell!”
Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope’s contents.
Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn’t a
proper wizard? Harry was just reading “Lesson One: Holding Your Wand
(Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was
coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it
back onto the desk just as the door opened.
Filch was looking triumphant.
“That Vanishing Cabinet was extremely valuable!” he was saying gleefully
to Mrs. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet —”
His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which,
Harry realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.
Filch’s pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of
fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it
into a drawer.
“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered.
“No,” Harry lied quickly.
Filch’s knobbly hands were twisting together.
“If I thought you’d read my private — not that it’s mine — for a friend —
be that as it may — however —”
Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His
eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan
scarf didn’t help.
“Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word — not that — however, if
you didn’t read — go now, I have to write up Peeves’ report — go —”
Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back
upstairs. To escape from Filch’s office without punishment was probably
some kind of school record.
“Harry! Harry! Did it work?”
Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Harry
could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to
have been dropped from a great height.
“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,” said Nick eagerly.
“Thought it might distract him —”
“Was that you?” said Harry gratefully. “Yeah, it worked, I didn’t even get
detention. Thanks, Nick!”
They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Harry noticed,
was still holding Sir Patrick’s rejection letter.
“I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,”
Harry said.
Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry walked right through
him. He wished he hadn’t; it was like stepping through an icy shower.
“But there is something you could do for me,” said Nick excitedly. “Harry
— would I be asking too much — but no, you wouldn’t want —”
“What is it?” said Harry.
“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly
Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.
“Oh,” said Harry, not sure whether he should look sorry or happy about
this. “Right.”
“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be
coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you would
attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of course
— but I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?” He watched Harry on
tenterhooks.
“No,” said Harry quickly, “I’ll come —”
“My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! And” — he hesitated,
looking excited — “do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick
how very frightening and impressive you find me?”
“Of — of course,” said Harry.
Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him.
“A deathday party?” said Hermione keenly when Harry had changed at last
and joined her and Ron in the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living
people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll be fascinating!”
“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?” said Ron, who
was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy. “Sounds dead
depressing to me. . . .”
Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside
all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless
squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in
the case of Fred and George Weasley, trying to find out what would happen if
you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had “rescued” the brilliant
orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was
now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.
Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione about Filch and the
Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air,
emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The sight
of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular display
of tangerine stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its escape into
the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove both Filch and the Kwikspell
envelope from Harry’s mind.
By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to
the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their
Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats,
Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three
men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of
dancing skeletons for the entertainment.
“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Harry bossily. “You said
you’d go to the deathday party.”
So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the
doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold
plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.
The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined
with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long,
thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even
over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they
took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what
sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.
“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered. They turned a corner and
saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet
drapes.
“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased
you could come. . . .”
He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.
It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearlywhite, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor,
waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an
orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed
midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist
before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.
“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his
feet.
“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron nervously, and they set off
around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a
ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost,
who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry
wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost
covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other
ghosts.
“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly. “Turn back, turn back, I don’t
want to talk to Moaning Myrtle —”
“Who?” said Harry as they backtracked quickly.
“She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom on the first floor,” said
Hermione.
“She haunts a toilet?”
“Yes. It’s been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and
flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful
trying to have a pee with her wailing at you —”
“Look, food!” said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black
velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their
tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid
on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on
salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry
green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a
tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,
SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON
DIED
31ST OCTOBER, 1492
Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched
low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one
of the stinking salmon.
“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked him.
“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.
“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” said Hermione
knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid
haggis.
“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron.
They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped
suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.
“Hello, Peeves,” said Harry cautiously.
Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse
of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving
bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.
“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in
fungus.
“No thanks,” said Hermione.
“Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” said Peeves, his eyes dancing.
“Rude you was about poor Myrtle.” He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OI!
MYRTLE!”
“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be really upset,”
Hermione whispered frantically. “I didn’t mean it, I don’t mind her — er,
hello, Myrtle.”
The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry
had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
“What?” she said sulkily.
“How are you, Myrtle?” said Hermione in a falsely bright voice. “It’s nice
to see you out of the toilet.”
Myrtle sniffed.
“Miss Granger was just talking about you —” said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s
ear.
“Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight,” said Hermione,
glaring at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.
“You’re making fun of me,” she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her
small, see-through eyes.
“No — honestly — didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s looking?” said
Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.
“Oh, yeah —”
“She did —”
“Don’t lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her face, while
Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder. “D’you think I don’t know what
people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable,
moaning, moping Myrtle!”
“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in her ear.
Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon.
Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply!
Pimply!”
“Oh, dear,” said Hermione sadly.
Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.
“Enjoying yourselves?”
“Oh, yes,” they lied.
“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. “The Wailing
Widow came all the way up from Kent. . . . It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d
better go and warn the orchestra. . . .”
The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and
everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a
hunting horn sounded.
“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.
Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a
headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too,
but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.
The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing
and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded
head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost
leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd
(everyone laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his
head back onto his neck.
“Nick!” he roared. “How are you? Head still hanging in there?”
He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the
shoulder.
“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly.
“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, and Hermione and
giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the
crowd howled with laughter).
“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.
“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from the floor. “Still upset
we won’t let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say — look at the fellow —”
“I think,” said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, “Nick’s
very — frightening and — er —”
“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head. “Bet he asked you to say that!”
“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!” said Nearly
Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy
blue spotlight.
“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow . . .”
But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt
had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd was turning to watch.
Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as
Sir Patrick’s head went sailing past him to loud cheers.
Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.
“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his teeth chattering, as the
orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance
floor.
“Let’s go,” Harry agreed.
They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked
at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of
black candles.
“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron hopefully, leading the way
toward the steps to the entrance hall.
And then Harry heard it.
“. . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . .”
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in
Lockhart’s office.
He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his
might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.
“Harry, what’re you — ?”
“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute —”
“. . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . .”
“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, watching him.
“. . . kill . . . time to kill . . .”
The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away —
moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at
the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom
stone ceilings didn’t matter?
“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance
hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the
Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the
marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him.
“Harry, what’re we —”
“SHH!”
Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter
still, he heard the voice: “. . . I smell blood. . . . I SMELL BLOOD!”
His stomach lurched —
“It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted, and ignoring Ron’s and
Hermione’s bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time,
trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps —
Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione
panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last,
deserted passage.
“Harry, what was that all about?” said Ron, wiping sweat off his face. “I
couldn’t hear anything. . . .”
But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.
“Look!”
Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly,
squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall
between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE
HEIR, BEWARE.
“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron, a slight quiver in his
voice.
As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there was a large puddle of
water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward
the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them
realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.
Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch
bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.
For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said, “Let’s get out of
here.”
“Shouldn’t we try and help —” Harry began awkwardly.
“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found here.”
But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that
the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood
came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy
talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage
from both ends.
The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front
spotted the hanging cat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle
of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to
see the grisly sight.
Then someone shouted through the quiet.
“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”
It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes
alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the
hanging, immobile cat.
CHAPTER NINE
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
W
hat’s going on here? What’s going on?”
Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch came
shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell
back, clutching his face in horror.
“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he shrieked.
And his popping eyes fell on Harry.
“You!” he screeched. “You! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her!
I’ll kill you! I’ll —”
“Argus!”
Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other
teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, and Hermione and
detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr.
Weasley, Miss Granger.”
Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.
“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free —”
“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.
The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and
important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and
Snape.
As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement
across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging
out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk
and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and
began to examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and
sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.
The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs.
Norris’s fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles,
his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent
almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in
shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying
hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making
suggestions.
“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian
Torture — I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the
very countercurse that would have saved her. . . .”
Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. He was
slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his
hands. Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for
him, though not nearly as sorry as he felt for himself. If Dumbledore believed
Filch, he would be expelled for sure.
Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and
tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand, but nothing happened: She continued to
look as though she had been recently stuffed.
“. . . I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou,” said
Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able
to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at
once. . . .”
The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as
he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.
At last Dumbledore straightened up.
“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.
Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders
he had prevented.
“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. “But
why’s she all — all stiff and frozen?”
“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said
Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say. . . .”
“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to
Harry.
“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would
take Dark Magic of the most advanced —”
“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what
he wrote on the wall! He found — in my office — he knows I’m a — I’m a
—” Filch’s face worked horribly. “He knows I’m a Squib!” he finished.
“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of
everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I
don’t even know what a Squib is.”
“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell letter!”
“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and Harry’s
sense of foreboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was
going to do him any good.
“Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the
wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it.
“But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the
upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t he at the Halloween feast?”
Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the
deathday party. “. . . there were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were
there —”
“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering
in the candlelight. “Why go up to that corridor?”
Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.
“Because — because —” Harry said, his heart thumping very fast;
something told him it would sound very far-fetched if he told them he had
been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear, “because we were
tired and wanted to go to bed,” he said.
“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his
gaunt face. “I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their
parties.”
“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.
Snape’s nasty smile widened.
“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful,” he said.
“It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is
ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the
Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest.”
“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, “I see no reason to
stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a
broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong.”
Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue
gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed.
“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said firmly.
Snape looked furious. So did Filch.
“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes popping. “I want to see
some punishment!”
“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor
Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have
reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.”
“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times. I
could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —”
“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at
this school.”
There was a very awkward pause.
“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When they
were a floor up from Lockhart’s office, they turned into an empty classroom
and closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted at his friends’
darkened faces.
“D’you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?”
“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear
isn’t a good sign, even in the Wizarding world.”
Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You do believe me, don’t
you?”
“’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But — you must admit it’s weird. . . .”
“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s weird. What was that
writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened. . . . What’s that
supposed to mean?”
“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I think someone told
me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once . . . might’ve been
Bill. . . .”
“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harry.
To his surprise, Ron stifled a snigger.
“Well — it’s not funny really — but as it’s Filch,” he said. “A Squib is
someone who was born into a Wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic
powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but Squibs are quite
unusual. If Filch’s trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he
must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates students so much.”
Ron gave a satisfied smile. “He’s bitter.”
A clock chimed somewhere.
“Midnight,” said Harry. “We’d better get to bed before Snape comes along
and tries to frame us for something else.”
For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs.
Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she
had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Harry
had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s AllPurpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as
brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the
crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at
unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like
“breathing loudly” and “looking happy.”
Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris’s fate. According to
Ron, she was a great cat lover.
“But you haven’t really got to know Mrs. Norris,” Ron told her bracingly.
“Honestly, we’re much better off without her.” Ginny’s lip trembled. “Stuff
like this doesn’t often happen at Hogwarts,” Ron assured her. “They’ll catch
the maniac who did it and have him out of here in no time. I just hope he’s got
time to Petrify Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking —” Ron added
hastily as Ginny blanched.
The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was quite usual for
Hermione to spend a lot of time reading, but she was now doing almost
nothing else. Nor could Harry and Ron get much response from her when
they asked what she was up to, and not until the following Wednesday did
they find out.
Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay
behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went
upstairs to meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the
Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming toward him. Harry had just opened
his mouth to say hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and
sped off in the opposite direction.
Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring his History of Magic
homework. Professor Binns had asked for a three-foot-long composition on
“The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.”
“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short. . . .” said Ron furiously,
letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll. “And Hermione’s
done four feet seven inches and her writing’s tiny.”
“Where is she?” asked Harry, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling his
own homework.
“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the shelves. “Looking
for another book. I think she’s trying to read the whole library before
Christmas.”
Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from him.
“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot,” said Ron,
scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible. “All that junk about
Lockhart being so great —”
Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves. She looked irritable and
at last seemed ready to talk to them.
“All the copies of Hogwarts: A History have been taken out,” she said,
sitting down next to Harry and Ron. “And there’s a two-week waiting list. I
wish I hadn’t left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all
the Lockhart books.”
“Why do you want it?” said Harry.
“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said Hermione, “to read up on
the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.”
“What’s that?” said Harry quickly.
“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “And I
can’t find the story anywhere else —”
“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron desperately, checking
his watch.
“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, suddenly severe. “You’ve had ten days to
finish it —”
“I only need another two inches, come on —”
The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic,
bickering.
History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns,
who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that
ever happened in his classes was his entering the room through the
blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn’t noticed he
was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him
in an armchair in front of the staffroom fire; his routine had not varied in the
slightest since.
Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began
to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the
class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down
a name or date, then falling asleep again. He had been speaking for half an
hour when something happened that had never happened before. Hermione
put up her hand.
Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the
International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed.
“Miss — er — ?”
“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about
the Chamber of Secrets,” said Hermione in a clear voice.
Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing
out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up
off her arms and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his desk.
Professor Binns blinked.
“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, wheezy voice. “I deal
with facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a
small noise like chalk snapping and continued, “In September of that year, a
subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers —”
He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving in the air again.
“Miss Grant?”
“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in fact?”
Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Harry was sure no
student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead.
“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could argue that, I suppose.”
He peered at Hermione as though he had never seen a student properly before.
“However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even
ludicrous tale —”
But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns’s every word. He
looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harry could tell he was
completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest.
“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see . . . the Chamber of
Secrets . . .
“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years
ago — the precise date is uncertain — by the four greatest witches and
wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after them: Godric
Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin.
They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age
when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered
much persecution.”
He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued.
“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out
youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be
educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to
grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective
about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning
should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of
Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there
was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and
Slytherin left the school.”
Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old
tortoise.
“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he said. “But these honest
facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets.
The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of
which the other founders knew nothing.
“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that
none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The
heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror
within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study
magic.”
There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn’t the usual,
sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns’s classes. There was unease in the
air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for more. Professor Binns
looked faintly annoyed.
“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the
school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the
most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the
gullible.”
Hermione’s hand was back in the air.
“Sir — what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?”
“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin
alone can control,” said Professor Binns in his dry, reedy voice.
The class exchanged nervous looks.
“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his
notes. “There is no Chamber and no monster.”
“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can only be opened by
Slytherin’s true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?”
“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a
long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found
the thing —”
“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d probably have to use Dark
Magic to open it —”
“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss
Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore
—”
“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn’t
—” began Dean Thomas, but Professor Binns had had enough.
“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not
a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom
cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you
please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!”
And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor.
“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony,” Ron told Harry
and Hermione as they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the
end of the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I never knew he
started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn’t be in his House if you paid me.
Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the
train straight back home. . . .”
Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn’t say anything. His stomach
had just dropped unpleasantly.
Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the Sorting Hat had seriously
considered putting him in Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were
yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear when he’d placed the hat
on his head a year before: You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your
head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about
that. . . .
But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin House’s reputation for
turning out Dark wizards, had thought desperately, Not Slytherin! and the hat
had said, Oh, well, if you’re sure . . . better be Gryffindor. . . .
As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevey went past.
“Hiya, Harry!”
“Hullo, Colin,” said Harry automatically.
“Harry — Harry — a boy in my class has been saying you’re —”
But Colin was so small he couldn’t fight against the tide of people bearing
him toward the Great Hall; they heard him squeak, “See you, Harry!” and he
was gone.
“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?” Hermione wondered.
“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harry, his stomach dropping
another inch or so as he suddenly remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley
had run away from him at lunchtime.
“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron in disgust.
The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the next staircase without
difficulty.
“D’you really think there’s a Chamber of Secrets?” Ron asked Hermione.
“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs.
Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be —
well — human.”
As she spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the
very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The
scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat
hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall
bearing the message “The Chamber of Secrets Has Been Opened.”
“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron muttered.
They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.
“Can’t hurt to have a poke around,” said Harry, dropping his bag and
getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching for
clues.
“Scorch marks!” he said. “Here — and here —”
“Come and look at this!” said Hermione. “This is funny. . . .”
Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall.
Hermione was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders
were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long,
silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in
their hurry to get outside.
“Have you ever seen spiders act like that?” said Hermione wonderingly.
“No,” said Harry, “have you, Ron? Ron?”
He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well back and seemed to be
fighting the impulse to run.
“What’s up?” said Harry.
“I — don’t — like — spiders,” said Ron tensely.
“I never knew that,” said Hermione, looking at Ron in surprise. “You’ve
used spiders in Potions loads of times. . . .”
“I don’t mind them dead,” said Ron, who was carefully looking anywhere
but at the window. “I just don’t like the way they move. . . .”
Hermione giggled.
“It’s not funny,” said Ron, fiercely. “If you must know, when I was three,
Fred turned my — my teddy bear into a great big filthy spider because I broke
his toy broomstick. . . . You wouldn’t like them either if you’d been holding
your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and . . .”
He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously still trying not to laugh.
Feeling they had better get off the subject, Harry said, “Remember all that
water on the floor? Where did that come from? Someone’s mopped it up.”
“It was about here,” said Ron, recovering himself to walk a few paces past
Filch’s chair and pointing. “Level with this door.”
He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as
though he’d been burned.
“What’s the matter?” said Harry.
“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s a girls’ toilet.”
“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” said Hermione, standing up and
coming over. “That’s Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.”
And ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign, she opened the door.
It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in.
Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The
floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few
candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were
flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges.
Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off toward the end stall. When
she reached it she said, “Hello, Myrtle, how are you?”
Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank
of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin.
“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Ron and Harry suspiciously.
“They’re not girls.”
“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them how — er — nice it
is in here.”
She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor.
“Ask her if she saw anything,” Harry mouthed at Hermione.
“What are you whispering?” said Myrtle, staring at him.
“Nothing,” said Harry quickly. “We wanted to ask —”
“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!” said Myrtle, in a voice
choked with tears. “I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead —”
“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermione. “Harry only —”
“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!” howled Myrtle. “My life
was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along ruining my
death!”
“We wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything funny lately,” said
Hermione quickly. “Because a cat was attacked right outside your front door
on Halloween.”
“Did you see anyone near here that night?” said Harry.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” said Myrtle dramatically. “Peeves upset me so
much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered
that I’m — that I’m —”
“Already dead,” said Ron helpfully.
Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived headfirst
into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight,
although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest
somewhere in the U-bend.
Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but Hermione shrugged
wearily and said, “Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle. . . . Come
on, let’s go.”
Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle’s gurgling sobs when a loud
voice made all three of them jump.
“RON!”
Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, prefect badge
agleam, an expression of complete shock on his face.
“That’s a girls’ bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you — ?”
“Just having a look around,” Ron shrugged. “Clues, you know —”
Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Harry forcefully of Mrs. Weasley.
“Get — away — from — there —” Percy said, striding toward them and
starting to bustle them along, flapping his arms. “Don’t you care what this
looks like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner —”
“Why shouldn’t we be here?” said Ron hotly, stopping short and glaring at
Percy. “Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!”
“That’s what I told Ginny,” said Percy fiercely, “but she still seems to think
you’re going to be expelled, I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out,
you might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this
business —”
“You don’t care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears were now reddening.
“You’re just worried I’m going to mess up your chances of being Head Boy
—”
“Five points from Gryffindor!” Percy said tersely, fingering his prefect
badge. “And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more detective work, or I’ll
write to Mum!”
And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron’s ears.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy in the
common room that night. Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting
his Charms homework. When he reached absently for his wand to remove the
smudges, it ignited the parchment. Fuming almost as much as his homework,
Ron slammed The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harry’s surprise,
Hermione followed suit.
“Who can it be, though?” she said in a quiet voice, as though continuing a
conversation they had just been having. “Who’d want to frighten all the
Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?”
“Let’s think,” said Ron in mock puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks
Muggle-borns are scum?”
He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, unconvinced.
“If you’re talking about Malfoy —”
“Of course I am!” said Ron. “You heard him — ‘You’ll be next,
Mudbloods!’ — come on, you’ve only got to look at his foul rat face to know
it’s him —”
“Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermione skeptically.
“Look at his family,” said Harry, closing his books, too. “The whole lot of
them have been in Slytherin; he’s always boasting about it. They could easily
be Slytherin’s descendants. His father’s definitely evil enough.”
“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!” said
Ron. “Handing it down, father to son. . . .”
“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it’s possible. . . .”
“But how do we prove it?” said Harry darkly.
“There might be a way,” said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice still
further with a quick glance across the room at Percy. “Of course, it would be
difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We’d be breaking about fifty school
rules, I expect —”
“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won’t
you?” said Ron irritably.
“All right,” said Hermione coldly. “What we’d need to do is to get inside
the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him
realizing it’s us.”
“But that’s impossible,” Harry said as Ron laughed.
“No, it’s not,” said Hermione. “All we’d need would be some Polyjuice
Potion.”
“What’s that?” said Ron and Harry together.
“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago —”
“D’you think we’ve got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to
Snape?” muttered Ron.
“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change
into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would
probably tell us anything. He’s probably boasting about it in the Slytherin
common room right now, if only we could hear him.”
“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said Ron, frowning. “What
if we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever?”
“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her hand impatiently.
“But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a
book called Moste Potente Potions and it’s bound to be in the Restricted
Section of the library.”
There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted Section: You
needed a signed note of permission from a teacher.
“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” said Ron, “if we weren’t
going to try and make one of the potions.”
“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as though we were just
interested in the theory, we might stand a chance. . . .”
“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said Ron. “They’d have
to be really thick. . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
THE ROGUE BLUDGER
S
ince the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not
brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books
to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic bits. He usually
picked Harry to help him with these reconstructions; so far, Harry had been
forced to play a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had cured of a
Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, and a vampire who had been unable
to eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him.
Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their very next Defense
Against the Dark Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf. If he hadn’t had a
very good reason for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would have
refused to do it.
“Nice loud howl, Harry — exactly — and then, if you’ll believe it, I
pounced — like this — slammed him to the floor — thus — with one hand, I
managed to hold him down — with my other, I put my wand to his throat — I
then screwed up my remaining strength and performed the immensely
complex Homorphus Charm — he let out a piteous moan — go on, Harry —
higher than that — good — the fur vanished — the fangs shrank — and he
turned back into a man. Simple, yet effective — and another village will
remember me forever as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror
of werewolf attacks.”
The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.
“Homework — compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga
Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!”
The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back of the room, where
Ron and Hermione were waiting.
“Ready?” Harry muttered.
“Wait till everyone’s gone,” said Hermione nervously. “All right . . .”
She approached Lockhart’s desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her
hand, Harry and Ron right behind her.
“Er — Professor Lockhart?” Hermione stammered. “I wanted to — to get
this book out of the library. Just for background reading.” She held out the
piece of paper, her hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is, it’s in the
Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to sign for it — I’m sure
it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about
slow-acting venoms —”
“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart, taking the note from Hermione
and smiling widely at her. “Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever, the way you trapped that last
one with the tea-strainer —”
“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a
little extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous
peacock quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” he said, misreading the revolted look on
Ron’s face. “I usually save it for book signings.”
He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to
Hermione.
“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the note with fumbling
fingers and slipped it into her bag. “Tomorrow’s the first Quidditch match of
the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear you’re a
useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad,
but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if
ever you feel the need for a little private training, don’t hesitate to ask.
Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able players. . . .”
Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then hurried off after Ron
and Hermione.
“I don’t believe it,” he said as the three of them examined the signature on
the note. “He didn’t even look at the book we wanted.”
“That’s because he’s a brainless git,” said Ron. “But who cares, we’ve got
what we needed —”
“He is not a brainless git,” said Hermione shrilly as they half ran toward the
library.
“Just because he said you were the best student of the year —”
They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the
library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked
like an underfed vulture.
“Moste Potente Potions?” she repeated suspiciously, trying to take the note
from Hermione; but Hermione wouldn’t let go.
“I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said breathlessly.
“Oh, come on,” said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp and thrusting it at
Madam Pince. “We’ll get you another autograph. Lockhart’ll sign anything if
it stands still long enough.”
Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to detect a
forgery, but it passed the test. She stalked away between the lofty shelves and
returned several minutes later carrying a large and moldy-looking book.
Hermione put it carefully into her bag and they left, trying not to walk too
quickly or look too guilty.
Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle’s out-of-order
bathroom once again. Hermione had overridden Ron’s objections by pointing
out that it was the last place anyone in their right minds would go, so they
were guaranteed some privacy. Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her
stall, but they were ignoring her, and she them.
Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and the three of them
bent over the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a glance why it belonged
in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had effects almost too
gruesome to think about, and there were some very unpleasant illustrations,
which included a man who seemed to have been turned inside out and a witch
sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of her head.
“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the page headed The
Polyjuice Potion. It was decorated with drawings of people halfway through
transforming into other people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist had imagined
the looks of intense pain on their faces.
“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,” said Hermione as
they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,”
she murmured, running her finger down the list of ingredients. “Well, they’re
easy enough, they’re in the student store-cupboard, we can help ourselves. . . .
Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don’t know where we’re going to
get that — shredded skin of a boomslang — that’ll be tricky, too — and of
course a bit of whoever we want to change into.”
“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply. “What d’you mean, a bit of whoever we’re
changing into? I’m drinking nothing with Crabbe’s toenails in it —”
Hermione continued as though she hadn’t heard him.
“We don’t have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those bits
last. . . .”
Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another worry.
“D’you realize how much we’re going to have to steal, Hermione?
Shredded skin of a boomslang, that’s definitely not in the students’ cupboard.
What’re we going to do, break into Snape’s private stores? I don’t know if
this is a good idea. . . .”
Hermione shut the book with a snap.
“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she said. There were
bright pink patches on her cheeks and her eyes were brighter than usual. “I
don’t want to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far
worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don’t want to find out if
it’s Malfoy, I’ll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in
—”
“I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be persuading us to break
rules,” said Ron. “All right, we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?”
“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harry as Hermione, looking
happier, opened the book again.
“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the
lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty-one days . . . I’d say it’d be ready
in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients.”
“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggle-borns
in the school by then!” But Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously again, and
he added swiftly, “But it’s the best plan we’ve got, so full steam ahead, I say.”
However, while Hermione was checking that the coast was clear for them
to leave the bathroom, Ron muttered to Harry, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you
can just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.”
Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the
coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the thought of what
Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of facing a team
mounted on the fastest racing brooms gold could buy. He had never wanted to
beat Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there with his insides
churning, he got up, dressed, and went down to breakfast early, where he
found the rest of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, all
looking uptight and not speaking much.
As eleven o’clock approached, the whole school started to make its way
down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of
thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying over to wish Harry good
luck as he entered the locker rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet
Gryffindor robes, then sat down to listen to Wood’s usual pre-match pep talk.
“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” he began. “No point denying it. But
we’ve got better people on our brooms. We’ve trained harder than they have,
we’ve been flying in all weathers —” (“Too true,” muttered George Weasley.
“I haven’t been properly dry since August”) “— and we’re going to make
them rue the day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto
their team.”
Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry.
“It’ll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have
something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die
trying, Harry, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.”
“So no pressure, Harry,” said Fred, winking at him.
As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly
cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin
beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard, too.
Madam Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands,
which they did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather
harder than was necessary.
“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose
toward the leaden sky. Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around
for the Snitch.
“All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Malfoy, shooting underneath him as
though to show off the speed of his broom.
Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger
came pelting toward him; he avoided it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his
hair as it passed.
“Close one, Harry!” said George, streaking past him with his club in his
hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw George
give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the
Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.
Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard
toward Malfoy. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot
at Harry’s head.
Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch.
He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on?
Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and
unseat as many people as possible. . . .
Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harry ducked as
Fred swung at the Bludger with all his might; the Bludger was knocked off
course.
“Gotcha!” Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as though it was
magnetically attracted to Harry, the Bludger pelted after him once more and
Harry was forced to fly off at full speed.
It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face, splattering
onto his glasses. He didn’t have a clue what was going on in the rest of the
game until he heard Lee Jordan, who was commentating, say, “Slytherin lead,
sixty points to zero —”
The Slytherins’ superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and
meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing all it could to knock Harry out of the
air. Fred and George were now flying so close to him on either side that Harry
could see nothing at all except their flailing arms and had no chance to look
for the Snitch, let alone catch it.
“Someone’s — tampered — with — this — Bludger —” Fred grunted,
swinging his bat with all his might at it as it launched a new attack on Harry.
“We need time out,” said George, trying to signal to Wood and stop the
Bludger breaking Harry’s nose at the same time.
Wood had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch’s whistle rang out
and Harry, Fred, and George dived for the ground, still trying to avoid the
mad Bludger.
“What’s going on?” said Wood as the Gryffindor team huddled together,
while Slytherins in the crowd jeered. “We’re being flattened. Fred, George,
where were you when that Bludger stopped Angelina scoring?”
“We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from
murdering Harry, Oliver,” said George angrily. “Someone’s fixed it — it
won’t leave Harry alone. It hasn’t gone for anyone else all game. The
Slytherins must have done something to it.”
“But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch’s office since our
last practice, and there was nothing wrong with them then. . . .” said Wood,
anxiously.
Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her shoulder, Harry could
see the Slytherin team jeering and pointing in his direction.
“Listen,” said Harry as she came nearer and nearer, “with you two flying
around me all the time the only way I’m going to catch the Snitch is if it flies
up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal with the rogue
one.”
“Don’t be thick,” said Fred. “It’ll take your head off.”
Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys.
“Oliver, this is insane,” said Alicia Spinnet angrily. “You can’t let Harry
deal with that thing on his own. Let’s ask for an inquiry —”
“If we stop now, we’ll have to forfeit the match!” said Harry. “And we’re
not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell
them to leave me alone!”
“This is all your fault,” George said angrily to Wood. “‘Get the Snitch or
die trying,’ what a stupid thing to tell him —”
Madam Hooch had joined them.
“Ready to resume play?” she asked Wood.
Wood looked at the determined look on Harry’s face.
“All right,” he said. “Fred, George, you heard Harry — leave him alone
and let him deal with the Bludger on his own.”
The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch’s whistle, Harry
kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind
him. Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and swooped, spiraled,
zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless kept his eyes wide open,
rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his nostrils as he hung upside down,
avoiding another fierce dive from the Bludger. He could hear laughter from
the crowd; he knew he must look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was
heavy and couldn’t change direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a
kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the stadium, squinting through
the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goalposts, where Adrian Pucey was
trying to get past Wood —
A whistling in Harry’s ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again;
he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.
“Training for the ballet, Potter?” yelled Malfoy as Harry was forced to do a
stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger
trailing a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at Malfoy in hatred, he
saw it — the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy’s left ear —
and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn’t seen it.
For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not daring to speed
toward Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the Snitch.
WHAM.
He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger had hit him at last,
smashed into his elbow, and Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the
searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one
knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at his side — the
Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time aiming at his face —
Harry swerved out of the way, one idea firmly lodged in his numb brain: get
to Malfoy.
Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the shimmering, sneering face
below him and saw its eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was
attacking him.
“What the —” he gasped, careening out of Harry’s way.
Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch; he
felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only gripping the broom
with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below as he headed straight
for the ground, trying hard not to pass out.
With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His arm
was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though
from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He focused on the
Snitch clutched in his good hand.
“Aha,” he said vaguely. “We’ve won.”
And he fainted.
He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on the field, with
someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.
“Oh, no, not you,” he moaned.
“Doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious
crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Harry. I’m about
to fix your arm.”
“No!” said Harry. “I’ll keep it like this, thanks. . . .”
He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking
noise nearby.
“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly.
“Lie back, Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a simple charm I’ve used
countless times —”
“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry through clenched
teeth.
“He should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood, who couldn’t help
grinning even though his Seeker was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really
spectacular, your best yet, I’d say —”
Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George
Weasley, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a
terrific fight.
“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.
“No — don’t —” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand
and a second later had directed it straight at Harry’s arm.
A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry’s shoulder and spread
all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being
deflated. He didn’t dare look at what was happening. He had shut his eyes, his
face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears were realized as the people
above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. His arm
didn’t hurt anymore — nor did it feel remotely like an arm.
“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point
is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry,
just toddle up to the hospital wing — ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would
you escort him? — and Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a
bit.”
As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he
looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again.
Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, fleshcolored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.
Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had removed them.
Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased.
“You should have come straight to me!” she raged, holding up the sad, limp
remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend
bones in a second — but growing them back —”
“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Harry desperately.
“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said Madam Pomfrey
grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night. . . .”
Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around Harry’s bed while Ron
helped him into his pajamas. It took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm
into a sleeve.
“How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh?” Ron called
through the curtain as he pulled Harry’s limp fingers through the cuff. “If
Harry had wanted deboning he would have asked.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermione. “And it doesn’t hurt
anymore, does it, Harry?”
“No,” said Harry, getting into bed. “But it doesn’t do anything else either.”
As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly.
Hermione and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. Madam Pomfrey
was holding a large bottle of something labeled Skele-Gro.
“You’re in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a steaming beakerful
and handing it to him. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.”
So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry’s mouth and throat as it went
down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports
and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron and Hermione to
help Harry gulp down some water.
“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across his face. “That was
some catch you made. Malfoy’s face . . . he looked ready to kill. . . .”
“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said Hermione darkly.
“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask him when we’ve taken
the Polyjuice Potion,” said Harry, sinking back onto his pillows. “I hope it
tastes better than this stuff. . . .”
“If it’s got bits of Slytherins in it? You’ve got to be joking,” said Ron.
The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy and
soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry.
“Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I’ve just seen Marcus Flint
yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and
not noticing. Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.”
They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice; they
gathered around Harry’s bed and were just getting started on what promised
to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over, shouting,
“This boy needs rest, he’s got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!”
And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing
pains in his limp arm.
Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and
gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now felt full of large splinters. For a
second, he thought that was what had woken him. Then, with a thrill of
horror, he realized that someone was sponging his forehead in the dark.
“Get off!” he said loudly, and then, “Dobby!”
The house-elf’s goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry through the
darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.
“Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered miserably. “Dobby
warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn’t you heed Dobby? Why
didn’t Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?”
Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed Dobby’s sponge away.
“What’re you doing here?” he said. “And how did you know I missed the
train?”
Dobby’s lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.
“It was you!” he said slowly. “You stopped the barrier from letting us
through!”
“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping.
“Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby
had to iron his hands afterward” — he showed Harry ten long, bandaged
fingers — “but Dobby didn’t care, sir, for he thought Harry Potter was safe,
and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would get to school another
way!”
He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head.
“Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at Hogwarts,
he let his master’s dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir. . . .”
Harry slumped back onto his pillows.
“You nearly got Ron and me expelled,” he said fiercely. “You’d better get
lost before my bones come back, Dobby, or I might strangle you.”
Dobby smiled weakly.
“Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at
home.”
He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so
pathetic that Harry felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself.
“Why d’you wear that thing, Dobby?” he asked curiously.
“This, sir?” said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. “’Tis a mark of the
house-elf’s enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be freed if his masters present
him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby even a sock, sir,
for then he would be free to leave their house forever.”
Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, “Harry Potter must go
home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make —”
“Your Bludger?” said Harry, anger rising once more. “What d’you mean,
your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?”
“Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” said Dobby, shocked. “Dobby wants to
save Harry Potter’s life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain
here, sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be sent home!”
“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell
me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?”
“Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto
his ragged pillowcase. “If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the
enslaved, we dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We houseelves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that,
sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. “But mostly, sir, life has
improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-BeNamed. Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord’s power was broken, and it
was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those
of us who thought the dark days would never end, sir. . . . And now, at
Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and
Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history is to repeat itself,
now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more —”
Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Harry’s water jug from his bedside
table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A second later,
he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, “Bad Dobby, very bad
Dobby . . .”
“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered. “And — did you say
it’s been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!”
He seized the elf’s bony wrist as Dobby’s hand inched toward the water
jug. “But I’m not Muggle-born — how can I be in danger from the
Chamber?”
“Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby,” stammered the elf, his
eyes huge in the dark. “Dark deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter
must not be here when they happen — go home, Harry Potter, go home.
Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, ’tis too dangerous —”
“Who is it, Dobby?” Harry said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby’s wrist to
stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again. “Who’s opened it?
Who opened it last time?”
“Dobby can’t, sir, Dobby can’t, Dobby mustn’t tell!” squealed the elf. “Go
home, Harry Potter, go home!”
“I’m not going anywhere!” said Harry fiercely. “One of my best friends is
Muggle-born; she’ll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened —”
“Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!” moaned Dobby in a kind
of miserable ecstasy. “So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he
must, Harry Potter must not —”
Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too. There
were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.
“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and
Harry’s fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back into bed, his
eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew nearer.
Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a long
woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what
looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying
its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.
“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall
hurried past the end of Harry’s bed out of sight. Harry lay quite still,
pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then Professor
McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam Pomfrey, who
was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard a sharp intake of
breath.
“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore, bending
over the statue on the bed.
“Another attack,” said Dumbledore. “Minerva found him on the stairs.”
“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,” said Professor McGonagall.
“We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter.”
Harry’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised
himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of
moonlight lay across its staring face.
It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his hands were stuck up in
front of him, holding his camera.
“Petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey.
“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “But I shudder to think . . . If Albus
hadn’t been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate — who knows what
might have —”
The three of them stared down at Colin. Then Dumbledore leaned forward
and wrenched the camera out of Colin’s rigid grip.
“You don’t think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?” said
Professor McGonagall eagerly.
Dumbledore didn’t answer. He opened the back of the camera.
“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey.
A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry, three beds away, caught
the acrid smell of burnt plastic.
“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. “All melted . . .”
“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked urgently.
“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed open
again.”
Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall
stared at Dumbledore.
“But, Albus . . . surely . . . who?”
“The question is not who,” said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin. “The
question is, how. . . .”
And from what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall’s shadowy face,
she didn’t understand this any better than he did.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DUELING CLUB
H
arry woke up on Sunday morning to find the dormitory blazing with
winter sunlight and his arm reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly
and looked over at Colin’s bed, but it had been blocked from view by the high
curtains Harry had changed behind yesterday. Seeing that he was awake,
Madam Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray and then began
bending and stretching his arm and fingers.
“All in order,” she said as he clumsily fed himself porridge left-handed.
“When you’ve finished eating, you may leave.”
Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off to Gryffindor Tower,
desperate to tell Ron and Hermione about Colin and Dobby, but they weren’t
there. Harry left to look for them, wondering where they could have got to
and feeling slightly hurt that they weren’t interested in whether he had his
bones back or not.
As Harry passed the library, Percy Weasley strolled out of it, looking in far
better spirits than last time they’d met.
“Oh, hello, Harry,” he said. “Excellent flying yesterday, really excellent.
Gryffindor has just taken the lead for the House Cup — you earned fifty
points!”
“You haven’t seen Ron or Hermione, have you?” said Harry.
“No, I haven’t,” said Percy, his smile fading. “I hope Ron’s not in another
girls’ toilet. . . .”
Harry forced a laugh, watched Percy walk out of sight, and then headed
straight for Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. He couldn’t see why Ron and
Hermione would be in there again, but after making sure that neither Filch nor
any prefects were around, he opened the door and heard their voices coming
from a locked stall.
“It’s me,” he said, closing the door behind him. There was a clunk, a
splash, and a gasp from within the stall and he saw Hermione’s eye peering
through the keyhole.
“Harry!” she said. “You gave us such a fright — come in — how’s your
arm?”
“Fine,” said Harry, squeezing into the stall. An old cauldron was perched
on the toilet, and a crackling from under the rim told Harry they had lit a fire
beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires was a speciality of
Hermione’s.
“We’d’ve come to meet you, but we decided to get started on the Polyjuice
Potion,” Ron explained as Harry, with difficulty, locked the stall again.
“We’ve decided this is the safest place to hide it.”
Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione interrupted.
“We already know — we heard Professor McGonagall telling Professor
Flitwick this morning. That’s why we decided we’d better get going —”
“The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the better,” snarled Ron.
“D’you know what I think? He was in such a foul temper after the Quidditch
match, he took it out on Colin.”
“There’s something else,” said Harry, watching Hermione tearing bundles
of knotgrass and throwing them into the potion. “Dobby came to visit me in
the middle of the night.”
Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry told them everything Dobby
had told him — or hadn’t told him. Hermione and Ron listened with their
mouths open.
“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” Hermione said.
“This settles it,” said Ron in a triumphant voice. “Lucius Malfoy must’ve
opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he’s told dear old
Draco how to do it. It’s obvious. Wish Dobby’d told you what kind of
monster’s in there, though. I want to know how come nobody’s noticed it
sneaking around the school.”
“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” said Hermione, prodding leeches to
the bottom of the cauldron. “Or maybe it can disguise itself — pretend to be a
suit of armor or something — I’ve read about Chameleon Ghouls —”
“You read too much, Hermione,” said Ron, pouring dead lacewings on top
of the leeches. He crumpled up the empty lacewing bag and looked at Harry.
“So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and broke your arm. . . .”
He shook his head. “You know what, Harry? If he doesn’t stop trying to save
your life he’s going to kill you.”
The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though
dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday
morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first
years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though
scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.
Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in Charms, was distraught,
but Harry felt that Fred and George were going the wrong way about cheering
her up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and
jumping out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy,
apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell
her Ginny was having nightmares.
Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets,
and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom
bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a
rotting newt tail before the other Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in
no danger; he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.
“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, his round face fearful. “And
everyone knows I’m almost a Squib.”
In the second week of December Professor McGonagall came around as
usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for
Christmas. Harry, Ron, and Hermione signed her list; they had heard that
Malfoy was staying, which struck them as very suspicious. The holidays
would be the perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to worm a
confession out of him.
Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They still needed the
bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place they were going to get
them was from Snape’s private stores. Harry privately felt he’d rather face
Slytherin’s legendary monster than let Snape catch him robbing his office.
“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday afternoon’s double
Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a diversion. Then one of us can sneak into
Snape’s office and take what we need.”
Harry and Ron looked at her nervously.
“I think I’d better do the actual stealing,” Hermione continued in a matterof-fact tone. “You two will be expelled if you get into any more trouble, and
I’ve got a clean record. So all you need to do is cause enough mayhem to
keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.”
Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape’s Potions class
was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye.
Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday
afternoon’s lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood
steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of
ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about
the Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. Draco
Malfoy, who was Snape’s favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at
Ron and Harry, who knew that if they retaliated they would get detention
faster than you could say “Unfair.”
Harry’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he had his mind on more
important things. He was waiting for Hermione’s signal, and he hardly
listened as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. When Snape turned
and walked off to bully Neville, Hermione caught Harry’s eye and nodded.
Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron, pulled one of Fred’s
Filibuster fireworks out of his pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand.
The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had only seconds, Harry
straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target
in Goyle’s cauldron.
Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as
splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose
began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his
eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate — Snape was trying to
restore calm and find out what had happened. Through the confusion, Harry
saw Hermione slip quietly into Snape’s office.
“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has been splashed,
come here for a Deflating Draught — when I find out who did this —”
Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry forward, his head
drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. As half the class
lumbered up to Snape’s desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs,
others unable to talk through gigantic puffed-up lips, Harry saw Hermione
slide back into the dungeon, the front of her robes bulging.
When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings had
subsided, Snape swept over to Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted
black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.
“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape whispered, “I shall make sure
that person is expelled.”
Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a puzzled expression.
Snape was looking right at him, and the bell that rang ten minutes later could
not have been more welcome.
“He knew it was me,” Harry told Ron and Hermione as they hurried back
to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. “I could tell.”
Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to stir
feverishly.
“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily.
“Snape can’t prove it was you,” said Ron reassuringly to Harry. “What can
he do?”
“Knowing Snape, something foul,” said Harry as the potion frothed and
bubbled.
A week later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking across the entrance
hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board,
reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Seamus Finnigan
and Dean Thomas beckoned them over, looking excited.
“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First meeting tonight! I
wouldn’t mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these
days. . . .”
“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” said Ron, but he, too,
read the sign with interest.
“Could be useful,” he said to Harry and Hermione as they went into dinner.
“Shall we go?”
Harry and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o’clock that evening they
hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a
golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating
overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school
seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.
“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as they edged into the
chattering crowd. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when
he was young — maybe it’ll be him.”
“As long as it’s not —” Harry began, but he ended on a groan: Gilderoy
Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and
accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.
Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather
round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!
“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little
dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I
myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published
works.
“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a
wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and
has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin.
Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your
Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”
“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ron muttered in
Harry’s ear.
Snape’s upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still
smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that he’d have been running as
fast as he could in the opposite direction.
Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart
did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably.
Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them.
“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative
position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast
our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth.
“One — two — three —”
Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at
their opponent; Snape cried: “Expelliarmus!” There was a dazzling flash of
scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew backward off the
stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.
Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Hermione was dancing
on tiptoes. “Do you think he’s all right?” she squealed through her fingers.
“Who cares?” said Harry and Ron together.
Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his
wavy hair was standing on end.
“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto the platform. “That
was a Disarming Charm — as you see, I’ve lost my wand — ah, thank you,
Miss Brown — yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but
if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to
do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy — however,
I felt it would be instructive to let them see . . .”
Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he
said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put
you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me —”
They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed
Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first.
“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he sneered. “Weasley, you can
partner Finnigan. Potter —”
Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.
“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr. Malfoy, come over
here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger
— you can partner Miss Bulstrode.”
Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked a Slytherin girl who
reminded Harry of a picture he’d seen in Holidays with Hags. She was large
and square and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione gave her a weak
smile that she did not return.
“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!”
Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each
other.
“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your
charms to Disarm your opponents — only to disarm them — we don’t want
any accidents — one . . . two . . . three —”
Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already started on “two”: His
spell hit Harry so hard he felt as though he’d been hit over the head with a
saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and
wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at Malfoy and shouted,
“Rictusempra!”
A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he doubled up, wheezing.
“I said Disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the
battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his knees; Harry had hit him with a
Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back,
with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch Malfoy while he was
on the floor, but this was a mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his
wand at Harry’s knees, choked, “Tarantallegra!” and the next second Harry’s
legs began to jerk around out of his control in a kind of quickstep.
“Stop! Stop!” screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge.
“Finite Incantatem!” he shouted; Harry’s feet stopped dancing, Malfoy
stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.
A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and
Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced
Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; but Hermione
and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving; Millicent had Hermione in a
headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands lay
forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and pulled Millicent off. It was
difficult: She was a lot bigger than he was.
“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the
aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan. . . . Careful there, Miss
Fawcett. . . . Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot —
“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart,
standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black
eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair —
Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you —”
“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding over like a large and
malevolent bat. “Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells.
We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a
matchbox.” Neville’s round, pink face went pinker. “How about Malfoy and
Potter?” said Snape with a twisted smile.
“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the
middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.
“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do
this.”
He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action,
and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying,
“Whoops — my wand is a little overexcited —”
Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his
ear. Malfoy smirked, too. Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said,
“Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?”
“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear him.
“You wish,” said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!”
“What, drop my wand?”
But Lockhart wasn’t listening.
“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted.
Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “Serpensortia!”
The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, as a long black
snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself,
ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away,
clearing the floor.
“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry
standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it. . . .”
“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake and
there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the
air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it
slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs
exposed, poised to strike.
Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t even aware of deciding
to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward as though he
was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave him
alone!” And miraculously — inexplicably — the snake slumped to the floor,
docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. Harry felt the fear
drain out of him. He knew the snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how
he knew it, he couldn’t have explained.
He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved,
or puzzled, or even grateful — but certainly not angry and scared.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, and before Harry could
say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall.
Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small
puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way:
It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn’t like it. He was also
dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a
tugging on the back of his robes.
“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move — come on —”
Ron steered him out of the hall, Hermione hurrying alongside them. As
they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though
they were frightened of catching something. Harry didn’t have a clue what
was going on, and neither Ron nor Hermione explained anything until they
had dragged him all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common room. Then
Ron pushed Harry into an armchair and said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why
didn’t you tell us?”
“I’m a what?” said Harry.
“A Parselmouth!” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!”
“I know,” said Harry. “I mean, that’s only the second time I’ve ever done it.
I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once —
long story — but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it
free without meaning to — that was before I knew I was a wizard —”
“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ron repeated faintly.
“So?” said Harry. “I bet loads of people here can do it.”
“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ron. “It’s not a very common gift. Harry, this is
bad.”
“What’s bad?” said Harry, starting to feel quite angry. “What’s wrong with
everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Justin —”
“Oh, that’s what you said to it?”
“What d’you mean? You were there — you heard me —”
“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron. “Snake language. You
could have been saying anything — no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded
like you were egging the snake on or something — it was creepy, you know
—”
Harry gaped at him.
“I spoke a different language? But — I didn’t realize — how can I speak a
language without knowing I can speak it?”
Ron shook his head. Both he and Hermione were looking as though
someone had died. Harry couldn’t see what was so terrible.
“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a massive snake biting
off Justin’s head?” he said. “What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin
doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?”
“It matters,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a hushed voice, “because
being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s
why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”
Harry’s mouth fell open.
“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s going to think you’re
his great-great-great-great-grandson or something —”
“But I’m not,” said Harry, with a panic he couldn’t quite explain.
“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He lived about a thousand
years ago; for all we know, you could be.”
Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains around his
four-poster he watched snow starting to drift past the tower window and
wondered . . .
Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He didn’t know anything
about his father’s family, after all. The Dursleys had always forbidden
questions about his Wizarding relatives.
Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue. The words wouldn’t
come. It seemed he had to be face-to-face with a snake to do it.
But I’m in Gryffindor, Harry thought.The Sorting Hat wouldn’t have put me
in here if I had Slytherin blood. . . .
Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the Sorting Hat wanted to put
you in Slytherin, don’t you remember?
Harry turned over. He’d see Justin the next day in Herbology and he’d
explain that he’d been calling the snake off, not egging it on, which (he
thought angrily, pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized.
By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned
into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was
canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes,
a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else, now that it was so
important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and
Colin Creevey.
Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room,
while Ron and Hermione used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.
“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” said Hermione, exasperated, as one of Ron’s
bishops wrestled her knight off his horse and dragged him off the board. “Go
and find Justin if it’s so important to you.”
So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where Justin
might be.
The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick,
swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Harry walked past
classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was
happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by
the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a
look, Harry walked on by, thinking that Justin might be using his free time to
catch up on some work, and deciding to check the library first.
A group of the Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were
indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn’t seem to be working.
Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see that their heads
were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing
conversation. He couldn’t see whether Justin was among them. He was
walking toward them when something of what they were saying met his ears,
and he paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.
“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to hide up in our
dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s marked him down as his next victim, it’s
best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s been waiting for
something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggleborn. Justin actually told him he’d been down for Eton. That’s not the kind of
thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s heir on the loose, is it?”
“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said a girl with blonde
pigtails anxiously.
“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he’s a Parselmouth. Everyone
knows that’s the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one
who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue.”
There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie went on, “Remember
what was written on the wall? Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter had some
sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch’s cat’s attacked. That first
year, Creevey, was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of
him while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know — Creevey’s been
attacked.”
“He always seems so nice, though,” said Hannah uncertainly, “and, well,
he’s the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can’t be all bad, can
he?”
Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and
Harry edged nearer so that he could catch Ernie’s words.
“No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to
say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into
smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse
like that.” He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and
said, “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first
place. Didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what
other powers Potter’s been hiding?”
Harry couldn’t take anymore. Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped out
from behind the bookshelves. If he hadn’t been feeling so angry, he would
have found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of the Hufflepuffs
looked as though they had been Petrified by the sight of him, and the color
was draining out of Ernie’s face.
“Hello,” said Harry. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.”
The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all looked
fearfully at Ernie.
“What do you want with him?” said Ernie in a quavering voice.
“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling
Club,” said Harry.
Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, “We were all
there. We saw what happened.”
“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” said
Harry.
“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was trembling as he spoke,
“was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.”
“I didn’t chase it at him!” Harry said, his voice shaking with anger. “It
didn’t even touch him!”
“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case you’re getting ideas,” he
added hastily, “I might tell you that you can trace my family back through
nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s,
so —”
“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Harry fiercely. “Why
would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”
“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said Ernie swiftly.
“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them,” said Harry.
“I’d like to see you try it.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, earning himself a
reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was polishing the gilded cover of a
large spell book.
Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing where he was going, he
was in such a fury. The result was that he walked into something very large
and solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor.
“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, looking up.
Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-covered balaclava, but
it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his
moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive,
gloved hands.
“All righ’, Harry?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak.
“Why aren’t yeh in class?”
“Canceled,” said Harry, getting up. “What’re you doing in here?”
Hagrid held up the limp rooster.
“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s either foxes or a BloodSuckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need the headmaster’s permission ter put a charm
around the hen coop.”
He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, snow-flecked
eyebrows.
“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all hot an’ bothered —”
Harry couldn’t bring himself to repeat what Ernie and the rest of the
Hufflepuffs had been saying about him.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s Transfiguration
next and I’ve got to pick up my books.”
He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had said about him.
“Justin’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let
slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. . . .”
Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was
particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that
was blowing through a loose windowpane. He was halfway down the passage
when he tripped headlong over something lying on the floor.
He turned to squint at what he’d fallen over and felt as though his stomach
had dissolved.
Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of
shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that
wasn’t all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever
seen.
It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but
black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor.
His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to
Justin’s.
Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a kind
of drumroll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the deserted
corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the
bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classes
on either side.
He could run, and no one would ever know he had been there. But he
couldn’t just leave them lying here. . . . He had to get help. . . . Would anyone
believe he hadn’t had anything to do with this?
As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him opened with a bang.
Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.
“Why, it’s potty wee Potter!” cackled Peeves, knocking Harry’s glasses
askew as he bounced past him. “What’s Potter up to? Why’s Potter lurking
—”
Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he
spotted Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled
his lungs and, before Harry could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK!
ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR
YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”
Crash — crash — crash — door after door flew open along the corridor
and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such
confusion that Justin was in danger of being squashed and people kept
standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry found himself pinned against the
wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running,
followed by her own class, one of whom still had black-and-white-striped
hair. She used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and
ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared
somewhat than Ernie the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.
“Caught in the act!” Ernie yelled, his face stark white, pointing his finger
dramatically at Harry.
“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply.
Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the
scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justin and
Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:
“Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done,
You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun —”
“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves
zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry.
Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and
Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know
what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall
conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions
to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, fanning Nick along
like a silent black hovercraft. This left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone
together.
“This way, Potter,” she said.
“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn’t —”
“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall curtly.
They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a large
and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.
“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a password, because the
gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split
in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry couldn’t fail to be
amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly
upward, like an escalator. As he and Professor McGonagall stepped onto it,
Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles,
higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door
ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.
He knew now where he was being taken. This must be where Dumbledore
lived.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE POLYJUICE POTION
T
hey stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall
rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor
McGonagall told Harry to wait and left him there, alone.
Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers’ offices
Harry had visited so far this year, Dumbledore’s was by far the most
interesting. If he hadn’t been scared out of his wits that he was about to be
thrown out of school, he would have been very pleased to have a chance to
look around it.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A
number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring
and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of
old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in
their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a
shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard’s hat — the Sorting Hat.
Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and
wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn’t hurt if he took the hat down and tried
it on again? Just to see . . . just to make sure it had put him in the right House
—
He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and
lowered it slowly onto his head. It was much too large and slipped down over
his eyes, just as it had done the last time he’d put it on. Harry stared at the
black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice said in his ear, “Bee in
your bonnet, Harry Potter?”
“Er, yes,” Harry muttered. “Er — sorry to bother you — I wanted to ask
—”
“You’ve been wondering whether I put you in the right House,” said the hat
smartly. “Yes . . . you were particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what
I said before” — Harry’s heart leapt — “you would have done well in
Slytherin —”
Harry’s stomach plummeted. He grabbed the point of the hat and pulled it
off. It hung limply in his hand, grubby and faded. Harry pushed it back onto
its shelf, feeling sick.
“You’re wrong,” he said aloud to the still and silent hat. It didn’t move.
Harry backed away, watching it. Then a strange, gagging noise behind him
made him wheel around.
He wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a
decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it
and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harry
thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harry watched, a
couple more feathers fell out of its tail.
Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore’s pet bird to
die while he was alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. He looked feverishly
around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the
bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and next
second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.
“Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird — I couldn’t do anything — he just
caught fire —”
To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful for days; I’ve been
telling him to get a move on.”
He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry’s face.
“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for
them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him . . .”
Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its
head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.
“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,” said Dumbledore,
seating himself behind his desk. “He’s really very handsome most of the time,
wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can
carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make
highly faithful pets.”
In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had forgotten what he was
there for, but it all came back to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the
high chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his penetrating, light-blue
stare.
Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the
office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his
eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head and the dead
rooster still swinging from his hand.
“It wasn’ Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was
talkin’ ter him seconds before that kid was found, he never had time, sir —”
Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the
rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.
“— it can’t’ve bin him, I’ll swear it in front o’ the Ministry o’ Magic if I
have to —”
“Hagrid, I —”
“— yeh’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never —”
“Hagrid!” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that Harry attacked
those people.”
“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. “Right. I’ll wait
outside then, Headmaster.”
And he stomped out looking embarrassed.
“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry repeated hopefully as
Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.
“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again.
“But I still want to talk to you.”
Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered him, the tips of his
long fingers together.
“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you’d like to tell me,” he
said gently. “Anything at all.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He thought of Malfoy shouting, “You’ll be
next, Mudbloods!” and of the Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning
Myrtle’s bathroom. Then he thought of the disembodied voice he had heard
twice and remembered what Ron had said: “Hearing voices no one else can
hear isn’t a good sign, even in the Wizarding world.” He thought, too, about
what everyone was saying about him, and his growing dread that he was
somehow connected with Salazar Slytherin. . . .
“No,” said Harry. “There isn’t anything, Professor. . . .”
The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had
hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless
Nick’s fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to
a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone
who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats on the
Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.
“At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left,” Ron told Harry and Hermione.
“Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.”
Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy did, had signed up to
stay over the holidays, too. But Harry was glad that most people were leaving.
He was tired of people skirting around him in the corridors, as though he were
about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and
hissing as he passed.
Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of
their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting, “Make way
for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through. . . .”
Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior.
“It is not a laughing matter,” he said coldly.
“Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Harry’s in a hurry.”
“Yeah, he’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his fanged
servant,” said George, chortling.
Ginny didn’t find it amusing either.
“Oh, don’t,” she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he was
planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Harry off with a
large clove of garlic when they met.
Harry didn’t mind; it made him feel better that Fred and George, at least,
thought the idea of his being Slytherin’s heir was quite ludicrous. But their
antics seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked increasingly sour
each time he saw them at it.
“It’s because he’s bursting to say it’s really him,” said Ron knowingly.
“You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you’re getting
all the credit for his dirty work.”
“Not for long,” said Hermione in a satisfied tone. “The Polyjuice Potion’s
nearly ready. We’ll be getting the truth out of him any day now.”
At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds
descended on the castle. Harry found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and
enjoyed the fact that he, Hermione, and the Weasleys had the run of
Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could play Exploding Snap loudly
without bothering anyone, and practice dueling in private. Fred, George, and
Ginny had chosen to stay at school rather than visit Bill in Egypt with Mr. and
Mrs. Weasley. Percy, who disapproved of what he termed their childish
behavior, didn’t spend much time in the Gryffindor common room. He had
already told them pompously that he was only staying over Christmas because
it was his duty as a prefect to support the teachers during this troubled time.
Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry and Ron, the only ones
left in their dormitory, were woken very early by Hermione, who burst in,
fully dressed and carrying presents for them both.
“Wake up,” she said loudly, pulling back the curtains at the window.
“Hermione — you’re not supposed to be in here —” said Ron, shielding his
eyes against the light.
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Hermione, throwing him his present.
“I’ve been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to the potion. It’s
ready.”
Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” said Hermione, shifting Scabbers the rat so that she could sit
down on the end of Ron’s four-poster. “If we’re going to do it, I say it should
be tonight.”
At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, carrying a very small
package in her beak.
“Hello,” said Harry happily as she landed on his bed. “Are you speaking to
me again?”
She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way, which was a far better
present than the one that she had brought him, which turned out to be from
the Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note telling him to find
out whether he’d be able to stay at Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too.
The rest of Harry’s Christmas presents were far more satisfactory. Hagrid
had sent him a large tin of treacle toffee, which Harry decided to soften by the
fire before eating; Ron had given him a book called Flying with the Cannons,
a book of interesting facts about his favorite Quidditch team, and Hermione
had bought him a luxury eagle-feather quill. Harry opened the last present to
find a new, hand-knitted sweater from Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake.
He read her card with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr. Weasley’s car
(which hadn’t been seen since its crash with the Whomping Willow), and the
bout of rule-breaking he and Ron were planning next.
No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice Potion later, could fail to
enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.
The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frostcovered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe
crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from
the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid
booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed.
Percy, who hadn’t noticed that Fred had bewitched his prefect badge so that it
now read “Pinhead,” kept asking them all what they were sniggering at. Harry
didn’t even care that Draco Malfoy was making loud, snide remarks about his
new sweater from the Slytherin table. With a bit of luck, Malfoy would be
getting his comeuppance in a few hours’ time.
Harry and Ron had barely finished their third helpings of Christmas
pudding when Hermione ushered them out of the hall to finalize their plans
for the evening.
“We still need a bit of the people you’re changing into,” said Hermione
matter-of-factly, as though she were sending them to the supermarket for
laundry detergent. “And obviously, it’ll be best if you can get something of
Crabbe’s and Goyle’s; they’re Malfoy’s best friends, he’ll tell them anything.
And we also need to make sure the real Crabbe and Goyle can’t burst in on us
while we’re interrogating him.
“I’ve got it all worked out,” she went on smoothly, ignoring Harry’s and
Ron’s stupefied faces. She held up two plump chocolate cakes. “I’ve filled
these with a simple Sleeping Draught. All you have to do is make sure Crabbe
and Goyle find them. You know how greedy they are, they’re bound to eat
them. Once they’re asleep, pull out a few of their hairs and hide them in a
broom closet.”
Harry and Ron looked incredulously at each other.
“Hermione, I don’t think —”
“That could go seriously wrong —”
But Hermione had a steely glint in her eye not unlike the one Professor
McGonagall sometimes had.
“The potion will be useless without Crabbe’s and Goyle’s hair,” she said
sternly. “You do want to investigate Malfoy, don’t you?”
“Oh, all right, all right,” said Harry. “But what about you? Whose hair are
you ripping out?”
“I’ve already got mine!” said Hermione brightly, pulling a tiny bottle out of
her pocket and showing them the single hair inside it. “Remember Millicent
Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling Club? She left this on my robes
when she was trying to strangle me! And she’s gone home for Christmas —
so I’ll just have to tell the Slytherins I’ve decided to come back.”
When Hermione had bustled off to check on the Polyjuice Potion again,
Ron turned to Harry with a doom-laden expression.
“Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things could go wrong?”
But to Harry’s and Ron’s utter amazement, stage one of the operation went
just as smoothly as Hermione had said. They lurked in the deserted entrance
hall after Christmas tea, waiting for Crabbe and Goyle who had remained
alone at the Slytherin table, shoveling down fourth helpings of trifle. Harry
had perched the chocolate cakes on the end of the banisters. When they
spotted Crabbe and Goyle coming out of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron hid
quickly behind a suit of armor next to the front door.
“How thick can you get?” Ron whispered ecstatically as Crabbe gleefully
pointed out the cakes to Goyle and grabbed them. Grinning stupidly, they
stuffed the cakes whole into their large mouths. For a moment, both of them
chewed greedily, looks of triumph on their faces. Then, without the smallest
change of expression, they both keeled over backward onto the floor.
By far the hardest part was hiding them in the closet across the hall. Once
they were safely stowed among the buckets and mops, Harry yanked out a
couple of the bristles that covered Goyle’s forehead and Ron pulled out
several of Crabbe’s hairs. They also stole their shoes, because their own were
far too small for Crabbe- and Goyle-size feet. Then, still stunned at what they
had just done, they sprinted up to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.
They could hardly see for the thick black smoke issuing from the stall in
which Hermione was stirring the cauldron. Pulling their robes up over their
faces, Harry and Ron knocked softly on the door.
“Hermione?”
They heard the scrape of the lock and Hermione emerged, shiny-faced and
looking anxious. Behind her they heard the gloop gloop of the bubbling,
glutinous potion. Three glass tumblers stood ready on the toilet seat.
“Did you get them?” Hermione asked breathlessly.
Harry showed her Goyle’s hair.
“Good. And I sneaked these spare robes out of the laundry,” Hermione
said, holding up a small sack. “You’ll need bigger sizes once you’re Crabbe
and Goyle.”
The three of them stared into the cauldron. Close up, the potion looked like
thick, dark mud, bubbling sluggishly.
“I’m sure I’ve done everything right,” said Hermione, nervously rereading
the splotched page of Moste Potente Potions. “It looks like the book says it
should . . . once we’ve drunk it, we’ll have exactly an hour before we change
back into ourselves.”
“Now what?” Ron whispered.
“We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs.”
Hermione ladled large dollops of the potion into each of the glasses. Then,
her hand trembling, she shook Millicent Bulstrode’s hair out of its bottle into
the first glass.
The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly. A second
later, it had turned a sick sort of yellow.
“Urgh — essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron, eyeing it with
loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.”
“Add yours, then,” said Hermione.
Harry dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and Ron put Crabbe’s into
the last one. Both glasses hissed and frothed: Goyle’s turned the khaki color
of a booger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown.
“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached for their glasses.
“We’d better not all drink them in here. . . . Once we turn into Crabbe and
Goyle we won’t fit. And Millicent Bulstrode’s no pixie.”
“Good thinking,” said Ron, unlocking the door. “We’ll take separate stalls.”
Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion, Harry slipped into the
middle stall.
“Ready?” he called.
“Ready,” came Ron’s and Hermione’s voices.
“One — two — three —”
Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in two large gulps. It tasted
like overcooked cabbage.
Immediately, his insides started writhing as though he’d just swallowed live
snakes — doubled up, he wondered whether he was going to be sick — then a
burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to the very ends of his
fingers and toes — next, bringing him gasping to all fours, came a horrible
melting feeling, as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot wax — and
before his eyes, his hands began to grow, the fingers thickened, the nails
broadened, the knuckles were bulging like bolts — his shoulders stretched
painfully and a prickling on his forehead told him that hair was creeping
down toward his eyebrows — his robes ripped as his chest expanded like a
barrel bursting its hoops — his feet were agony in shoes four sizes too small
—
As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. Harry lay facedown on
the stone-cold floor, listening to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet.
With difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So this was what it felt
like, being Goyle. His large hand trembling, he pulled off his old robes, which
were hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on the spare ones, and laced up
Goyle’s boatlike shoes. He reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes and
met only the short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead. Then he
realized that his glasses were clouding his eyes because Goyle obviously
didn’t need them — he took them off and called, “Are you two okay?”
Goyle’s low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth.
“Yeah,” came the deep grunt of Crabbe from his right.
Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of the cracked mirror. Goyle
stared back at him out of dull, deepset eyes. Harry scratched his ear. So did
Goyle.
Ron’s door opened. They stared at each other. Except that he looked pale
and shocked, Ron was indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding-bowl
haircut to the long, gorilla arms.
“This is unbelievable,” said Ron, approaching the mirror and prodding
Crabbe’s flat nose. “Unbelievable.”
“We’d better get going,” said Harry, loosening the watch that was cutting
into Goyle’s thick wrist. “We’ve still got to find out where the Slytherin
common room is. I only hope we can find someone to follow . . .”
Ron, who had been gazing at Harry, said, “You don’t know how bizarre it is
to see Goyle thinking.” He banged on Hermione’s door. “C’mon, we need to
go —”
A high-pitched voice answered him.
“I — I don’t think I’m going to come after all. You go on without me.”
“Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode’s ugly, no one’s going to know
it’s you —”
“No — really — I don’t think I’ll come. You two hurry up, you’re wasting
time —”
Harry looked at Ron, bewildered.
“That looks more like Goyle,” said Ron. “That’s how he looks every time a
teacher asks him a question.”
“Hermione, are you okay?” said Harry through the door.
“Fine — I’m fine — go on —”
Harry looked at his watch. Five of their precious sixty minutes had already
passed.
“We’ll meet you back here, all right?” he said.
Harry and Ron opened the door of the bathroom carefully, checked that the
coast was clear, and set off.
“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harry muttered to Ron.
“Eh?”
“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff. . . .”
“How’s this?”
“Yeah, that’s better. . . .”
They went down the marble staircase. All they needed now was a Slytherin
that they could follow to the Slytherin common room, but there was nobody
around.
“Any ideas?” muttered Harry.
“The Slytherins always come up to breakfast from over there,” said Ron,
nodding at the entrance to the dungeons. The words had barely left his mouth
when a girl with long, curly hair emerged from the entrance.
“Excuse me,” said Ron, hurrying up to her. “We’ve forgotten the way to
our common room.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the girl stiffly. “Our common room? I’m a
Ravenclaw.”
She walked away, looking suspiciously back at them.
Harry and Ron hurried down the stone steps into the darkness, their
footsteps echoing particularly loudly as Crabbe’s and Goyle’s huge feet hit the
floor, feeling that this wasn’t going to be as easy as they had hoped.
The labyrinthine passages were deserted. They walked deeper and deeper
under the school, constantly checking their watches to see how much time
they had left. After a quarter of an hour, just when they were getting
desperate, they heard a sudden movement ahead.
“Ha!” said Ron excitedly. “There’s one of them now!”
The figure was emerging from a side room. As they hurried nearer,
however, their hearts sank. It wasn’t a Slytherin, it was Percy.
“What’re you doing down here?” said Ron in surprise.
Percy looked affronted.
“That,” he said stiffly, “is none of your business. It’s Crabbe, isn’t it?”
“Wh — oh, yeah,” said Ron.
“Well, get off to your dormitories,” said Percy sternly. “It’s not safe to go
wandering around dark corridors these days.”
“You are,” Ron pointed out.
“I,” said Percy, drawing himself up, “am a prefect. Nothing’s about to
attack me.”
A voice suddenly echoed behind Harry and Ron. Draco Malfoy was
strolling toward them, and for the first time in his life, Harry was pleased to
see him.
“There you are,” he drawled, looking at them. “Have you two been pigging
out in the Great Hall all this time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show
you something really funny.”
Malfoy glanced witheringly at Percy.
“And what’re you doing down here, Weasley?” he sneered.
Percy looked outraged.
“You want to show a bit more respect to a school prefect!” he said. “I don’t
like your attitude!”
Malfoy sneered and motioned for Harry and Ron to follow him. Harry
almost said something apologetic to Percy but caught himself just in time. He
and Ron hurried after Malfoy, who said as they turned into the next passage,
“That Peter Weasley —”
“Percy,” Ron corrected him automatically.
“Whatever,” said Malfoy. “I’ve noticed him sneaking around a lot lately.
And I bet I know what he’s up to. He thinks he’s going to catch Slytherin’s
heir single-handed.”
He gave a short, derisive laugh. Harry and Ron exchanged excited looks.
Malfoy paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.
“What’s the new password again?” he said to Harry.
“Er —” said Harry.
“Oh, yeah — pure-blood!” said Malfoy, not listening, and a stone door
concealed in the wall slid open. Malfoy marched through it, and Harry and
Ron followed him.
The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with
rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were
hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved
mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it
in high-backed chairs.
“Wait here,” said Malfoy to Harry and Ron, motioning them to a pair of
empty chairs set back from the fire. “I’ll go and get it — my father’s just sent
it to me —”
Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them, Harry and Ron sat down,
doing their best to look at home.
Malfoy came back a minute later, holding what looked like a newspaper
clipping. He thrust it under Ron’s nose.
“That’ll give you a laugh,” he said.
Harry saw Ron’s eyes widen in shock. He read the clipping quickly, gave a
very forced laugh, and handed it to Harry.
It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it said:
INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, was
today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today
for Mr. Weasley’s resignation.
“Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,” Mr. Malfoy told
our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous
Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.”
Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told
reporters to clear off or she’d set the family ghoul on them.
“Well?” said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the clipping back to him.
“Don’t you think it’s funny?”
“Ha, ha,” said Harry bleakly.
“Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in half
and go and join them,” said Malfoy scornfully. “You’d never know the
Weasleys were purebloods, the way they behave.”
Ron’s — or rather, Crabbe’s — face was contorted with fury.
“What’s up with you, Crabbe?” snapped Malfoy.
“Stomachache,” Ron grunted.
“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick from
me,” said Malfoy, snickering. “You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet
hasn’t reported all these attacks yet,” he went on thoughtfully. “I suppose
Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon.
Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to
this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent headmaster would never’ve let
slime like that Creevey in.”
Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel
but accurate impression of Colin: “‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter?
Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter?’”
He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron.
“What’s the matter with you two?”
Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to laugh, but Malfoy seemed
satisfied; perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were always slow on the uptake.
“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Malfoy slowly. “He’s another
one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that
jumped-up Granger Mudblood. And people think he’s Slytherin’s heir!”
Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was surely seconds away
from telling them it was him — but then —
“I wish I knew who it is,” said Malfoy petulantly. “I could help them.”
Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more clueless than usual.
Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice, and Harry, thinking fast, said, “You must
have some idea who’s behind it all. . . .”
“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?”
snapped Malfoy. “And Father won’t tell me anything about the last time the
Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before
his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and
it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing — last
time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a
matter of time before one of them’s killed this time. . . . I hope it’s Granger,”
he said with relish.
Ron was clenching Crabbe’s gigantic fists. Feeling that it would be a bit of
a giveaway if Ron punched Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning look and said,
“D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?”
“Oh, yeah . . . whoever it was was expelled,” said Malfoy. “They’re
probably still in Azkaban.”
“Azkaban?” said Harry, puzzled.
“Azkaban — the wizard prison, Goyle,” said Malfoy, looking at him in
disbelief. “Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward.”
He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father says to keep my head
down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs
ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he’s
got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided
our manor last week?”
Harry tried to force Goyle’s dull face into a look of concern.
“Yeah . . .” said Malfoy. “Luckily, they didn’t find much. Father’s got some
very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber
under the drawing-room floor —”
“Ho!” said Ron.
Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed. Even his hair was
turning red. His nose was also slowly lengthening — their hour was up, Ron
was turning back into himself, and from the look of horror he was suddenly
giving Harry, he must be, too.
They both jumped to their feet.
“Medicine for my stomach,” Ron grunted, and without further ado they
sprinted the length of the Slytherin common room, hurled themselves at the
stone wall, and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that Malfoy
hadn’t noticed anything. Harry could feel his feet slipping around in Goyle’s
huge shoes and had to hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the
steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a muffled pounding
coming from the closet where they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their
shoes outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks up the marble
staircase toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.
“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron panted, closing the
bathroom door behind them. “I know we still haven’t found out who’s doing
the attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and tell him to check
under the Malfoys’ drawing room.”
Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was back to normal. He
put his glasses on as Ron hammered on the door of Hermione’s stall.
“Hermione, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you —”
“Go away!” Hermione squeaked.
Harry and Ron looked at each other.
“What’s the matter?” said Ron. “You must be back to normal by now, we
are —”
But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the stall door. Harry had
never seen her looking so happy.
“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” she said. “It’s awful —”
They heard the lock slide back and Hermione emerged, sobbing, her robes
pulled up over her head.
“What’s up?” said Ron uncertainly. “Have you still got Millicent’s nose or
something?”
Hermione let her robes fall and Ron backed into the sink.
Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had turned yellow and there
were long, pointed ears poking through her hair.
“It was a c-cat hair!” she howled. “M-Millicent Bulstrode m-must have a
cat! And the p-potion isn’t supposed to be used for animal transformations!”
“Uh-oh,” said Ron.
“You’ll be teased something dreadful,” said Myrtle happily.
“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry quickly. “We’ll take you up to the
hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never asks too many questions. . . .”
It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the bathroom. Moaning
Myrtle sped them on their way with a hearty guffaw. “Wait till everyone finds
out you’ve got a tail!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE VERY SECRET DIARY
H
ermione remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a
flurry of rumor about her disappearance when the rest of the school
arrived back from their Christmas holidays, because of course everyone
thought that she had been attacked. So many students filed past the hospital
wing trying to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took out her
curtains again and placed them around Hermione’s bed, to spare her the
shame of being seen with a furry face.
Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. When the new term started,
they brought her each day’s homework.
“If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,” said Ron, tipping a
stack of books onto Hermione’s bedside table one evening.
“Don’t be silly, Ron, I’ve got to keep up,” said Hermione briskly. Her
spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from her
face and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. “I don’t suppose you’ve
got any new leads?” she added in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t
hear her.
“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.
“I was so sure it was Malfoy,” said Ron, for about the hundredth time.
“What’s that?” asked Harry, pointing to something gold sticking out from
under Hermione’s pillow.
“Just a get well card,” said Hermione hastily, trying to poke it out of sight,
but Ron was too quick for her. He pulled it out, flicked it open, and read
aloud:
“To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned
teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class,
Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner
of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award.”
Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.
“You sleep with this under your pillow?”
But Hermione was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over
with her evening dose of medicine.
“Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you’ve ever met, or what?” Ron said to
Harry as they left the infirmary and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor
Tower. Snape had given them so much homework, Harry thought he was
likely to be in the sixth year before he finished it. Ron was just saying he
wished he had asked Hermione how many rat tails you were supposed to add
to a Hair-Raising Potion when an angry outburst from the floor above reached
their ears.
“That’s Filch,” Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out
of sight, listening hard.
“You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?” said Ron tensely.
They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch’s voice, which sounded
quite hysterical.
“— even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven’t got enough to
do! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore —”
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a
distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning
his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris
had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about.
A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though
it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Now
that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off
the bathroom walls.
“Now what’s up with her?” said Ron.
“Let’s go and see,” said Harry, and holding their robes over their ankles
they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its OUT OF
ORDER
sign, ignored it as always, and entered.
Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever
before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the
bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of
water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.
“What’s up, Myrtle?” said Harry.
“Who’s that?” glugged Myrtle miserably. “Come to throw something else
at me?”
Harry waded across to her stall and said, “Why would I throw something at
you?”
“Don’t ask me,” Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water,
which splashed onto the already sopping floor. “Here I am, minding my own
business, and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me. . . .”
“But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at you,” said Harry,
reasonably. “I mean, it’d just go right through you, wouldn’t it?”
He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked, “Let’s
all throw books at Myrtle, because she can’t feel it! Ten points if you can get
it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through her head! Well, ha, ha,
ha! What a lovely game, I don’t think!”
“Who threw it at you, anyway?” asked Harry.
“I don’t know. . . . I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death,
and it fell right through the top of my head,” said Myrtle, glaring at them.
“It’s over there, it got washed out. . . .”
Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing. A small,
thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything
else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly
flung out an arm to hold him back.
“What?” said Harry.
“Are you crazy?” said Ron. “It could be dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” said Harry, laughing. “Come off it, how could it be
dangerous?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Ron, who was looking apprehensively at the
book. “Some of the books the Ministry’s confiscated — Dad’s told me —
there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a
Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in
Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander
around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed. And —”
“All right, I’ve got the point,” said Harry.
The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.
“Well, we won’t find out unless we look at it,” he said, and he ducked
around Ron and picked it up off the floor.
Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told
him it was fifty years old. He opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just
make out the name “T. M. Riddle” in smudged ink.
“Hang on,” said Ron, who had approached cautiously and was looking over
Harry’s shoulder. “I know that name. . . . T. M. Riddle got an award for
special services to the school fifty years ago.”
“How on earth d’you know that?” said Harry in amazement.
“Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention,”
said Ron resentfully. “That was the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped
slime off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.”
Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There
wasn’t the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel’s
birthday, or dentist, half-past three.
“He never wrote in it,” said Harry, disappointed.
“I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?” said Ron curiously.
Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a
variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.
“He must’ve been Muggle-born,” said Harry thoughtfully. “To have bought
a diary from Vauxhall Road. . . .”
“Well, it’s not much use to you,” said Ron. He dropped his voice. “Fifty
points if you can get it through Myrtle’s nose.”
Harry, however, pocketed it.
Hermione left the hospital wing, de-whiskered, tail-less, and fur-free, at the
beginning of February. On her first evening back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry
showed her T. M. Riddle’s diary and told her the story of how they had found
it.
“Oooh, it might have hidden powers,” said Hermione enthusiastically,
taking the diary and looking at it closely.
“If it has, it’s hiding them very well,” said Ron. “Maybe it’s shy. I don’t
know why you don’t chuck it, Harry.”
“I wish I knew why someone did try to chuck it,” said Harry. “I wouldn’t
mind knowing how Riddle got an award for special services to Hogwarts
either.”
“Could’ve been anything,” said Ron. “Maybe he got thirty O.W.L.s or
saved a teacher from the giant squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that
would’ve done everyone a favor. . . .”
But Harry could tell from the arrested look on Hermione’s face that she was
thinking what he was thinking.
“What?” said Ron, looking from one to the other.
“Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, wasn’t it?” he
said. “That’s what Malfoy said.”
“Yeah . . .” said Ron slowly.
“And this diary is fifty years old,” said Hermione, tapping it excitedly.
“So?”
“Oh, Ron, wake up,” snapped Hermione. “We know the person who
opened the Chamber last time was expelled fifty years ago. We know T. M.
Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago. Well,
what if Riddle got his special award for catching the Heir of Slytherin? His
diary would probably tell us everything — where the Chamber is, and how to
open it, and what sort of creature lives in it — the person who’s behind the
attacks this time wouldn’t want that lying around, would they?”
“That’s a brilliant theory, Hermione,” said Ron, “with just one tiny little
flaw. There’s nothing written in his diary.”
But Hermione was pulling her wand out of her bag.
“It might be invisible ink!” she whispered.
She tapped the diary three times and said, “Aparecium!”
Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermione shoved her hand back into her
bag and pulled out what appeared to be a bright red eraser.
“It’s a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” she said.
She rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened.
“I’m telling you, there’s nothing to find in there,” said Ron. “Riddle just
got a diary for Christmas and couldn’t be bothered filling it in.”
Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he didn’t just throw Riddle’s
diary away. The fact was that even though he knew the diary was blank, he
kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a
story he wanted to finish. And while Harry was sure he had never heard the
name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as
though Riddle was a friend he’d had when he was very small, and had halfforgotten. But this was absurd. He’d never had friends before Hogwarts,
Dudley had made sure of that.
Nevertheless, Harry was determined to find out more about Riddle, so next
day at break, he headed for the trophy room to examine Riddle’s special
award, accompanied by an interested Hermione and a thoroughly
unconvinced Ron, who told them he’d seen enough of the trophy room to last
him a lifetime.
Riddle’s burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet. It
didn’t carry details of why it had been given to him (“Good thing, too, or it’d
be even bigger and I’d still be polishing it,” said Ron). However, they did find
Riddle’s name on an old Medal for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head
Boys.
“He sounds like Percy,” said Ron, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Prefect,
Head Boy . . . probably top of every class —”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Hermione in a slightly hurt voice.
The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle,
the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since
those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased
to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning
that they were fast leaving childhood.
“The moment their acne clears up, they’ll be ready for repotting again,”
Harry heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. “And after that, it won’t be
long until we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have Mrs. Norris
back in no time.”
Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her nerve, thought Harry. It
must be getting riskier and riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the
school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster, whatever it was, was
even now settling itself down to hibernate for another fifty years. . . .
Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn’t take this cheerful view. He was still
convinced that Harry was the guilty one, that he had “given himself away” at
the Dueling Club. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; he kept popping up in the
crowded corridors singing “Oh, Potter, you rotter . . .” now with a dance
routine to match.
Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks stop.
Harry overheard him telling Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors
were lining up for Transfiguration.
“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,” he said, tapping his
nose knowingly and winking. “I think the Chamber has been locked for good
this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I
caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him.
“You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the
memories of last term! I won’t say any more just now, but I think I know just
the thing. . . .”
He tapped his nose again and strode off.
Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on
February fourteenth. Harry hadn’t had much sleep because of a late-running
Quidditch practice the night before, and he hurried down to the Great Hall,
slightly late. He thought, for a moment, that he’d walked through the wrong
doors.
The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heartshaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the
Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting looking sickened, and Hermione
seemed to have been overcome with giggles.
“What’s going on?” Harry asked them, sitting down and wiping confetti off
his bacon.
Ron pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too disgusted to speak.
Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for
silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. From
where he sat, Harry could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s
cheek. Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a large beaker of
Skele-Gro.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may I thank the fortysix people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of
arranging this little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!”
Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall
marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however.
Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.
“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be
roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun
doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of
the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a
Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about
Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”
Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as
though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed
poison.
“Please, Hermione, tell me you weren’t one of the forty-six,” said Ron as
they left the Great Hall for their first lesson. Hermione suddenly became very
interested in searching her bag for her schedule and didn’t answer.
All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver
valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers, and late that afternoon as the
Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs caught up
with Harry.
“Oi, you! ’Arry Potter!” shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf,
elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry.
Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line of
first years, which happened to include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried to escape.
The dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by kicking people’s shins,
and reached him before he’d gone two paces.
“I’ve got a musical message to deliver to ’Arry Potter in person,” he said,
twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way.
“Not here,” Harry hissed, trying to escape.
“Stay still!” grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of Harry’s bag and pulling
him back.
“Let me go!” Harry snarled, tugging.
With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His books, wand,
parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and his ink bottle smashed over
everything.
Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up before the dwarf started
singing, causing something of a holdup in the corridor.
“What’s going on here?” came the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy.
Harry started stuffing everything feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to
get away before Malfoy could hear his musical valentine.
“What’s all this commotion?” said another familiar voice as Percy Weasley
arrived.
Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but the dwarf seized him
around the knees and brought him crashing to the floor.
“Right,” he said, sitting on Harry’s ankles. “Here is your singing valentine:
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the spot.
Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb
from the weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to disperse the
crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth.
“Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now,”
he said, shooing some of the younger students away. “And you, Malfoy —”
Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something. Leering,
he showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry realized that he’d got Riddle’s
diary.
“Give that back,” said Harry quietly.
“Wonder what Potter’s written in this?” said Malfoy, who obviously hadn’t
noticed the year on the cover and thought he had Harry’s own diary. A hush
fell over the onlookers. Ginny was staring from the diary to Harry, looking
terrified.
“Hand it over, Malfoy,” said Percy sternly.
“When I’ve had a look,” said Malfoy, waving the diary tauntingly at Harry.
Percy said, “As a school prefect —” but Harry had lost his temper. He
pulled out his wand and shouted, “Expelliarmus!” and just as Snape had
Disarmed Lockhart, so Malfoy found the diary shooting out of his hand into
the air. Ron, grinning broadly, caught it.
“Harry!” said Percy loudly. “No magic in the corridors. I’ll have to report
this, you know!”
But Harry didn’t care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and that was worth five
points from Gryffindor any day. Malfoy was looking furious, and as Ginny
passed him to enter her classroom, he yelled spitefully after her, “I don’t think
Potter liked your valentine much!”
Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into class. Snarling, Ron
pulled out his wand, too, but Harry pulled him away. Ron didn’t need to
spend the whole of Charms belching slugs.
It wasn’t until they had reached Professor Flitwick’s class that Harry
noticed something rather odd about Riddle’s diary. All his other books were
drenched in scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had been before
the ink bottle had smashed all over it. He tried to point this out to Ron, but
Ron was having trouble with his wand again; large purple bubbles were
blossoming out of the end, and he wasn’t much interested in anything else.
Harry went to bed before anyone else in his dormitory that night. This was
partly because he didn’t think he could stand Fred and George singing, “His
eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad” one more time, and partly because
he wanted to examine Riddle’s diary again, and knew that Ron thought he
was wasting his time.
Harry sat on his four-poster and flicked through the blank pages, not one of
which had a trace of scarlet ink on it. Then he pulled a new bottle out of his
bedside cabinet, dipped his quill into it, and dropped a blot onto the first page
of the diary.
The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was
being sucked into the page, vanished. Excited, Harry loaded up his quill a
second time and wrote, “My name is Harry Potter.”
The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without
trace. Then, at last, something happened.
Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Harry had
never written.
“Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my
diary?”
These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry had started to scribble
back.
“Someone tried to flush it down a toilet.”
He waited eagerly for Riddle’s reply.
“Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink.
But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary
read.”
“What do you mean?” Harry scrawled, blotting the page in his excitement.
“I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were
covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry.”
“That’s where I am now,” Harry wrote quickly. “I’m at Hogwarts, and
horrible stuff’s been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of
Secrets?”
His heart was hammering. Riddle’s reply came quickly, his writing
becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew.
“Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it
was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the
Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally
killing one. I caught the person who’d opened the Chamber and he was
expelled. But the headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing
had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out
that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny,
engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I
knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the
power to release it was not imprisoned.”
Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write back.
“It’s happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems
to know who’s behind them. Who was it last time?”
“I can show you, if you like,” came Riddle’s reply. “You don’t have to take
my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught
him.”
Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean?
How could he be taken inside somebody else’s memory? He glanced
nervously at the door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When he
looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words forming.
“Let me show you.”
Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters.
“OK.”
The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind,
stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw
that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a
minuscule television screen. His hands trembling slightly, he raised the book
to press his eye against the little window, and before he knew what was
happening, he was tilting forward; the window was widening, he felt his body
leave his bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page,
into a whirl of color and shadow.
He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes
around him came suddenly into focus.
He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the sleeping
portraits was Dumbledore’s office — but it wasn’t Dumbledore who was
sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald except for a few
wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen
this man before.
“I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I didn’t mean to butt in —”
But the wizard didn’t look up. He continued to read, frowning slightly.
Harry drew nearer to his desk and stammered, “Er — I’ll just go, shall I?”
Still the wizard ignored him. He didn’t seem even to have heard him.
Thinking that the wizard might be deaf, Harry raised his voice.
“Sorry I disturbed you. I’ll go now,” he half-shouted.
The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, walked past Harry
without glancing at him, and went to draw the curtains at his window.
The sky outside the window was ruby-red; it seemed to be sunset. The
wizard went back to the desk, sat down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching
the door.
Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the phoenix — no whirring
silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that
this unknown wizard was headmaster, not Dumbledore, and he, Harry, was
little more than a phantom, completely invisible to the people of fifty years
ago.
There was a knock on the office door.
“Enter,” said the old wizard in a feeble voice.
A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect’s
badge was glinting on his chest. He was much taller than Harry, but he, too,
had jet-black hair.
“Ah, Riddle,” said the headmaster.
“You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?” said Riddle. He looked
nervous.
“Sit down,” said Dippet. “I’ve just been reading the letter you sent me.”
“Oh,” said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.
“My dear boy,” said Dippet kindly, “I cannot possibly let you stay at school
over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?”
“No,” said Riddle at once. “I’d much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back
to that — to that —”
“You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?” said
Dippet curiously.
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle, reddening slightly.
“You are Muggle-born?”
“Half-blood, sir,” said Riddle. “Muggle father, witch mother.”
“And are both your parents — ?”
“My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage
she lived just long enough to name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after
my grandfather.”
Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically.
“The thing is, Tom,” he sighed, “special arrangements might have been
made for you, but in the current circumstances. . . .”
“You mean all these attacks, sir?” said Riddle, and Harry’s heart leapt, and
he moved closer, scared of missing anything.
“Precisely,” said the headmaster. “My dear boy, you must see how foolish it
would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends.
Particularly in light of the recent tragedy . . . the death of that poor little
girl. . . . You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the
Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no
nearer locating the — er — source of all this unpleasantness. . . .”
Riddle’s eyes had widened.
“Sir — if the person was caught — if it all stopped —”
“What do you mean?” said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in
his chair. “Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?”
“No, sir,” said Riddle quickly.
But Harry was sure it was the same sort of “no” that he himself had given
Dumbledore.
Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.
“You may go, Tom. . . .”
Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry followed him.
Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle
in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harry, watching him.
Harry could tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting
his lip, his forehead furrowed.
Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off, Harry
gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn’t see another person until they
reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair
and a beard called to Riddle from the marble staircase.
“What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?”
Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-years-younger
Dumbledore.
“I had to see the headmaster, sir,” said Riddle.
“Well, hurry off to bed,” said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the kind
of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these
days. Not since . . .”
He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched
him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the
stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.
But to Harry’s disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden
passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Harry had
Potions with Snape. The torches hadn’t been lit, and when Riddle pushed the
door almost closed, Harry could only just see him, standing stock-still by the
door, watching the passage outside.
It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an hour. All he could see
was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack, waiting like a
statue. And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant and tense and
started wishing he could return to the present, he heard something move
beyond the door.
Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard whoever it was pass
the dungeon where he and Riddle were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow,
edged through the door and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind him, forgetting
that he couldn’t be heard.
For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped
suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door
creak open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper.
“C’mon . . . gotta get yeh outta here. . . . C’mon now . . . in the box . . .”
There was something familiar about that voice. . . .
Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry stepped out behind him.
He could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an
open door, a very large box next to it.
“Evening, Rubeus,” said Riddle sharply.
The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.
“What yer doin’ down here, Tom?”
Riddle stepped closer.
“It’s all over,” he said. “I’m going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They’re
talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don’t stop.”
“What d’yeh —”
“I don’t think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don’t make good
pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and —”
“It never killed no one!” said the large boy, backing against the closed door.
From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking.
“Come on, Rubeus,” said Riddle, moving yet closer. “The dead girl’s
parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that
the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered. . . .”
“It wasn’t him!” roared the boy, his voice echoing in the dark passage. “He
wouldn’! He never!”
“Stand aside,” said Riddle, drawing out his wand.
His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the
large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite.
And out of it came something that made Harry let out a long, piercing scream
unheard by anyone —
A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many
eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers — Riddle raised his wand again, but he
was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the
corridor and out of sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he
raised his wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw
him back down, yelling, “NOOOOOOO!”
The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harry felt himself
falling and, with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster in the
Gryffindor dormitory, Riddle’s diary lying open on his stomach.
Before he had had time to regain his breath, the dormitory door opened and
Ron came in.
“There you are,” he said.
Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.
“What’s up?” said Ron, looking at him with concern.
“It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years
ago.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CORNELIUS FUDGE
H
arry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that Hagrid had an
unfortunate liking for large and monstrous creatures. During their first
year at Hogwarts he had tried to raise a dragon in his little wooden house, and
it would be a long time before they forgot the giant, three-headed dog he’d
christened “Fluffy.” And if, as a boy, Hagrid had heard that a monster was
hidden somewhere in the castle, Harry was sure he’d have gone to any lengths
for a glimpse of it. He’d probably thought it was a shame that the monster had
been cooped up so long, and thought it deserved the chance to stretch its
many legs; Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old Hagrid trying to fit
a leash and collar on it. But he was equally certain that Hagrid would never
have meant to kill anybody.
Harry half wished he hadn’t found out how to work Riddle’s diary. Again
and again Ron and Hermione made him recount what he’d seen, until he was
heartily sick of telling them and sick of the long, circular conversations that
followed.
“Riddle might have got the wrong person,” said Hermione. “Maybe it was
some other monster that was attacking people. . . .”
“How many monsters d’you think this place can hold?” Ron asked dully.
“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said Harry miserably. “And
the attacks must’ve stopped after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle
wouldn’t have got his award.”
Ron tried a different tack.
“Riddle does sound like Percy — who asked him to squeal on Hagrid,
anyway?”
“But the monster had killed someone, Ron,” said Hermione.
“And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle orphanage if they
closed Hogwarts,” said Harry. “I don’t blame him for wanting to stay
here. . . .”
“You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn’t you, Harry?”
“He was buying a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent,” said Harry quickly.
The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermione voiced the
knottiest question of all in a hesitant voice.
“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?”
“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ron. “‘Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you
been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?’”
In the end, they decided that they would not say anything to Hagrid unless
there was another attack, and as more and more days went by with no whisper
from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful that they would never need
to talk to him about why he had been expelled. It was now nearly four months
since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick had been Petrified, and nearly
everybody seemed to think that the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for
good. Peeves had finally got bored of his “Oh, Potter, you rotter” song, Ernie
Macmillan asked Harry quite politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in
Herbology one day, and in March several of the Mandrakes threw a loud and
raucous party in greenhouse three. This made Professor Sprout very happy.
“The moment they start trying to move into each other’s pots, we’ll know
they’re fully mature,” she told Harry. “Then we’ll be able to revive those poor
people in the hospital wing.”
The second years were given something new to think about during their
Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year,
a matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.
“It could affect our whole future,” she told Harry and Ron as they pored
over lists of new subjects, marking them with checks.
“I just want to give up Potions,” said Harry.
“We can’t,” said Ron gloomily. “We keep all our old subjects, or I’d’ve
ditched Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
“But that’s very important!” said Hermione, shocked.
“Not the way Lockhart teaches it,” said Ron. “I haven’t learned anything
from him except not to set pixies loose.”
Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the witches and wizards
in his family, all giving him different advice on what to choose. Confused and
worried, he sat reading the subject lists with his tongue poking out, asking
people whether they thought Arithmancy sounded more difficult than Study
of Ancient Runes. Dean Thomas, who, like Harry, had grown up with
Muggles, ended up closing his eyes and jabbing his wand at the list, then
picking the subjects it landed on. Hermione took nobody’s advice but signed
up for everything.
Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what Uncle Vernon and
Aunt Petunia would say if he tried to discuss his career in wizardry with them.
Not that he didn’t get any guidance: Percy Weasley was eager to share his
experience.
“Depends where you want to go, Harry,” he said. “It’s never too early to
think about the future, so I’d recommend Divination. People say Muggle
Studies is a soft option, but I personally think wizards should have a thorough
understanding of the non-magical community, particularly if they’re thinking
of working in close contact with them — look at my father, he has to deal
with Muggle business all the time. My brother Charlie was always more of an
outdoor type, so he went for Care of Magical Creatures. Play to your
strengths, Harry.”
But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at was Quidditch. In the
end, he chose the same new subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was lousy at
them, at least he’d have someone friendly to help him.
Gryffindor’s next Quidditch match would be against Hufflepuff. Wood was
insisting on team practices every night after dinner, so that Harry barely had
time for anything but Quidditch and homework. However, the training
sessions were getting better, or at least drier, and the evening before
Saturday’s match he went up to his dormitory to drop off his broomstick
feeling Gryffindor’s chances for the Quidditch Cup had never been better.
But his cheerful mood didn’t last long. At the top of the stairs to the
dormitory, he met Neville Longbottom, who was looking frantic.
“Harry — I don’t know who did it — I just found —”
Watching Harry fearfully, Neville pushed open the door.
The contents of Harry’s trunk had been thrown everywhere. His cloak lay
ripped on the floor. The bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster and the
drawer had been pulled out of his bedside cabinet, the contents strewn over
the mattress.
Harry walked over to the bed, openmouthed, treading on a few loose pages
of Travels with Trolls. As he and Neville pulled the blankets back onto his
bed, Ron, Dean, and Seamus came in. Dean swore loudly.
“What happened, Harry?”
“No idea,” said Harry. But Ron was examining Harry’s robes. All the
pockets were hanging out.
“Someone’s been looking for something,” said Ron. “Is there anything
missing?”
Harry started to pick up all his things and throw them into his trunk. It was
only as he threw the last of the Lockhart books back into it that he realized
what wasn’t there.
“Riddle’s diary’s gone,” he said in an undertone to Ron.
“What?”
Harry jerked his head toward the dormitory door and Ron followed him
out. They hurried down to the Gryffindor common room, which was halfempty, and joined Hermione, who was sitting alone, reading a book called
Ancient Runes Made Easy.
Hermione looked aghast at the news.
“But — only a Gryffindor could have stolen — nobody else knows our
password —”
“Exactly,” said Harry.
They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze.
“Perfect Quidditch conditions!” said Wood enthusiastically at the
Gryffindor table, loading the team’s plates with scrambled eggs. “Harry, buck
up there, you need a decent breakfast.”
Harry had been staring down the packed Gryffindor table, wondering if the
new owner of Riddle’s diary was right in front of his eyes. Hermione had
been urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn’t like the idea. He’d
have to tell a teacher all about the diary, and how many people knew why
Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago? He didn’t want to be the one who
brought it all up again.
As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go and collect his
Quidditch things, another very serious worry was added to Harry’s growing
list. He had just set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet again —
“Kill this time . . . let me rip . . . tear . . .”
He shouted aloud and Ron and Hermione both jumped away from him in
alarm.
“The voice!” said Harry, looking over his shoulder. “I just heard it again —
didn’t you?”
Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however, clapped a hand to her
forehead.
“Harry — I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve got to go to the
library!”
And she sprinted away, up the stairs.
“What does she understand?” said Harry distractedly, still looking around,
trying to tell where the voice had come from.
“Loads more than I do,” said Ron, shaking his head.
“But why’s she got to go to the library?”
“Because that’s what Hermione does,” said Ron, shrugging. “When in
doubt, go to the library.”
Harry stood, irresolute, trying to catch the voice again, but people were
now emerging from the Great Hall behind him, talking loudly, exiting through
the front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch.
“You’d better get moving,” said Ron. “It’s nearly eleven — the match —”
Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected his Nimbus Two Thousand,
and joined the large crowd swarming across the grounds, but his mind was
still in the castle along with the bodiless voice, and as he pulled on his scarlet
robes in the locker room, his only comfort was that everyone was now outside
to watch the game.
The teams walked onto the field to tumultuous applause. Oliver Wood took
off for a warm-up flight around the goalposts; Madam Hooch released the
balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow, were standing in a
huddle, having a last-minute discussion of tactics.
Harry was just mounting his broom when Professor McGonagall came half
marching, half running across the pitch, carrying an enormous purple
megaphone.
Harry’s heart dropped like a stone.
“This match has been canceled,” Professor McGonagall called through the
megaphone, addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and shouts.
Oliver Wood, looking devastated, landed and ran toward Professor
McGonagall without getting off his broomstick.
“But, Professor!” he shouted. “We’ve got to play — the Cup — Gryffindor
—”
Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to shout through her
megaphone:
“All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms,
where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly
as you can, please!”
Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned Harry over to her.
“Potter, I think you’d better come with me. . . .”
Wondering how she could possibly suspect him this time, Harry saw Ron
detach himself from the complaining crowd; he came running up to them as
they set off toward the castle. To Harry’s surprise, Professor McGonagall
didn’t object.
“Yes, perhaps you’d better come, too, Weasley. . . .”
Some of the students swarming around them were grumbling about the
match being canceled; others looked worried. Harry and Ron followed
Professor McGonagall back into the school and up the marble staircase. But
they weren’t taken to anybody’s office this time.
“This will be a bit of a shock,” said Professor McGonagall in a surprisingly
gentle voice as they approached the infirmary. “There has been another
attack . . . another double attack.”
Harry’s insides did a horrible somersault. Professor McGonagall pushed the
door open and he and Ron entered.
Madam Pomfrey was bending over a sixth-year girl with long, curly hair.
Harry recognized her as the Ravenclaw they’d accidentally asked for
directions to the Slytherin common room. And on the bed next to her was —
“Hermione!” Ron groaned.
Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy.
“They were found near the library,” said Professor McGonagall. “I don’t
suppose either of you can explain this? It was on the floor next to them. . . .”
She was holding up a small, circular mirror.
Harry and Ron shook their heads, both staring at Hermione.
“I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Professor McGonagall
heavily. “I need to address the students in any case.”
“All students will return to their House common rooms by six o’clock in the
evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time. You will be
escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom
unaccompanied by a teacher. All further Quidditch training and matches are
to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities.”
The Gryffindors packed inside the common room listened to Professor
McGonagall in silence. She rolled up the parchment from which she had been
reading and said in a somewhat choked voice, “I need hardly add that I have
rarely been so distressed. It is likely that the school will be closed unless the
culprit behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone who thinks they
might know anything about them to come forward.”
She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait hole, and the
Gryffindors began talking immediately.
“That’s two Gryffindors down, not counting a Gryffindor ghost, one
Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff,” said the Weasley twins’ friend Lee Jordan,
counting on his fingers. “Haven’t any of the teachers noticed that the
Slytherins are all safe? Isn’t it obvious all this stuff’s coming from Slytherin?
The Heir of Slytherin, the monster of Slytherin — why don’t they just chuck
all the Slytherins out?” he roared, to nods and scattered applause.
Percy Weasley was sitting in a chair behind Lee, but for once he didn’t
seem keen to make his views heard. He was looking pale and stunned.
“Percy’s in shock,” George told Harry quietly. “That Ravenclaw girl —
Penelope Clearwater — she’s a prefect. I don’t think he thought the monster
would dare attack a prefect.”
But Harry was only half-listening. He didn’t seem to be able to get rid of
the picture of Hermione, lying on the hospital bed as though carved out of
stone. And if the culprit wasn’t caught soon, he was looking at a lifetime back
with the Dursleys. Tom Riddle had turned Hagrid in because he was faced
with the prospect of a Muggle orphanage if the school closed. Harry now
knew exactly how he had felt.
“What’re we going to do?” said Ron quietly in Harry’s ear. “D’you think
they suspect Hagrid?”
“We’ve got to go and talk to him,” said Harry, making up his mind. “I can’t
believe it’s him this time, but if he set the monster loose last time he’ll know
how to get inside the Chamber of Secrets, and that’s a start.”
“But McGonagall said we’ve got to stay in our tower unless we’re in class
—”
“I think,” said Harry, more quietly still, “it’s time to get my dad’s old Cloak
out again.”
Harry had inherited just one thing from his father: a long and silvery
Invisibility Cloak. It was their only chance of sneaking out of the school to
visit Hagrid without anyone knowing about it. They went to bed at the usual
time, waited until Neville, Dean, and Seamus had stopped discussing the
Chamber of Secrets and finally fallen asleep, then got up, dressed again, and
threw the Cloak over themselves.
The journey through the dark and deserted castle corridors wasn’t
enjoyable. Harry, who had wandered the castle at night several times before,
had never seen it so crowded after sunset. Teachers, prefects, and ghosts were
marching the corridors in pairs, staring around for any unusual activity. Their
Invisibility Cloak didn’t stop them making any noise, and there was a
particularly tense moment when Ron stubbed his toe only yards from the spot
where Snape stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at almost
exactly the moment Ron swore. It was with relief that they reached the oak
front doors and eased them open.
It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the lit windows of Hagrid’s
house and pulled off the Cloak only when they were right outside his front
door.
Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open. They found
themselves face-to-face with him aiming a crossbow at them. Fang the
boarhound barked loudly behind him.
“Oh,” he said, lowering the weapon and staring at them. “What’re you two
doin’ here?”
“What’s that for?” said Harry, pointing at the crossbow as they stepped
inside.
“Nothin’ — nothin’ —” Hagrid muttered. “I’ve bin expectin’ — doesn’
matter — Sit down — I’ll make tea —”
He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He nearly extinguished the
fire, spilling water from the kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a
nervous jerk of his massive hand.
“Are you okay, Hagrid?” said Harry. “Did you hear about Hermione?”
“Oh, I heard, all righ’,” said Hagrid, a slight break in his voice.
He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He poured them both large
mugs of boiling water (he had forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting
a slab of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock on the door.
Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harry and Ron exchanged panic-stricken
looks, then threw the Invisibility Cloak back over themselves and retreated
into a corner. Hagrid checked that they were hidden, seized his crossbow, and
flung open his door once more.
“Good evening, Hagrid.”
It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly serious, and was followed
by a second, very odd-looking man.
The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and was
wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long
black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he carried a lime-green
bowler.
“That’s Dad’s boss!” Ron breathed. “Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of
Magic!”
Harry elbowed Ron hard to make him shut up.
Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into one of his chairs and
looked from Dumbledore to Cornelius Fudge.
“Bad business, Hagrid,” said Fudge in rather clipped tones. “Very bad
business. Had to come. Four attacks on Muggle-borns. Things’ve gone far
enough. Ministry’s got to act.”
“I never,” said Hagrid, looking imploringly at Dumbledore. “You know I
never, Professor Dumbledore, sir —”
“I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my full confidence,” said
Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge.
“Look, Albus,” said Fudge, uncomfortably. “Hagrid’s record’s against him.
Ministry’s got to do something — the school governors have been in touch
—”
“Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid away will not help in
the slightest,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were full of a fire Harry had
never seen before.
“Look at it from my point of view,” said Fudge, fidgeting with his bowler.
“I’m under a lot of pressure. Got to be seen to be doing something. If it turns
out it wasn’t Hagrid, he’ll be back and no more said. But I’ve got to take him.
Got to. Wouldn’t be doing my duty —”
“Take me?” said Hagrid, who was trembling. “Take me where?”
“For a short stretch only,” said Fudge, not meeting Hagrid’s eyes. “Not a
punishment, Hagrid, more a precaution. If someone else is caught, you’ll be
let out with a full apology —”
“Not Azkaban?” croaked Hagrid.
Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the door.
Dumbledore answered it. It was Harry’s turn for an elbow in the ribs; he’d
let out an audible gasp.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid’s hut, swathed in a long black
traveling cloak, smiling a cold and satisfied smile. Fang started to growl.
“Already here, Fudge,” he said approvingly. “Good, good . . .”
“What’re you doin’ here?” said Hagrid furiously. “Get outta my house!”
“My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being inside
your — er — d’you call this a house?” said Lucius Malfoy, sneering as he
looked around the small cabin. “I simply called at the school and was told that
the headmaster was here.”
“And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?” said Dumbledore. He
spoke politely, but the fire was still blazing in his blue eyes.
“Dreadful thing, Dumbledore,” said Malfoy lazily, taking out a long roll of
parchment, “but the governors feel it’s time for you to step aside. This is an
Order of Suspension — you’ll find all twelve signatures on it. I’m afraid we
feel you’re losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two
more this afternoon, wasn’t it? At this rate, there’ll be no Muggle-borns left at
Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school.”
“Oh, now, see here, Lucius,” said Fudge, looking alarmed, “Dumbledore
suspended — no, no — last thing we want just now —”
“The appointment — or suspension — of the headmaster is a matter for the
governors, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. “And as Dumbledore has
failed to stop these attacks —”
“See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can’t stop them,” said Fudge, whose
upper lip was sweating now, “I mean to say, who can?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Mr. Malfoy with a nasty smile. “But as all
twelve of us have voted —”
Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing the ceiling.
“An’ how many did yeh have ter threaten an’ blackmail before they agreed,
Malfoy, eh?” he roared.
“Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead you into trouble one
of these days, Hagrid,” said Mr. Malfoy. “I would advise you not to shout at
the Azkaban guards like that. They won’t like it at all.”
“Yeh can’ take Dumbledore!” yelled Hagrid, making Fang the boarhound
cower and whimper in his basket. “Take him away, an’ the Muggle-borns
won’ stand a chance! There’ll be killin’ next!”
“Calm yourself, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. He looked at Lucius
Malfoy.
“If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of course step aside —”
“But —” stuttered Fudge.
“No!” growled Hagrid.
Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off Lucius Malfoy’s cold
gray ones.
“However,” said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly and clearly so that
none of them could miss a word, “you will find that I will only truly have left
this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find that help will
always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”
For a second, Harry was almost sure Dumbledore’s eyes flickered toward
the corner where he and Ron stood hidden.
“Admirable sentiments,” said Malfoy, bowing. “We shall all miss your —
er — highly individual way of running things, Albus, and only hope that your
successor will manage to prevent any — ah — killins.”
He strode to the cabin door, opened it, and bowed Dumbledore out. Fudge,
fiddling with his bowler, waited for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid
stood his ground, took a deep breath, and said carefully, “If anyone wanted ter
find out some stuff, all they’d have ter do would be ter follow the spiders.
That’d lead ’em right! That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Fudge stared at him in amazement.
“All right, I’m comin’,” said Hagrid, pulling on his moleskin overcoat. But
as he was about to follow Fudge through the door, he stopped again and said
loudly, “An’ someone’ll need ter feed Fang while I’m away.”
The door banged shut and Ron pulled off the Invisibility Cloak.
“We’re in trouble now,” he said hoarsely. “No Dumbledore. They might as
well close the school tonight. There’ll be an attack a day with him gone.”
Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARAGOG
S
ummer was creeping over the grounds around the castle; sky and lake
alike turned periwinkle blue and flowers large as cabbages burst into
bloom in the greenhouses. But with no Hagrid visible from the castle
windows, striding the grounds with Fang at his heels, the scene didn’t look
right to Harry; no better, in fact, than the inside of the castle, where things
were so horribly wrong.
Harry and Ron had tried to visit Hermione, but visitors were now barred
from the hospital wing.
“We’re taking no more chances,” Madam Pomfrey told them severely
through a crack in the infirmary door. “No, I’m sorry, there’s every chance the
attacker might come back to finish these people off. . . .”
With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never before, so that the sun
warming the castle walls outside seemed to stop at the mullioned windows.
There was barely a face to be seen in the school that didn’t look worried and
tense, and any laughter that rang through the corridors sounded shrill and
unnatural and was quickly stifled.
Harry constantly repeated Dumbledore’s final words to himself. “I will
only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. . . . Help will
always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.” But what good were
these words? Who exactly were they supposed to ask for help, when everyone
was just as confused and scared as they were?
Hagrid’s hint about the spiders was far easier to understand — the trouble
was, there didn’t seem to be a single spider left in the castle to follow. Harry
looked everywhere he went, helped (rather reluctantly) by Ron. They were
hampered, of course, by the fact that they weren’t allowed to wander off on
their own but had to move around the castle in a pack with the other
Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students seemed glad that they were being
shepherded from class to class by teachers, but Harry found it very irksome.
One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the atmosphere of
terror and suspicion. Draco Malfoy was strutting around the school as though
he had just been appointed Head Boy. Harry didn’t realize what he was so
pleased about until the Potions lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and
Hagrid had left, when, sitting right behind Malfoy, Harry overheard him
gloating to Crabbe and Goyle.
“I always thought Father might be the one who got rid of Dumbledore,” he
said, not troubling to keep his voice down. “I told you he thinks
Dumbledore’s the worst headmaster the school’s ever had. Maybe we’ll get a
decent headmaster now. Someone who won’t want the Chamber of Secrets
closed. McGonagall won’t last long, she’s only filling in. . . .”
Snape swept past Harry, making no comment about Hermione’s empty seat
and cauldron.
“Sir,” said Malfoy loudly. “Sir, why don’t you apply for the headmaster’s
job?”
“Now, now, Malfoy,” said Snape, though he couldn’t suppress a thin-lipped
smile. “Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the governors. I
daresay he’ll be back with us soon enough.”
“Yeah, right,” said Malfoy, smirking. “I expect you’d have Father’s vote,
sir, if you wanted to apply for the job — I’ll tell Father you’re the best teacher
here, sir —”
Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon, fortunately not spotting
Seamus Finnigan, who was pretending to vomit into his cauldron.
“I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed their bags by now,”
Malfoy went on. “Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t
Granger —”
The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at Malfoy’s last words,
Ron had leapt off his stool, and in the scramble to collect bags and books, his
attempts to reach Malfoy went unnoticed.
“Let me at him,” Ron growled as Harry and Dean hung onto his arms. “I
don’t care, I don’t need my wand, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands
—”
“Hurry up, I’ve got to take you all to Herbology,” barked Snape over the
class’s heads, and off they marched, with Harry, Ron, and Dean bringing up
the rear, Ron still trying to get loose. It was only safe to let go of him when
Snape had seen them out of the castle and they were making their way across
the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses.
The Herbology class was very subdued; there were now two missing from
their number, Justin and Hermione.
Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the Abyssinian Shrivelfigs.
Harry went to tip an armful of withered stalks onto the compost heap and
found himself face-to-face with Ernie Macmillan. Ernie took a deep breath
and said, very formally, “I just want to say, Harry, that I’m sorry I ever
suspected you. I know you’d never attack Hermione Granger, and I apologize
for all the stuff I said. We’re all in the same boat now, and, well —”
He held out a pudgy hand, and Harry shook it.
Ernie and his friend Hannah came to work at the same Shrivelfig as Harry
and Ron.
“That Draco Malfoy character,” said Ernie, breaking off dead twigs, “he
seems very pleased about all this, doesn’t he? D’you know, I think he might
be Slytherin’s heir.”
“That’s clever of you,” said Ron, who didn’t seem to have forgiven Ernie
as readily as Harry.
“Do you think it’s Malfoy, Harry?” Ernie asked.
“No,” said Harry, so firmly that Ernie and Hannah stared.
A second later, Harry spotted something.
Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground on the other side of the
glass, moving in an unnaturally straight line as though taking the shortest
route to a prearranged meeting. Harry hit Ron over the hand with his pruning
shears.
“Ouch! What’re you —”
Harry pointed out the spiders, following their progress with his eyes
screwed up against the sun.
“Oh, yeah,” said Ron, trying, and failing, to look pleased. “But we can’t
follow them now —”
Ernie and Hannah were listening curiously.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the spiders. If they pursued their
fixed course, there could be no doubt about where they would end up.
“Looks like they’re heading for the Forbidden Forest. . . .”
And Ron looked even unhappier about that.
At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the class to their Defense
Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harry and Ron lagged behind the others so they
could talk out of earshot.
“We’ll have to use the Invisibility Cloak again,” Harry told Ron. “We can
take Fang with us. He’s used to going into the forest with Hagrid, he might be
some help.”
“Right,” said Ron, who was twirling his wand nervously in his fingers. “Er
— aren’t there — aren’t there supposed to be werewolves in the forest?” he
added as they took their usual places at the back of Lockhart’s classroom.
Preferring not to answer that question, Harry said, “There are good things
in there, too. The centaurs are all right, and the unicorns . . .”
Ron had never been into the Forbidden Forest before. Harry had entered it
only once and had hoped never to do so again.
Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared at him. Every other
teacher in the place was looking grimmer than usual, but Lockhart appeared
nothing short of buoyant.
“Come now,” he cried, beaming around him. “Why all these long faces?”
People swapped exasperated looks, but nobody answered.
“Don’t you people realize,” said Lockhart, speaking slowly, as though they
were all a bit dim, “the danger has passed! The culprit has been taken away
—”
“Says who?” said Dean Thomas loudly.
“My dear young man, the Minister of Magic wouldn’t have taken Hagrid if
he hadn’t been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty,” said Lockhart, in
the tone of someone explaining that one and one made two.
“Oh, yes he would,” said Ron, even more loudly than Dean.
“I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid’s arrest than you do,
Mr. Weasley,” said Lockhart in a self-satisfied tone.
Ron started to say that he didn’t think so, somehow, but stopped in
midsentence when Harry kicked him hard under the desk.
“We weren’t there, remember?” Harry muttered.
But Lockhart’s disgusting cheeriness, his hints that he had always thought
Hagrid was no good, his confidence that the whole business was now at an
end, irritated Harry so much that he yearned to throw Gadding with Ghouls
right in Lockhart’s stupid face. Instead he contented himself with scrawling a
note to Ron: Let’s do it tonight.
Ron read the message, swallowed hard, and looked sideways at the empty
seat usually filled by Hermione. The sight seemed to stiffen his resolve, and
he nodded.
The Gryffindor common room was always very crowded these days, because
from six o’clock onward the Gryffindors had nowhere else to go. They also
had plenty to talk about, with the result that the common room often didn’t
empty until past midnight.
Harry went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk right after dinner,
and spent the evening sitting on it, waiting for the room to clear. Fred and
George challenged Harry and Ron to a few games of Exploding Snap, and
Ginny sat watching them, very subdued in Hermione’s usual chair. Harry and
Ron kept losing on purpose, trying to finish the games quickly, but even so, it
was well past midnight when Fred, George, and Ginny finally went to bed.
Harry and Ron waited for the distant sounds of two dormitory doors
closing before seizing the Cloak, throwing it over themselves, and climbing
through the portrait hole.
It was another difficult journey through the castle, dodging all the teachers.
At last they reached the entrance hall, slid back the lock on the oak front
doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any creaking, and stepped out
into the moonlit grounds.
“’Course,” said Ron abruptly as they strode across the black grass, “we
might get to the forest and find there’s nothing to follow. Those spiders might
not’ve been going there at all. I know it looked like they were moving in that
sort of general direction, but . . .”
His voice trailed away hopefully.
They reached Hagrid’s house, sad and sorry-looking with its blank
windows. When Harry pushed the door open, Fang went mad with joy at the
sight of them. Worried he might wake everyone at the castle with his deep,
booming barks, they hastily fed him treacle toffee from a tin on the
mantelpiece, which glued his teeth together.
Harry left the Invisibility Cloak on Hagrid’s table. There would be no need
for it in the pitch-dark forest.
“C’mon, Fang, we’re going for a walk,” said Harry, patting his leg, and
Fang bounded happily out of the house behind them, dashed to the edge of the
forest, and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree.
Harry took out his wand, murmured, “Lumos!” and a tiny light appeared at
the end of it, just enough to let them watch the path for signs of spiders.
“Good thinking,” said Ron. “I’d light mine, too, but you know — it’d
probably blow up or something. . . .”
Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, pointing at the grass. Two solitary
spiders were hurrying away from the wandlight into the shade of the trees.
“Okay,” Ron sighed as though resigned to the worst, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
So, with Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree roots and leaves, they
entered the forest. By the glow of Harry’s wand, they followed the steady
trickle of spiders moving along the path. They walked behind them for about
twenty minutes, not speaking, listening hard for noises other than breaking
twigs and rustling leaves. Then, when the trees had become thicker than ever,
so that the stars overhead were no longer visible, and Harry’s wand shone
alone in the sea of dark, they saw their spider guides leaving the path.
Harry paused, trying to see where the spiders were going, but everything
outside his little sphere of light was pitch-black. He had never been this deep
into the forest before. He could vividly remember Hagrid advising him not to
leave the forest path last time he’d been in here. But Hagrid was miles away
now, probably sitting in a cell in Azkaban, and he had also said to follow the
spiders.
Something wet touched Harry’s hand and he jumped backward, crushing
Ron’s foot, but it was only Fang’s nose.
“What d’you reckon?” Harry said to Ron, whose eyes he could just make
out, reflecting the light from his wand.
“We’ve come this far,” said Ron.
So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders into the trees. They
couldn’t move very quickly now; there were tree roots and stumps in their
way, barely visible in the near blackness. Harry could feel Fang’s hot breath
on his hand. More than once, they had to stop, so that Harry could crouch
down and find the spiders in the wandlight.
They walked for what seemed like at least half an hour, their robes
snagging on low-slung branches and brambles. After a while, they noticed
that the ground seemed to be sloping downward, though the trees were as
thick as ever.
Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark, making both Harry and
Ron jump out of their skins.
“What?” said Ron loudly, looking around into the pitch-dark, and gripping
Harry’s elbow very hard.
“There’s something moving over there,” Harry breathed. “Listen . . .
sounds like something big. . . .”
They listened. Some distance to their right, the something big was snapping
branches as it carved a path through the trees.
“Oh, no,” said Ron. “Oh, no, oh, no, oh —”
“Shut up,” said Harry frantically. “It’ll hear you.”
“Hear me?” said Ron in an unnaturally high voice. “It’s already heard
Fang!”
The darkness seemed to be pressing on their eyeballs as they stood,
terrified, waiting. There was a strange rumbling noise and then silence.
“What d’you think it’s doing?” said Harry.
“Probably getting ready to pounce,” said Ron.
They waited, shivering, hardly daring to move.
“D’you think it’s gone?” Harry whispered.
“Dunno —”
Then, to their right, came a sudden blaze of light, so bright in the darkness
that both of them flung up their hands to shield their eyes. Fang yelped and
tried to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and yelped even louder.
“Harry!” Ron shouted, his voice breaking with relief. “Harry, it’s our car!”
“What?”
“Come on!”
Harry blundered after Ron toward the light, stumbling and tripping, and a
moment later they had emerged into a clearing.
Mr. Weasley’s car was standing, empty, in the middle of a circle of thick
trees under a roof of dense branches, its headlights ablaze. As Ron walked,
openmouthed, toward it, it moved slowly toward him, exactly like a large,
turquoise dog greeting its owner.
“It’s been here all the time!” said Ron delightedly, walking around the car.
“Look at it. The forest’s turned it wild. . . .”
The sides of the car were scratched and smeared with mud. Apparently it
had taken to trundling around the forest on its own. Fang didn’t seem at all
keen on it; he kept close to Harry, who could feel him quivering. His
breathing slowing down again, Harry stuffed his wand back into his robes.
“And we thought it was going to attack us!” said Ron, leaning against the
car and patting it. “I wondered where it had gone!”
Harry squinted around on the floodlit ground for signs of more spiders, but
they had all scuttled away from the glare of the headlights.
“We’ve lost the trail,” he said. “C’mon, let’s go and find them.”
Ron didn’t speak. He didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on a point some ten
feet above the forest floor, right behind Harry. His face was livid with terror.
Harry didn’t even have time to turn around. There was a loud clicking
noise and suddenly he felt something long and hairy seize him around the
middle and lift him off the ground, so that he was hanging facedown.
Struggling, terrified, he heard more clicking, and saw Ron’s legs leave the
ground, too, heard Fang whimpering and howling — next moment, he was
being swept away into the dark trees.
Head hanging, Harry saw that what had hold of him was marching on six
immensely long, hairy legs, the front two clutching him tightly below a pair
of shining black pincers. Behind him, he could hear another of the creatures,
no doubt carrying Ron. They were moving into the very heart of the forest.
Harry could hear Fang fighting to free himself from a third monster, whining
loudly, but Harry couldn’t have yelled even if he had wanted to; he seemed to
have left his voice back with the car in the clearing.
He never knew how long he was in the creature’s clutches; he only knew
that the darkness suddenly lifted enough for him to see that the leaf-strewn
ground was now swarming with spiders. Craning his neck sideways, he
realized that they had reached the ridge of a vast hollow, a hollow that had
been cleared of trees, so that the stars shone brightly onto the worst scene he
had ever laid eyes on.
Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the leaves below. Spiders
the size of carthorses, eight-eyed, eight-legged, black, hairy, gigantic. The
massive specimen that was carrying Harry made its way down the steep slope
toward a misty, domed web in the very center of the hollow, while its fellows
closed in all around it, clicking their pincers excitedly at the sight of its load.
Harry fell to the ground on all fours as the spider released him. Ron and
Fang thudded down next to him. Fang wasn’t howling anymore, but cowering
silently on the spot. Ron looked exactly like Harry felt. His mouth was
stretched wide in a kind of silent scream and his eyes were popping.
Harry suddenly realized that the spider that had dropped him was saying
something. It had been hard to tell, because he clicked his pincers with every
word he spoke.
“Aragog!” it called. “Aragog!”
And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a spider the size of a small
elephant emerged, very slowly. There was gray in the black of his body and
legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head was milky white. He was
blind.
“What is it?” he said, clicking his pincers rapidly.
“Men,” clicked the spider who had caught Harry.
“Is it Hagrid?” said Aragog, moving closer, his eight milky eyes wandering
vaguely.
“Strangers,” clicked the spider who had brought Ron.
“Kill them,” clicked Aragog fretfully. “I was sleeping. . . .”
“We’re friends of Hagrid’s,” Harry shouted. His heart seemed to have left
his chest to pound in his throat.
Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all around the hollow.
Aragog paused.
“Hagrid has never sent men into our hollow before,” he said slowly.
“Hagrid’s in trouble,” said Harry, breathing very fast. “That’s why we’ve
come.”
“In trouble?” said the aged spider, and Harry thought he heard concern
beneath the clicking pincers. “But why has he sent you?”
Harry thought of getting to his feet but decided against it; he didn’t think
his legs would support him. So he spoke from the ground, as calmly as he
could.
“They think, up at the school, that Hagrid’s been setting a — a —
something on students. They’ve taken him to Azkaban.”
Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around the hollow the sound
was echoed by the crowd of spiders; it was like applause, except applause
didn’t usually make Harry feel sick with fear.
“But that was years ago,” said Aragog fretfully. “Years and years ago. I
remember it well. That’s why they made him leave the school. They believed
that I was the monster that dwells in what they call the Chamber of Secrets.
They thought that Hagrid had opened the Chamber and set me free.”
“And you . . . you didn’t come from the Chamber of Secrets?” said Harry,
who could feel cold sweat on his forehead.
“I!” said Aragog, clicking angrily. “I was not born in the castle. I come
from a distant land. A traveler gave me to Hagrid when I was an egg. Hagrid
was only a boy, but he cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in the castle,
feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid is my good friend, and a good
man. When I was discovered, and blamed for the death of a girl, he protected
me. I have lived here in the forest ever since, where Hagrid still visits me. He
even found me a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown, all
through Hagrid’s goodness. . . .”
Harry summoned what remained of his courage.
“So you never — never attacked anyone?”
“Never,” croaked the old spider. “It would have been my instinct, but out of
respect for Hagrid, I never harmed a human. The body of the girl who was
killed was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any part of the castle but the
cupboard in which I grew up. Our kind like the dark and the quiet. . . .”
“But then . . . Do you know what did kill that girl?” said Harry. “Because
whatever it is, it’s back and attacking people again —”
His words were drowned by a loud outbreak of clicking and the rustling of
many long legs shifting angrily; large black shapes shifted all around him.
“The thing that lives in the castle,” said Aragog, “is an ancient creature we
spiders fear above all others. Well do I remember how I pleaded with Hagrid
to let me go, when I sensed the beast moving about the school.”
“What is it?” said Harry urgently.
More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed to be closing in.
“We do not speak of it!” said Aragog fiercely. “We do not name it! I never
even told Hagrid the name of that dread creature, though he asked me, many
times.”
Harry didn’t want to press the subject, not with the spiders pressing closer
on all sides. Aragog seemed to be tired of talking. He was backing slowly into
his domed web, but his fellow spiders continued to inch slowly toward Harry
and Ron.
“We’ll just go, then,” Harry called desperately to Aragog, hearing leaves
rustling behind him.
“Go?” said Aragog slowly. “I think not. . . .”
“But — but —”
“My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my command. But I
cannot deny them fresh meat, when it wanders so willingly into our midst.
Good-bye, friend of Hagrid.”
Harry spun around. Feet away, towering above him, was a solid wall of
spiders, clicking, their many eyes gleaming in their ugly black heads.
Even as he reached for his wand, Harry knew it was no good, there were
too many of them, but as he tried to stand, ready to die fighting, a loud, long
note sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the hollow.
Mr. Weasley’s car was thundering down the slope, headlights glaring, its
horn screeching, knocking spiders aside; several were thrown onto their
backs, their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched to a halt in front
of Harry and Ron and the doors flew open.
“Get Fang!” Harry yelled, diving into the front seat; Ron seized the
boarhound around the middle and threw him, yelping, into the back of the car
— the doors slammed shut — Ron didn’t touch the accelerator but the car
didn’t need him; the engine roared and they were off, hitting more spiders.
They sped up the slope, out of the hollow, and they were soon crashing
through the forest, branches whipping the windows as the car wound its way
cleverly through the widest gaps, following a path it obviously knew.
Harry looked sideways at Ron. His mouth was still open in the silent
scream, but his eyes weren’t popping anymore.
“Are you okay?”
Ron stared straight ahead, unable to speak.
They smashed their way through the undergrowth, Fang howling loudly in
the back seat, and Harry saw the side mirror snap off as they squeezed past a
large oak. After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees thinned, and Harry could
again see patches of sky.
The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly thrown into the
windshield. They had reached the edge of the forest. Fang flung himself at the
window in his anxiety to get out, and when Harry opened the door, he shot off
through the trees to Hagrid’s house, tail between his legs. Harry got out too,
and after a minute or so, Ron seemed to regain the feeling in his limbs and
followed, still stiff-necked and staring. Harry gave the car a grateful pat as it
reversed back into the forest and disappeared from view.
Harry went back into Hagrid’s cabin to get the Invisibility Cloak. Fang was
trembling under a blanket in his basket. When Harry got outside again, he
found Ron being violently sick in the pumpkin patch.
“Follow the spiders,” said Ron weakly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“I’ll never forgive Hagrid. We’re lucky to be alive.”
“I bet he thought Aragog wouldn’t hurt friends of his,” said Harry.
“That’s exactly Hagrid’s problem!” said Ron, thumping the wall of the
cabin. “He always thinks monsters aren’t as bad as they’re made out, and look
where it’s got him! A cell in Azkaban!” He was shivering uncontrollably now.
“What was the point of sending us in there? What have we found out, I’d like
to know?”
“That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets,” said Harry, throwing
the Cloak over Ron and prodding him in the arm to make him walk. “He was
innocent.”
Ron gave a loud snort. Evidently, hatching Aragog in a cupboard wasn’t his
idea of being innocent.
As the castle loomed nearer Harry twitched the Cloak to make sure their
feet were hidden, then pushed the creaking front doors ajar. They walked
carefully back across the entrance hall and up the marble staircase, holding
their breath as they passed corridors where watchful sentries were walking. At
last they reached the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where the fire
had burned itself into glowing ash. They took off the Cloak and climbed the
winding stair to their dormitory.
Ron fell onto his bed without bothering to get undressed. Harry, however,
didn’t feel very sleepy. He sat on the edge of his four-poster, thinking hard
about everything Aragog had said.
The creature that was lurking somewhere in the castle, he thought, sounded
like a sort of monster Voldemort — even other monsters didn’t want to name
it. But he and Ron were no closer to finding out what it was, or how it
Petrified its victims. Even Hagrid had never known what was in the Chamber
of Secrets.
Harry swung his legs up onto his bed and leaned back against his pillows,
watching the moon glinting at him through the tower window.
He couldn’t see what else they could do. They had hit dead ends
everywhere. Riddle had caught the wrong person, the Heir of Slytherin had
got off, and no one could tell whether it was the same person, or a different
one, who had opened the Chamber this time. There was nobody else to ask.
Harry lay down, still thinking about what Aragog had said.
He was becoming drowsy when what seemed like their very last hope
occurred to him, and he suddenly sat bolt upright.
“Ron,” he hissed through the dark, “Ron —”
Ron woke with a yelp like Fang’s, stared wildly around, and saw Harry.
“Ron — that girl who died. Aragog said she was found in a bathroom,”
said Harry, ignoring Neville’s snuffling snores from the corner. “What if she
never left the bathroom? What if she’s still there?”
Ron rubbed his eyes, frowning through the moonlight. And then he
understood, too.
“You don’t think — not Moaning Myrtle?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS
A
ll those times we were in that bathroom, and she was just three toilets
away,” said Ron bitterly at breakfast next day, “and we could’ve asked
her, and now . . .”
It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders. Escaping their teachers
long enough to sneak into a girls’ bathroom, the girls’ bathroom, moreover,
right next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be almost impossible.
But something happened in their first lesson, Transfiguration, that drove the
Chamber of Secrets out of their minds for the first time in weeks. Ten minutes
into the class, Professor McGonagall told them that their exams would start
on the first of June, one week from today.
“Exams?” howled Seamus Finnigan. “We’re still getting exams?”
There was a loud bang behind Harry as Neville Longbottom’s wand
slipped, vanishing one of the legs on his desk. Professor McGonagall restored
it with a wave of her own wand, and turned, frowning, to Seamus.
“The whole point of keeping the school open at this time is for you to
receive your education,” she said sternly. “The exams will therefore take
place as usual, and I trust you are all studying hard.”
Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harry that there would be exams
with the castle in this state. There was a great deal of mutinous muttering
around the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl even more darkly.
“Professor Dumbledore’s instructions were to keep the school running as
normally as possible,” she said. “And that, I need hardly point out, means
finding out how much you have learned this year.”
Harry looked down at the pair of white rabbits he was supposed to be
turning into slippers. What had he learned so far this year? He couldn’t seem
to think of anything that would be useful in an exam.
Ron looked as though he’d just been told he had to go and live in the
Forbidden Forest.
“Can you imagine me taking exams with this?” he asked Harry, holding up
his wand, which had just started whistling loudly.
Three days before their first exam, Professor McGonagall made another
announcement at breakfast.
“I have good news,” she said, and the Great Hall, instead of falling silent,
erupted.
“Dumbledore’s coming back!” several people yelled joyfully.
“You’ve caught the Heir of Slytherin!” squealed a girl at the Ravenclaw
table.
“Quidditch matches are back on!” roared Wood excitedly.
When the hubbub had subsided, Professor McGonagall said, “Professor
Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last.
Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who have been Petrified. I
need hardly remind you all that one of them may well be able to tell us who,
or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with our
catching the culprit.”
There was an explosion of cheering. Harry looked over at the Slytherin
table and wasn’t at all surprised to see that Draco Malfoy hadn’t joined in.
Ron, however, was looking happier than he’d looked in days.
“It won’t matter that we never asked Myrtle, then!” he said to Harry.
“Hermione’ll probably have all the answers when they wake her up! Mind
you, she’ll go crazy when she finds out we’ve got exams in three days’ time.
She hasn’t studied. It might be kinder to leave her where she is till they’re
over.”
Just then, Ginny Weasley came over and sat down next to Ron. She looked
tense and nervous, and Harry noticed that her hands were twisting in her lap.
“What’s up?” said Ron, helping himself to more porridge.
Ginny didn’t say anything, but glanced up and down the Gryffindor table
with a scared look on her face that reminded Harry of someone, though he
couldn’t think who.
“Spit it out,” said Ron, watching her.
Harry suddenly realized who Ginny looked like. She was rocking backward
and forward slightly in her chair, exactly like Dobby did when he was
teetering on the edge of revealing forbidden information.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” Ginny mumbled, carefully not looking at
Harry.
“What is it?” said Harry.
Ginny looked as though she couldn’t find the right words.
“What?” said Ron.
Ginny opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Harry leaned forward and
spoke quietly, so that only Ginny and Ron could hear him.
“Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have you seen something?
Someone acting oddly?”
Ginny drew a deep breath and, at that precise moment, Percy Weasley
appeared, looking tired and wan.
“If you’ve finished eating, I’ll take that seat, Ginny. I’m starving, I’ve only
just come off patrol duty.”
Ginny jumped up as though her chair had just been electrified, gave Percy a
fleeting, frightened look, and scampered away. Percy sat down and grabbed a
mug from the center of the table.
“Percy!” said Ron angrily. “She was just about to tell us something
important!”
Halfway through a gulp of tea, Percy choked.
“What sort of thing?” he said, coughing.
“I just asked her if she’d seen anything odd, and she started to say —”
“Oh — that — that’s nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets,” said
Percy at once.
“How do you know?” said Ron, his eyebrows raised.
“Well, er, if you must know, Ginny, er, walked in on me the other day when
I was — well, never mind — the point is, she spotted me doing something
and I, um, I asked her not to mention it to anybody. I must say, I did think
she’d keep her word. It’s nothing, really, I’d just rather —”
Harry had never seen Percy look so uncomfortable.
“What were you doing, Percy?” said Ron, grinning. “Go on, tell us, we
won’t laugh.”
Percy didn’t smile back.
“Pass me those rolls, Harry, I’m starving.”
Harry knew the whole mystery might be solved tomorrow without their help,
but he wasn’t about to pass up a chance to speak to Myrtle if it turned up —
and to his delight it did, midmorning, when they were being led to History of
Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart.
Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all danger had passed, only to
be proved wrong right away, was now wholeheartedly convinced that it was
hardly worth the trouble to see them safely down the corridors. His hair
wasn’t as sleek as usual; it seemed he had been up most of the night,
patrolling the fourth floor.
“Mark my words,” he said, ushering them around a corner. “The first words
out of those poor Petrified people’s mouths will be ‘It was Hagrid.’ Frankly,
I’m astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all these security measures are
necessary.”
“I agree, sir,” said Harry, making Ron drop his books in surprise.
“Thank you, Harry,” said Lockhart graciously while they waited for a long
line of Hufflepuffs to pass. “I mean, we teachers have quite enough to be
getting on with, without walking students to classes and standing guard all
night. . . .”
“That’s right,” said Ron, catching on. “Why don’t you leave us here, sir,
we’ve only got one more corridor to go —”
“You know, Weasley, I think I will,” said Lockhart. “I really should go and
prepare my next class —”
And he hurried off.
“Prepare his class,” Ron sneered after him. “Gone to curl his hair, more
like.”
They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of them, then darted down a
side passage and hurried off toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. But just as
they were congratulating each other on their brilliant scheme —
“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?”
It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines.
“We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and
see —”
“Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at
him.
“We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly,
treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing,
you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry
—”
Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry
thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely
croaky voice.
“Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her
beady eye. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends of
those who have been . . . I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you may
visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns where you’ve gone. Tell
Madam Pomfrey I have given my permission.”
Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe that they’d avoided
detention. As they turned the corner, they distinctly heard Professor
McGonagall blow her nose.
“That,” said Ron fervently, “was the best story you’ve ever come up with.”
They had no choice now but to go to the hospital wing and tell Madam
Pomfrey that they had Professor McGonagall’s permission to visit Hermione.
Madam Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly.
“There’s just no point talking to a Petrified person,” she said, and they had
to admit she had a point when they’d taken their seats next to Hermione. It
was plain that Hermione didn’t have the faintest inkling that she had visitors,
and that they might just as well tell her bedside cabinet not to worry for all the
good it would do.
“Wonder if she did see the attacker, though?” said Ron, looking sadly at
Hermione’s rigid face. “Because if he sneaked up on them all, no one’ll ever
know. . . .”
But Harry wasn’t looking at Hermione’s face. He was more interested in
her right hand. It lay clenched on top of her blankets, and bending closer, he
saw that a piece of paper was scrunched inside her fist.
Making sure that Madam Pomfrey was nowhere near, he pointed this out to
Ron.
“Try and get it out,” Ron whispered, shifting his chair so that he blocked
Harry from Madam Pomfrey’s view.
It was no easy task. Hermione’s hand was clamped so tightly around the
paper that Harry was sure he was going to tear it. While Ron kept watch he
tugged and twisted, and at last, after several tense minutes, the paper came
free.
It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harry smoothed it out
eagerly and Ron leaned close to read it, too.
Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is
none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the
King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live
many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg, hatched beneath a
toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly
and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are
fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee
before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees
only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it.
And beneath this, a single word had been written, in a hand Harry
recognized as Hermione’s. Pipes.
It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on in his brain.
“Ron,” he breathed. “This is it. This is the answer. The monster in the
Chamber’s a basilisk — a giant serpent! That’s why I’ve been hearing that
voice all over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It’s because I
understand Parseltongue. . . .”
Harry looked up at the beds around him.
“The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no one’s died — because
no one looked it straight in the eye. Colin saw it through his camera. The
basilisk burned up all the film inside it, but Colin just got Petrified. Justin . . .
Justin must’ve seen the basilisk through Nearly Headless Nick! Nick got the
full blast of it, but he couldn’t die again . . . and Hermione and that
Ravenclaw prefect were found with a mirror next to them. Hermione had just
realized the monster was a basilisk. I bet you anything she warned the first
person she met to look around corners with a mirror first! And that girl pulled
out her mirror — and —”
Ron’s jaw had dropped.
“And Mrs. Norris?” he whispered eagerly.
Harry thought hard, picturing the scene on the night of Halloween.
“The water . . .” he said slowly. “The flood from Moaning Myrtle’s
bathroom. I bet you Mrs. Norris only saw the reflection. . . .”
He scanned the page in his hand eagerly. The more he looked at it, the more
it made sense.
“‘The Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to
it’!” he read aloud. “Hagrid’s roosters were killed! The Heir of Slytherin
didn’t want one anywhere near the castle once the Chamber was opened!
‘Spiders flee before the Basilisk’! It all fits!”
“But how’s the basilisk been getting around the place?” said Ron. “A giant
snake . . . Someone would’ve seen . . .”
Harry, however, pointed at the word Hermione had scribbled at the foot of
the page.
“Pipes,” he said. “Pipes . . . Ron, it’s been using the plumbing. I’ve been
hearing that voice inside the walls. . . .”
Ron suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm.
“The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!” he said hoarsely. “What if it’s a
bathroom? What if it’s in —”
“— Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom,” said Harry.
They sat there, excitement coursing through them, hardly able to believe it.
“This means,” said Harry, “I can’t be the only Parselmouth in the school.
The Heir of Slytherin’s one, too. That’s how he’s been controlling the
basilisk.”
“What’re we going to do?” said Ron, whose eyes were flashing. “Should
we go straight to McGonagall?”
“Let’s go to the staffroom,” said Harry, jumping up. “She’ll be there in ten
minutes. It’s nearly break.”
They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered hanging around in
another corridor, they went straight into the deserted staffroom. It was a large,
paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs. Harry and Ron paced around it, too
excited to sit down.
But the bell to signal break never came.
Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor McGonagall’s voice,
magically magnified.
“All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers
return to the staffroom. Immediately, please.”
Harry wheeled around to stare at Ron.
“Not another attack? Not now?”
“What’ll we do?” said Ron, aghast. “Go back to the dormitory?”
“No,” said Harry, glancing around. There was an ugly sort of wardrobe to
his left, full of the teachers’ cloaks. “In here. Let’s hear what it’s all about.
Then we can tell them what we’ve found out.”
They hid themselves inside it, listening to the rumbling of hundreds of
people moving overhead, and the staffroom door banging open. From
between the musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the teachers filtering into
the room. Some of them were looking puzzled, others downright scared. Then
Professor McGonagall arrived.
“It has happened,” she told the silent staffroom. “A student has been taken
by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.”
Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout clapped her hands over
her mouth. Snape gripped the back of a chair very hard and said, “How can
you be sure?”
“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Professor McGonagall, who was very white,
“left another message. Right underneath the first one. ‘Her skeleton will lie in
the Chamber forever.’”
Professor Flitwick burst into tears.
“Who is it?” said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-kneed, into a chair.
“Which student?”
“Ginny Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall.
Harry felt Ron slide silently down onto the wardrobe floor beside him.
“We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow,” said Professor
McGonagall. “This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore always said . . .”
The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild moment, Harry was
sure it would be Dumbledore. But it was Lockhart, and he was beaming.
“So sorry — dozed off — what have I missed?”
He didn’t seem to notice that the other teachers were looking at him with
something remarkably like hatred. Snape stepped forward.
“Just the man,” he said. “The very man. A girl has been snatched by the
monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment
has come at last.”
Lockhart blanched.
“That’s right, Gilderoy,” chipped in Professor Sprout. “Weren’t you saying
just last night that you’ve known all along where the entrance to the Chamber
of Secrets is?”
“I — well, I —” sputtered Lockhart.
“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?” piped
up Professor Flitwick.
“D-did I? I don’t recall —”
“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn’t had a crack at
the monster before Hagrid was arrested,” said Snape. “Didn’t you say that the
whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given a free
rein from the first?”
Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues.
“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood —”
“We’ll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor McGonagall.
“Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We’ll make sure everyone’s out of
your way. You’ll be able to tackle the monster all by youself. A free rein at
last.”
Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody came to the rescue. He
didn’t look remotely handsome anymore. His lip was trembling, and in the
absence of his usually toothy grin, he looked weak-chinned and feeble.
“V-very well,” he said. “I’ll — I’ll be in my office, getting — getting
ready.”
And he left the room.
“Right,” said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils were flared, “that’s got
him out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their
students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them
home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students
have been left outside their dormitories.”
The teachers rose and left, one by one.
It was probably the worst day of Harry’s entire life. He, Ron, Fred, and
George sat together in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, unable to say
anything to each other. Percy wasn’t there. He had gone to send an owl to Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley, then shut himself up in his dormitory.
No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had Gryffindor Tower ever
been so crowded, yet so quiet. Near sunset, Fred and George went up to bed,
unable to sit there any longer.
“She knew something, Harry,” said Ron, speaking for the first time since
they had entered the wardrobe in the staffroom. “That’s why she was taken. It
wasn’t some stupid thing about Percy at all. She’d found out something about
the Chamber of Secrets. That must be why she was —” Ron rubbed his eyes
frantically. “I mean, she was a pureblood. There can’t be any other reason.”
Harry could see the sun sinking, blood-red, below the skyline. This was the
worst he had ever felt. If only there was something they could do. Anything.
“Harry,” said Ron. “D’you think there’s any chance at all she’s not — you
know —”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t see how Ginny could still be
alive.
“D’you know what?” said Ron. “I think we should go and see Lockhart.
Tell him what we know. He’s going to try and get into the Chamber. We can
tell him where we think it is, and tell him it’s a basilisk in there.”
Because Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do, and because he
wanted to be doing something, he agreed. The Gryffindors around them were
so miserable, and felt so sorry for the Weasleys, that nobody tried to stop
them as they got up, crossed the room, and left through the portrait hole.
Darkness was falling as they walked down to Lockhart’s office. There
seemed to be a lot of activity going on inside it. They could hear scraping,
thumps, and hurried footsteps.
Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from inside. Then the door
opened the tiniest crack and they saw one of Lockhart’s eyes peering through
it.
“Oh — Mr. Potter — Mr. Weasley —” he said, opening the door a bit
wider. “I’m rather busy at the moment — if you would be quick —”
“Professor, we’ve got some information for you,” said Harry. “We think
it’ll help you.”
“Er — well — it’s not terribly —” The side of Lockhart’s face that they
could see looked very uncomfortable. “I mean — well — all right —”
He opened the door and they entered.
His office had been almost completely stripped. Two large trunks stood
open on the floor. Robes, jade-green, lilac, midnight-blue, had been hastily
folded into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into the other. The
photographs that had covered the walls were now crammed into boxes on the
desk.
“Are you going somewhere?” said Harry.
“Er, well, yes,” said Lockhart, ripping a life-size poster of himself from the
back of the door as he spoke and starting to roll it up. “Urgent call —
unavoidable — got to go —”
“What about my sister?” said Ron jerkily.
“Well, as to that — most unfortunate —” said Lockhart, avoiding their eyes
as he wrenched open a drawer and started emptying the contents into a bag.
“No one regrets more than I —”
“You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!” said Harry. “You can’t
go now! Not with all the Dark stuff going on here!”
“Well — I must say — when I took the job —” Lockhart muttered, now
piling socks on top of his robes. “nothing in the job description — didn’t
expect —”
“You mean you’re running away?” said Harry disbelievingly. “After all that
stuff you did in your books —”
“Books can be misleading,” said Lockhart delicately.
“You wrote them!” Harry shouted.
“My dear boy,” said Lockhart, straightening up and frowning at Harry. “Do
use your common sense. My books wouldn’t have sold half as well if people
didn’t think I’d done all those things. No one wants to read about some ugly
old Armenian warlock, even if he did save a village from werewolves. He’d
look dreadful on the front cover. No dress sense at all. And the witch who
banished the Bandon Banshee had a hairy chin. I mean, come on —”
“So you’ve just been taking credit for what a load of other people have
done?” said Harry incredulously.
“Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, shaking his head impatiently, “it’s not nearly
as simple as that. There was work involved. I had to track these people down.
Ask them exactly how they managed to do what they did. Then I had to put a
Memory Charm on them so they wouldn’t remember doing it. If there’s one
thing I pride myself on, it’s my Memory Charms. No, it’s been a lot of work,
Harry. It’s not all book signings and publicity photos, you know. You want
fame, you have to be prepared for a long hard slog.”
He banged the lids of his trunks shut and locked them.
“Let’s see,” he said. “I think that’s everything. Yes. Only one thing left.”
He pulled out his wand and turned to them.
“Awfully sorry, boys, but I’ll have to put a Memory Charm on you now.
Can’t have you blabbing my secrets all over the place. I’d never sell another
book —”
Harry reached his wand just in time. Lockhart had barely raised his, when
Harry bellowed, “Expelliarmus!”
Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over his trunk; his wand flew high
into the air; Ron caught it, and flung it out of the open window.
“Shouldn’t have let Professor Snape teach us that one,” said Harry
furiously, kicking Lockhart’s trunk aside. Lockhart was looking up at him,
feeble once more. Harry was still pointing his wand at him.
“What d’you want me to do?” said Lockhart weakly. “I don’t know where
the Chamber of Secrets is. There’s nothing I can do.”
“You’re in luck,” said Harry, forcing Lockhart to his feet at wandpoint.
“We think we know where it is. And what’s inside it. Let’s go.”
They marched Lockhart out of his office and down the nearest stairs, along
the dark corridor where the messages shone on the wall, to the door of
Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.
They sent Lockhart in first. Harry was pleased to see that he was shaking.
Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end toilet.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said when she saw Harry. “What do you want this
time?”
“To ask you how you died,” said Harry.
Myrtle’s whole aspect changed at once. She looked as though she had never
been asked such a flattering question.
“Ooooh, it was dreadful,” she said with relish. “It happened right in here. I
died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I’d hidden because Olive Hornby
was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and
then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different
language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it
was a boy speaking. So I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own
toilet, and then —” Myrtle swelled importantly, her face shining. “I died.”
“How?” said Harry.
“No idea,” said Myrtle in hushed tones. “I just remember seeing a pair of
great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was
floating away. . . .” She looked dreamily at Harry. “And then I came back
again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry
she’d ever laughed at my glasses.”
“Where exactly did you see the eyes?” said Harry.
“Somewhere there,” said Myrtle, pointing vaguely toward the sink in front
of her toilet.
Harry and Ron hurried over to it. Lockhart was standing well back, a look
of utter terror on his face.
It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every inch of it, inside and
out, including the pipes below. And then Harry saw it: Scratched on the side
of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake.
“That tap’s never worked,” said Myrtle brightly as he tried to turn it.
“Harry,” said Ron. “Say something. Something in Parseltongue.”
“But —” Harry thought hard. The only times he’d ever managed to speak
Parseltongue were when he’d been faced with a real snake. He stared hard at
the tiny engraving, trying to imagine it was real.
“Open up,” he said.
He looked at Ron, who shook his head.
“English,” he said.
Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to believe it was alive. If he
moved his head, the candlelight made it look as though it were moving.
“Open up,” he said.
Except that the words weren’t what he heard; a strange hissing had escaped
him, and at once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin.
Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight,
leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.
Harry heard Ron gasp and looked up again. He had made up his mind what
he was going to do.
“I’m going down there,” he said.
He couldn’t not go, not now they had found the entrance to the Chamber,
not if there was even the faintest, slimmest, wildest chance that Ginny might
be alive.
“Me too,” said Ron.
There was a pause.
“Well, you hardly seem to need me,” said Lockhart, with a shadow of his
old smile. “I’ll just —”
He put his hand on the door knob, but Ron and Harry both pointed their
wands at him.
“You can go first,” Ron snarled.
White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the opening.
“Boys,” he said, his voice feeble. “Boys, what good will it do?”
Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand. Lockhart slid his legs into the
pipe.
“I really don’t think —” he started to say, but Ron gave him a push, and he
slid out of sight. Harry followed quickly. He lowered himself slowly into the
pipe, then let go.
It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see more
pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted
and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew that he was falling deeper
below the school than even the dungeons. Behind him he could hear Ron,
thudding slightly at the curves.
And then, just as he had begun to worry about what would happen when he
hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet
thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand
in. Lockhart was getting to his feet a little ways away, covered in slime and
white as a ghost. Harry stood aside as Ron came whizzing out of the pipe, too.
“We must be miles under the school,” said Harry, his voice echoing in the
black tunnel.
“Under the lake, probably,” said Ron, squinting around at the dark, slimy
walls.
All three of them turned to stare into the darkness ahead.
“Lumos!” Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. “C’mon,” he said to
Ron and Lockhart, and off they went, their footsteps slapping loudly on the
wet floor.
The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a little distance ahead.
Their shadows on the wet walls looked monstrous in the wandlight.
“Remember,” Harry said quietly as they walked cautiously forward, “any
sign of movement, close your eyes right away. . . .”
But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first unexpected sound they
heard was a loud crunch as Ron stepped on what turned out to be a rat’s skull.
Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw that it was littered with
small animal bones. Trying very hard not to imagine what Ginny might look
like if they found her, Harry led the way forward, around a dark bend in the
tunnel.
“Harry — there’s something up there —” said Ron hoarsely, grabbing
Harry’s shoulder.
They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline of something huge
and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn’t moving.
“Maybe it’s asleep,” he breathed, glancing back at the other two.
Lockhart’s hands were pressed over his eyes. Harry turned back to look at the
thing, his heart beating so fast it hurt.
Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make them and still see, Harry
edged forward, his wand held high.
The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying
curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had shed it must
have been twenty feet long at least.
“Blimey,” said Ron weakly.
There was a sudden movement behind them. Gilderoy Lockhart’s knees
had given way.
“Get up,” said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at Lockhart.
Lockhart got to his feet — then he dived at Ron, knocking him to the
ground.
Harry jumped forward, but too late — Lockhart was straightening up,
panting, Ron’s wand in his hand and a gleaming smile back on his face.
“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin
back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you
two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body — say goodbye to your memories!”
He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head and yelled,
“Obliviate!”
The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb. Harry flung his arms
over his head and ran, slipping over the coils of snake skin, out of the way of
great chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to the floor. Next moment,
he was standing alone, gazing at a solid wall of broken rock.
“Ron!” he shouted. “Are you okay? Ron!”
“I’m here!” came Ron’s muffled voice from behind the rockfall. “I’m okay
— this git’s not, though — he got blasted by the wand —”
There was a dull thud and a loud “ow!” It sounded as though Ron had just
kicked Lockhart in the shins.
“What now?” Ron’s voice said, sounding desperate. “We can’t get through
— it’ll take ages. . . .”
Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks had appeared in it. He
had never tried to break apart anything as large as these rocks by magic, and
now didn’t seem a good moment to try — what if the whole tunnel caved in?
There was another thud and another “ow!” from behind the rocks. They
were wasting time. Ginny had already been in the Chamber of Secrets for
hours. . . . Harry knew there was only one thing to do.
“Wait there,” he called to Ron. “Wait with Lockhart. I’ll go on. . . . If I’m
not back in an hour . . .”
There was a very pregnant pause.
“I’ll try and shift some of this rock,” said Ron, who seemed to be trying to
keep his voice steady. “So you can — can get back through. And, Harry —”
“See you in a bit,” said Harry, trying to inject some confidence into his
shaking voice.
And he set off alone past the giant snake skin.
Soon the distant noise of Ron straining to shift the rocks was gone. The
tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Harry’s body was tingling
unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet dreaded what he’d find when it
did. And then, at last, as he crept around yet another bend, he saw a solid wall
ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great,
glinting emeralds.
Harry approached, his throat very dry. There was no need to pretend these
stone snakes were real; their eyes looked strangely alive.
He could guess what he had to do. He cleared his throat, and the emerald
eyes seemed to flicker.
“Open,” said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.
The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves slid smoothly out
of sight, and Harry, shaking from head to foot, walked inside.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN
H
e was standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering
stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a
ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd,
greenish gloom that filled the place.
His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to the chill silence. Could
the basilisk be lurking in a shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And where was
Ginny?
He pulled out his wand and moved forward between the serpentine
columns. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept
his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of
movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be
following him. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw
one stir.
Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the
Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.
Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was
ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom
of the wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on
the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small,
black-robed figure with flaming-red hair.
“Ginny!” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and dropping to his knees.
“Ginny — don’t be dead — please don’t be dead —” He flung his wand
aside, grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was white as
marble, and as cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified. But
then she must be —
“Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny’s
head lolled hopelessly from side to side.
“She won’t wake,” said a soft voice.
Harry jumped and spun around on his knees.
A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He
was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry were looking at him
through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him —
“Tom — Tom Riddle?”
Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face.
“What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said desperately. “She’s not —
she’s not — ?”
“She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.”
Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet
here he stood, a weird, misty light shining about him, not a day older than
sixteen.
“Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly.
“A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.”
He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there
was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For
a second, Harry wondered how it had got there — but there were more
pressing matters to deal with.
“You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising Ginny’s head again.
“We’ve got to get her out of here. There’s a basilisk . . . I don’t know where it
is, but it could be along any moment. . . . Please, help me —”
Riddle didn’t move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist Ginny half off the
floor, and bent to pick up his wand again.
But his wand had gone.
“Did you see — ?”
He looked up. Riddle was still watching him — twirling Harry’s wand
between his long fingers.
“Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.
A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He continued to stare at
Harry, twirling the wand idly.
“Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight.
“We’ve got to go! If the basilisk comes —”
“It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly.
Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to hold her up any longer.
“What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, I might need it —”
Riddle’s smile broadened.
“You won’t be needing it,” he said.
Harry stared at him.
“What d’you mean, I won’t be — ?”
“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For the
chance to see you. To speak to you.”
“Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it. We’re in the
Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later —”
“We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he
pocketed Harry’s wand.
Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here. . . .
“How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.
“Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle pleasantly. “And quite a
long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she
opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger.”
“What are you talking about?” said Harry.
“The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been writing in it for
months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes — how her
brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and
books, how” — Riddle’s eyes glinted — “how she didn’t think famous, good,
great Harry Potter would ever like her. . . .”
All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s face. There was an
almost hungry look in them.
“It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an elevenyear-old girl,” he went on. “But I was patient. I wrote back. I was
sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever understood
me like you, Tom. . . . I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to confide in. . . . It’s like
having a friend I can carry around in my pocket. . . .”
Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit him. It made the hairs
stand up on the back of Harry’s neck.
“If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to charm the people I
needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be
exactly what I wanted. . . . I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her
deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than
little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of
my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her . . .”
“What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had gone very dry.
“Haven’t you guessed yet, Harry Potter?” said Riddle softly. “Ginny
Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters
and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the serpent of
Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib’s cat.”
“No,” Harry whispered.
“Yes,” said Riddle calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know what she was doing
at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary
entries . . . far more interesting, they became. . . . Dear Tom,” he recited,
watching Harry’s horrified face, “I think I’m losing my memory. There are
rooster feathers all over my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear
Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was
attacked and I’ve got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling
me I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me. . . . There was another
attack today and I don’t know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I
think I’m going mad. . . . I think I’m the one attacking everyone, Tom!”
Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms.
“It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary,”
said Riddle. “But she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And
that’s where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I couldn’t have been more
delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very
person I was most anxious to meet. . . .”
“And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry. Anger was coursing
through him, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady.
“Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,” said Riddle. “Your
whole fascinating history.” His eyes roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s
forehead, and their expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find out more
about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my
famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust —”
“Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now shaking. “And you framed
him, didn’t you? I thought you made a mistake, but —”
Riddle laughed his high laugh again.
“It was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it
looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but
brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student . . . on the
other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to
raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to
wrestle trolls . . . but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked.
I thought someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be the Heir of
Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could
about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance . . . as though
Hagrid had the brains, or the power!
“Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think Hagrid
was innocent. He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as
gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed. . . . Dumbledore
never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did. . . .”
“I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said Harry, his teeth gritted.
“Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was
expelled,” said Riddle carelessly. “I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the
Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste those
long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary,
preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I
would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin’s
noble work.”
“Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry triumphantly. “No one’s died
this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be ready
and everyone who was Petrified will be all right again —”
“Haven’t I already told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that killing Mudbloods
doesn’t matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has
been — you.”
Harry stared at him.
“Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was opened, it was
Ginny who was writing to me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see,
and panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I repeated all her
secrets to you? What if, even worse, I told you who’d been strangling
roosters? So the foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was deserted
and stole it back. But I knew what I must do. It was clear to me that you were
on the trail of Slytherin’s heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you,
I knew you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery — particularly if one
of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the whole school
was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue. . . .
“So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall and come down here
to wait. She struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn’t much
life left in her. . . . She put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me
leave its pages at last. . . . I have been waiting for you to appear since we
arrived here. I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry
Potter.”
“Like what?” Harry spat, fists still clenched.
“Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that you — a skinny boy
with no extraordinary magical talent — managed to defeat the greatest wizard
of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord
Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?”
There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.
“Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly. “Voldemort was
after your time. . . .”
“Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present, and future, Harry
Potter. . . .”
He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to trace it through the
air, writing three shimmering words:
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged
themselves:
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
“You see?” he whispered. “It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts,
to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my
filthy Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of
Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother’s side? I, keep the name of a
foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just
because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry — I fashioned myself a
new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak,
when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”
Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle, at the
orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so many
others. . . . At last he forced himself to speak.
“You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.
“Not what?” snapped Riddle.
“Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast. “Sorry
to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus
Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn’t dare
try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were
at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re hiding these days
—”
The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.
“Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!”
he hissed.
“He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. He was speaking at
random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true —
Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.
Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down
the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spinetingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made his heart feel
as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached
such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames erupted at
the top of the nearest pillar.
A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to
the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and
gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged bundle.
A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It dropped the ragged
thing it was carrying at his feet, then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it
folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden
beak and a beady black eye.
The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry’s cheek,
gazing steadily at Riddle.
“That’s a phoenix. . . .” said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.
“Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s golden claws squeeze his
shoulder gently.
“And that — ” said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes had
dropped, “that’s the old school Sorting Hat —”
So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay motionless at Harry’s feet.
Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark Chamber
rang with it, as though ten Riddles were laughing at once —
“This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat!
Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?”
Harry didn’t answer. He might not see what use Fawkes or the Sorting Hat
were, but he was no longer alone, and he waited for Riddle to stop laughing
with his courage mounting.
“To business, Harry,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly. “Twice — in your
past, in my future — we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you
survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he added softly, “the
longer you stay alive.”
Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle had the wand. He,
Harry, had Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, neither of which would be much good
in a duel. It looked bad, all right . . . but the longer Riddle stood there, the
more life was dwindling out of Ginny . . . and in the meantime, Harry noticed
suddenly, Riddle’s outline was becoming clearer, more solid. . . . If it had to
be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner than later.
“No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me,” said
Harry abruptly. “I don’t know myself. But I know why you couldn’t kill me.
Because my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born mother,” he
added, shaking with suppressed rage. “She stopped you killing me. And I’ve
seen the real you, I saw you last year. You’re a wreck. You’re barely alive.
That’s where all your power got you. You’re in hiding. You’re ugly, you’re
foul —”
Riddle’s face contorted. Then he forced it into an awful smile.
“So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a powerful counter-charm. I
can see now . . . there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you
see. Because there are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you
must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably
the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin
himself. We even look something alike. . . . But after all, it was merely a lucky
chance that saved you from me. That’s all I wanted to know.”
Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his wand. But Riddle’s
twisted smile was widening again.
“Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson. Let’s match the powers
of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter,
and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him. . . .”
He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked
away. Harry, fear spreading up his numb legs, watched Riddle stop between
the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in
the half-darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed — but Harry
understood what he was saying. . . .
“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”
Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on his
shoulder.
Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Harry saw his
mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.
And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. Something was
slithering up from its depths.
Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber wall, and as he shut his
eyes tight he felt Fawkes’ wing sweep his cheek as he took flight. Harry
wanted to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but what chance did a phoenix have
against the king of serpents?
Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harry felt it shudder —
he knew what was happening, he could sense it, could almost see the giant
serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin’s mouth. Then he heard Riddle’s
hissing voice:
“Kill him.”
The basilisk was moving toward Harry; he could hear its heavy body
slithering heavily across the dusty floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry began to
run blindly sideways, his hands outstretched, feeling his way — Voldemort
was laughing —
Harry tripped. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted blood — the serpent
was barely feet from him, he could hear it coming —
There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above him, and then
something heavy hit Harry so hard that he was smashed into the wall. Waiting
for fangs to sink through his body, he heard more mad hissing, something
thrashing wildly off the pillars —
He couldn’t help it — he opened his eyes wide enough to squint at what
was going on.
The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had
raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly
between the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his eyes if it turned, he
saw what had distracted the snake.
Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk was snapping
furiously at him with fangs long and thin as sabers —
Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight and a sudden shower
of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake’s tail thrashed, narrowly missing
Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned — Harry looked straight
into its face and saw that its eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had
been punctured by the phoenix; blood was streaming to the floor, and the
snake was spitting in agony.
“NO!” Harry heard Riddle screaming. “LEAVE THE BIRD! LEAVE THE
BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU! YOU CAN STILL SMELL HIM! KILL
HIM!”
The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was circling its
head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at its scaly nose as the
blood poured from its ruined eyes.
“Help me, help me,” Harry muttered wildly, “someone — anyone —”
The snake’s tail whipped across the floor again. Harry ducked. Something
soft hit his face.
The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry’s arms. Harry seized it. It
was all he had left, his only chance — he rammed it onto his head and threw
himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk’s tail swung over him again.
Help me — help me — Harry thought, his eyes screwed tight under the hat.
Please help me —
There was no answering voice. Instead, the hat contracted, as though an
invisible hand was squeezing it very tightly.
Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top of Harry’s head,
almost knocking him out. Stars winking in front of his eyes, he grabbed the
top of the hat to pull it off and felt something long and hard beneath it.
A gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat, its handle glittering
with rubies the size of eggs.
“KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU! SNIFF
— SMELL HIM!”
Harry was on his feet, ready. The basilisk’s head was falling, its body
coiling around, hitting pillars as it twisted to face him. He could see the vast,
bloody eye sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough to swallow
him whole, lined with fangs long as his sword, thin, glittering, venomous —
It lunged blindly — Harry dodged and it hit the Chamber wall. It lunged
again, and its forked tongue lashed Harry’s side. He raised the sword in both
his hands —
The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was true — Harry threw his
whole weight behind the sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof of the
serpent’s mouth —
But as warm blood drenched Harry’s arms, he felt a searing pain just above
his elbow. One long, poisonous fang was sinking deeper and deeper into his
arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over sideways and fell, twitching,
to the floor.
Harry slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that was spreading poison
through his body and wrenched it out of his arm. But he knew it was too late.
White-hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from the wound. Even as
he dropped the fang and watched his own blood soaking his robes, his vision
went foggy. The Chamber was dissolving in a whirl of dull color.
A patch of scarlet swam past, and Harry heard a soft clatter of claws beside
him.
“Fawkes,” said Harry thickly. “You were fantastic, Fawkes. . . .” He felt the
bird lay its beautiful head on the spot where the serpent’s fang had pierced
him.
He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark shadow moved in front of
him.
“You’re dead, Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s voice above him. “Dead. Even
Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Do you see what he’s doing, Potter? He’s
crying.”
Harry blinked. Fawkes’s head slid in and out of focus. Thick, pearly tears
were trickling down the glossy feathers.
“I’m going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time. I’m
in no hurry.”
Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to be spinning.
“So ends the famous Harry Potter,” said Riddle’s distant voice. “Alone in
the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark
Lord he so unwisely challenged. You’ll be back with your dear Mudblood
mother soon, Harry. . . . She bought you twelve years of borrowed time . . .
but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must. . . .”
If this is dying, thought Harry, it’s not so bad.
Even the pain was leaving him. . . .
But was this dying? Instead of going black, the Chamber seemed to be
coming back into focus. Harry gave his head a little shake and there was
Fawkes, still resting his head on Harry’s arm. A pearly patch of tears was
shining all around the wound — except that there was no wound —
“Get away, bird,” said Riddle’s voice suddenly. “Get away from him — I
said, get away —”
Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry’s wand at Fawkes; there
was a bang like a gun, and Fawkes took flight again in a whirl of gold and
scarlet.
“Phoenix tears . . .” said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry’s arm. “Of
course . . . healing powers . . . I forgot . . .”
He looked into Harry’s face. “But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it
this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter . . . you and me. . . .”
He raised the wand —
Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and something
fell into Harry’s lap — the diary.
For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it.
Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it
all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged
it straight into the heart of the book.
There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in
torrents, streaming over Harry’s hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was
writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then —
He had gone. Harry’s wand fell to the floor with a clatter and there was
silence. Silence except for the steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the
diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right through it.
Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head was spinning as though
he’d just traveled miles by Floo powder. Slowly, he gathered together his
wand and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug, retrieved the glittering sword
from the roof of the basilisk’s mouth.
Then came a faint moan from the end of the Chamber. Ginny was stirring.
As Harry hurried toward her, she sat up. Her bemused eyes traveled from the
huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harry, in his blood-soaked robes, then to
the diary in his hand. She drew a great, shuddering gasp and tears began to
pour down her face.
“Harry — oh, Harry — I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn’t say
it in front of Percy — it was me, Harry — but I — I s-swear I d-didn’t mean
to — R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over — and — how did you kill that
— that thing? W-where’s Riddle? The last thing I r-remember is him coming
out of the diary —”
“It’s all right,” said Harry, holding up the diary, and showing Ginny the
fang hole, “Riddle’s finished. Look! Him and the basilisk. C’mon, Ginny,
let’s get out of here —”
“I’m going to be expelled!” Ginny wept as Harry helped her awkwardly to
her feet. “I’ve looked forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came
and n-now I’ll have to leave and — w-what’ll Mum and Dad say?”
Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the Chamber entrance. Harry
urged Ginny forward; they stepped over the motionless coils of the dead
basilisk, through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel. Harry heard the
stone doors close behind them with a soft hiss.
After a few minutes’ progress up the dark tunnel, a distant sound of slowly
shifting rock reached Harry’s ears.
“Ron!” Harry yelled, speeding up. “Ginny’s okay! I’ve got her!”
He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned the next bend to see
his eager face staring through the sizable gap he had managed to make in the
rockfall.
“Ginny!” Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the rock to pull her through
first. “You’re alive! I don’t believe it! What happened? How — what —
where did that bird come from?”
Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Ginny.
“He’s Dumbledore’s,” said Harry, squeezing through himself.
“How come you’ve got a sword?” said Ron, gaping at the glittering weapon
in Harry’s hand.
“I’ll explain when we get out of here,” said Harry with a sideways glance at
Ginny, who was crying harder than ever.
“But —”
“Later,” Harry said shortly. He didn’t think it was a good idea to tell Ron
yet who’d been opening the Chamber, not in front of Ginny, anyway.
“Where’s Lockhart?”
“Back there,” said Ron, still looking puzzled but jerking his head up the
tunnel toward the pipe. “He’s in a bad way. Come and see.”
Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a soft golden glow in the
darkness, they walked all the way back to the mouth of the pipe. Gilderoy
Lockhart was sitting there, humming placidly to himself.
“His memory’s gone,” said Ron. “The Memory Charm backfired. Hit him
instead of us. Hasn’t got a clue who he is, or where he is, or who we are. I
told him to come and wait here. He’s a danger to himself.”
Lockhart peered good-naturedly up at them all.
“Hello,” he said. “Odd sort of place, this, isn’t it? Do you live here?”
“No,” said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry.
Harry bent down and looked up the long, dark pipe.
“Have you thought how we’re going to get back up this?” he said to Ron.
Ron shook his head, but Fawkes the phoenix had swooped past Harry and
was now fluttering in front of him, his beady eyes bright in the dark. He was
waving his long golden tail feathers. Harry looked uncertainly at him.
“He looks like he wants you to grab hold . . .” said Ron, looking perplexed.
“But you’re much too heavy for a bird to pull up there —”
“Fawkes,” said Harry, “isn’t an ordinary bird.” He turned quickly to the
others. “We’ve got to hold on to each other. Ginny, grab Ron’s hand.
Professor Lockhart —”
“He means you,” said Ron sharply to Lockhart.
“You hold Ginny’s other hand —”
Harry tucked the sword and the Sorting Hat into his belt, Ron took hold of
the back of Harry’s robes, and Harry reached out and took hold of Fawkes’s
strangely hot tail feathers.
An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through his whole body and
the next second, in a rush of wings, they were flying upward through the pipe.
Harry could hear Lockhart dangling below him, saying, “Amazing! Amazing!
This is just like magic!” The chill air was whipping through Harry’s hair, and
before he’d stopped enjoying the ride, it was over — all four of them were
hitting the wet floor of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and as Lockhart
straightened his hat, the sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into place.
Myrtle goggled at them.
“You’re alive,” she said blankly to Harry.
“There’s no need to sound so disappointed,” he said grimly, wiping flecks
of blood and slime off his glasses.
“Oh, well . . . I’d just been thinking . . . if you had died, you’d have been
welcome to share my toilet,” said Myrtle, blushing silver.
“Urgh!” said Ron as they left the bathroom for the dark, deserted corridor
outside. “Harry! I think Myrtle’s grown fond of you! You’ve got competition,
Ginny!”
But tears were still flooding silently down Ginny’s face.
“Where now?” said Ron, with an anxious look at Ginny. Harry pointed.
Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the corridor. They strode
after him, and moments later, found themselves outside Professor
McGonagall’s office.
Harry knocked and pushed the door open.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DOBBY’S REWARD
F
or a moment there was silence as Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Lockhart stood
in the doorway, covered in muck and slime and (in Harry’s case) blood.
Then there was a scream.
“Ginny!”
It was Mrs. Weasley, who had been sitting crying in front of the fire. She
leapt to her feet, closely followed by Mr. Weasley, and both of them flung
themselves on their daughter.
Harry, however, was looking past them. Professor Dumbledore was
standing by the mantelpiece, beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who
was taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest. Fawkes went
whooshing past Harry’s ear and settled on Dumbledore’s shoulder, just as
Harry found himself and Ron being swept into Mrs. Weasley’s tight embrace.
“You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?”
“I think we’d all like to know that,” said Professor McGonagall weakly.
Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry, who hesitated for a moment, then walked
over to the desk and laid upon it the Sorting Hat, the ruby-encrusted sword,
and what remained of Riddle’s diary.
Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a quarter of an hour he
spoke into the rapt silence: He told them about hearing the disembodied
voice, how Hermione had finally realized that he was hearing a basilisk in the
pipes; how he and Ron had followed the spiders into the forest, that Aragog
had told them where the last victim of the basilisk had died; how he had
guessed that Moaning Myrtle had been the victim, and that the entrance to the
Chamber of Secrets might be in her bathroom. . . .
“Very well,” Professor McGonagall prompted him as he paused, “so you
found out where the entrance was — breaking a hundred school rules into
pieces along the way, I might add — but how on earth did you all get out of
there alive, Potter?”
So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this talking, told them
about Fawkes’s timely arrival and about the Sorting Hat giving him the
sword. But then he faltered. He had so far avoided mentioning Riddle’s diary
— or Ginny. She was standing with her head against Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder,
and tears were still coursing silently down her cheeks. What if they expelled
her? Harry thought in panic. Riddle’s diary didn’t work anymore. . . . How
could they prove it had been he who’d made her do it all?
Instinctively, Harry looked at Dumbledore, who smiled faintly, the firelight
glancing off his half-moon spectacles.
“What interests me most,” said Dumbledore gently, “is how Lord
Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny, when my sources tell me he is
currently in hiding in the forests of Albania.”
Relief — warm, sweeping, glorious relief — swept over Harry.
“W-what’s that?” said Mr. Weasley in a stunned voice. “You-Know-Who?
En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny’s not . . . Ginny hasn’t been . . . has she?”
“It was this diary,” said Harry quickly, picking it up and showing it to
Dumbledore. “Riddle wrote it when he was sixteen. . . .”
Dumbledore took the diary from Harry and peered keenly down his long,
crooked nose at its burnt and soggy pages.
“Brilliant,” he said softly. “Of course, he was probably the most brilliant
student Hogwarts has ever seen.” He turned around to the Weasleys, who
were looking utterly bewildered.
“Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle. I
taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts. He disappeared after leaving
the school . . . traveled far and wide . . . sank so deeply into the Dark Arts,
consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous,
magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was
barely recognizable. Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the
clever, handsome boy who was once Head Boy here.”
“But, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley. “What’s our Ginny got to do with — with
— him?”
“His d-diary!” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, and he’s been wwriting back all year —”
“Ginny!” said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. “Haven’t I taught you anything?
What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if
you can’t see where it keeps its brain. Why didn’t you show the diary to me,
or your mother? A suspicious object like that, it was clearly full of Dark
Magic —”
“I d-didn’t know,” sobbed Ginny. “I found it inside one of the books Mum
got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and forgotten about it
—”
“Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away,” Dumbledore
interrupted in a firm voice. “This has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will
be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have been hoodwinked
by Lord Voldemort.” He strode over to the door and opened it. “Bed rest and
perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me
up,” he added, twinkling kindly down at her. “You will find that Madam
Pomfrey is still awake. She’s just giving out Mandrake juice — I daresay the
basilisk’s victims will be waking up any moment.”
“So Hermione’s okay!” said Ron brightly.
“There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny,” said Dumbledore.
Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out, and Mr. Weasley followed, still looking
deeply shaken.
“You know, Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore said thoughtfully to
Professor McGonagall, “I think all this merits a good feast. Might I ask you to
go and alert the kitchens?”
“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also moving to the door. “I’ll
leave you to deal with Potter and Weasley, shall I?”
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore.
She left, and Harry and Ron gazed uncertainly at Dumbledore. What
exactly had Professor McGonagall meant, deal with them? Surely — surely
— they weren’t about to be punished?
“I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you
broke any more school rules,” said Dumbledore.
Ron opened his mouth in horror.
“Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words,”
Dumbledore went on, smiling. “You will both receive Special Awards for
Services to the School and — let me see — yes, I think two hundred points
apiece for Gryffindor.”
Ron went as brightly pink as Lockhart’s valentine flowers and closed his
mouth again.
“But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet about his part in this
dangerous adventure,” Dumbledore added. “Why so modest, Gilderoy?”
Harry gave a start. He had completely forgotten about Lockhart. He turned
and saw that Lockhart was standing in a corner of the room, still wearing his
vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed him, Lockhart looked over his
shoulder to see who he was talking to.
“Professor Dumbledore,” Ron said quickly, “there was an accident down in
the Chamber of Secrets. Professor Lockhart —”
“Am I a professor?” said Lockhart in mild surprise. “Goodness. I expect I
was hopeless, was I?”
“He tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand backfired,” Ron explained
quietly to Dumbledore.
“Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his long silver mustache
quivering. “Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy!”
“Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword. That boy has,
though.” He pointed at Harry. “He’ll lend you one.”
“Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the infirmary, too?”
Dumbledore said to Ron. “I’d like a few more words with Harry. . . .”
Lockhart ambled out. Ron cast a curious look back at Dumbledore and
Harry as he closed the door.
Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.
“Sit down, Harry,” he said, and Harry sat, feeling unaccountably nervous.
“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you,” said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling
again. “You must have shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing
but that could have called Fawkes to you.”
He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto his knee. Harry
grinned awkwardly as Dumbledore watched him.
“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully. “I imagine
he was most interested in you. . . .”
Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came tumbling out of his
mouth.
“Professor Dumbledore . . . Riddle said I’m like him. Strange likenesses, he
said. . . .”
“Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully at Harry from
under his thick silver eyebrows. “And what do you think, Harry?”
“I don’t think I’m like him!” said Harry, more loudly than he’d intended. “I
mean, I’m — I’m in Gryffindor, I’m . . .”
But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his mind.
“Professor,” he started again after a moment. “The Sorting Hat told me I’d
— I’d have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin’s heir
for a while . . . because I can speak Parseltongue. . . .”
“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly, “because
Lord Voldemort — who is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin
— can speak Parseltongue. Unless I’m much mistaken, he transferred some of
his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he
intended to do, I’m sure. . . .”
“Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?” Harry said, thunderstruck.
“It certainly seems so.”
“So I should be in Slytherin,” Harry said, looking desperately into
Dumbledore’s face. “The Sorting Hat could see Slytherin’s power in me, and
it —”
“Put you in Gryffindor,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Listen to me, Harry.
You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his handpicked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue — resourcefulness —
determination — a certain disregard for rules,” he added, his mustache
quivering again. “Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know
why that was. Think.”
“It only put me in Gryffindor,” said Harry in a defeated voice, “because I
asked not to go in Slytherin. . . .”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, beaming once more. “Which makes you very
different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly
are, far more than our abilities.” Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned. “If
you want proof, Harry, that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more
closely at this.”
Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall’s desk, picked up the
blood-stained silver sword, and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it
over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the name engraved
just below the hilt.
Godric Gryffindor.
“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harry,” said
Dumbledore simply.
For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Dumbledore pulled open one of
the drawers in Professor McGonagall’s desk and took out a quill and a bottle
of ink.
“What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go down to
the feast, while I write to Azkaban — we need our gamekeeper back. And I
must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, too,” he added
thoughtfully. “We’ll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts
teacher. . . . Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don’t we?”
Harry got up and crossed to the door. He had just reached for the handle,
however, when the door burst open so violently that it bounced back off the
wall.
Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And cowering behind his legs,
heavily wrapped in bandages, was Dobby.
“Good evening, Lucius,” said Dumbledore pleasantly.
Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept into the room. Dobby
went scurrying in after him, crouching at the hem of his cloak, a look of
abject terror on his face.
The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was attempting to finish
cleaning Mr. Malfoy’s shoes. Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out in a great
hurry, for not only were his shoes half-polished, but his usually sleek hair was
disheveled. Ignoring the elf bobbing apologetically around his ankles, he
fixed his cold eyes upon Dumbledore.
“So!” he said “You’ve come back. The governors suspended you, but you
still saw fit to return to Hogwarts.”
“Well, you see, Lucius,” said Dumbledore, smiling serenely, “the other
eleven governors contacted me today. It was something like being caught in a
hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They’d heard that Arthur Weasley’s
daughter had been killed and wanted me back here at once. They seemed to
think I was the best man for the job after all. Very strange tales they told me,
too. . . . Several of them seemed to think that you had threatened to curse their
families if they didn’t agree to suspend me in the first place.”
Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes were still slits of fury.
“So — have you stopped the attacks yet?” he sneered. “Have you caught
the culprit?”
“We have,” said Dumbledore, with a smile.
“Well?” said Mr. Malfoy sharply. “Who is it?”
“The same person as last time, Lucius,” said Dumbledore. “But this time,
Lord Voldemort was acting through somebody else. By means of this diary.”
He held up the small black book with the large hole through the center,
watching Mr. Malfoy closely. Harry, however, was watching Dobby.
The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes fixed meaningfully
on Harry, he kept pointing at the diary, then at Mr. Malfoy, and then hitting
himself hard on the head with his fist.
“I see . . .” said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore.
“A clever plan,” said Dumbledore in a level voice, still staring Mr. Malfoy
straight in the eye. “Because if Harry here” — Mr. Malfoy shot Harry a swift,
sharp look — “and his friend Ron hadn’t discovered this book, why — Ginny
Weasley might have taken all the blame. No one would ever have been able to
prove she hadn’t acted of her own free will. . . .”
Mr. Malfoy said nothing. His face was suddenly masklike.
“And imagine,” Dumbledore went on, “what might have happened
then. . . . The Weasleys are one of our most prominent pure-blood families.
Imagine the effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle Protection Act, if his
own daughter was discovered attacking and killing Muggle-borns. . . . Very
fortunate the diary was discovered, and Riddle’s memories wiped from it.
Who knows what the consequences might have been otherwise. . . .”
Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak.
“Very fortunate,” he said stiffly.
And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first to the diary, then to
Lucius Malfoy, then punching himself in the head.
And Harry suddenly understood. He nodded at Dobby, and Dobby backed
into a corner, now twisting his ears in punishment.
“Don’t you want to know how Ginny got hold of that diary, Mr. Malfoy?”
said Harry.
Lucius Malfoy rounded on him.
“How should I know how the stupid little girl got hold of it?” he said.
“Because you gave it to her,” said Harry. “In Flourish and Blotts. You
picked up her old Transfiguration book and slipped the diary inside it, didn’t
you?”
He saw Mr. Malfoy’s white hands clench and unclench.
“Prove it,” he hissed.
“Oh, no one will be able to do that,” said Dumbledore, smiling at Harry.
“Not now that Riddle has vanished from the book. On the other hand, I would
advise you, Lucius, not to go giving out any more of Lord Voldemort’s old
school things. If any more of them find their way into innocent hands, I think
Arthur Weasley, for one, will make sure they are traced back to you. . . .”
Lucius Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry distinctly saw his right hand
twitch as though he was longing to reach for his wand. Instead, he turned to
his house-elf.
“We’re going, Dobby!”
He wrenched open the door and as the elf came hurrying up to him, he
kicked him right through it. They could hear Dobby squealing with pain all
the way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment, thinking hard. Then it
came to him —
“Professor Dumbledore,” he said hurriedly. “Can I give that diary back to
Mr. Malfoy, please?”
“Certainly, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But hurry. The feast,
remember. . . .”
Harry grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office. He could hear
Dobby’s squeals of pain receding around the corner. Quickly, wondering if
this plan could possibly work, Harry took off one of his shoes, pulled off his
slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary into it. Then he ran down the dark
corridor.
He caught up with them at the top of the stairs.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he gasped, skidding to a halt, “I’ve got something for you
—”
And he forced the smelly sock into Lucius Malfoy’s hand.
“What the — ?”
Mr. Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it aside, then looked
furiously from the ruined book to Harry.
“You’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days, Harry
Potter,” he said softly. “They were meddlesome fools, too.”
He turned to go.
“Come, Dobby. I said, come.”
But Dobby didn’t move. He was holding up Harry’s disgusting, slimy sock,
and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure.
“Master has given a sock,” said the elf in wonderment. “Master gave it to
Dobby.”
“What’s that?” spat Mr. Malfoy. “What did you say?”
“Got a sock,” said Dobby in disbelief. “Master threw it, and Dobby caught
it, and Dobby — Dobby is free.”
Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf. Then he lunged at Harry.
“You’ve lost me my servant, boy!”
But Dobby shouted, “You shall not harm Harry Potter!”
There was a loud bang, and Mr. Malfoy was thrown backward. He crashed
down the stairs, three at a time, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing
below. He got up, his face livid, and pulled out his wand, but Dobby raised a
long, threatening finger.
“You shall go now,” he said fiercely, pointing down at Mr. Malfoy. “You
shall not touch Harry Potter. You shall go now.”
Lucius Malfoy had no choice. With a last, incensed stare at the pair of
them, he swung his cloak around him and hurried out of sight.
“Harry Potter freed Dobby!” said the elf shrilly, gazing up at Harry,
moonlight from the nearest window reflected in his orb-like eyes. “Harry
Potter set Dobby free!”
“Least I could do, Dobby,” said Harry, grinning. “Just promise never to try
and save my life again.”
The elf’s ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide, toothy smile.
“I’ve just got one question, Dobby,” said Harry as Dobby pulled on Harry’s
sock with shaking hands. “You told me all this had nothing to do with HeWho-Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well —”
“It was a clue, sir,” said Dobby, his eyes widening, as though this was
obvious. “Was giving you a clue. The Dark Lord, before he changed his
name, could be freely named, you see?”
“Right,” said Harry weakly. “Well, I’d better go. There’s a feast, and my
friend Hermione should be awake by now. . . .”
Dobby threw his arms around Harry’s middle and hugged him.
“Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!” he sobbed. “Farewell,
Harry Potter!”
And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared.
Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this.
Everybody was in their pajamas, and the celebration lasted all night. Harry
didn’t know whether the best bit was Hermione running toward him,
screaming “You solved it! You solved it!” or Justin hurrying over from the
Hufflepuff table to wring his hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting
him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing Harry and Ron so hard on
the shoulders that they were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and
Ron’s four hundred points for Gryffindor securing the House Cup for the
second year running, or Professor McGonagall standing up to tell them all
that the exams had been canceled as a school treat (“Oh, no!” said Hermione),
or Dumbledore announcing that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be
unable to return next year, owing to the fact that he needed to go away and get
his memory back. Quite a few of the teachers joined in the cheering that
greeted this news.
“Shame,” said Ron, helping himself to a jam doughnut. “He was starting to
grow on me.”
The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was
back to normal with only a few, small differences. Defense Against the Dark
Arts classes were canceled (“but we’ve had plenty of practice at that anyway,”
Ron told a disgruntled Hermione) and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a
school governor. Draco was no longer strutting around the school as though
he owned the place. On the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the
other hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy again.
Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the Hogwarts Express.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny got a compartment to
themselves. They made the most of the last few hours in which they were
allowed to do magic before the holidays. They played Exploding Snap, set off
the very last of Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks, and practiced
Disarming each other by magic. Harry was getting very good at it.
They were almost at King’s Cross when Harry remembered something.
“Ginny — what did you see Percy doing, that he didn’t want you to tell
anyone?”
“Oh, that,” said Ginny, giggling. “Well — Percy’s got a girlfriend.”
Fred dropped a stack of books on George’s head.
“What?”
“It’s that Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater,” said Ginny. “That’s
who he was writing to all last summer. He’s been meeting her all over the
school in secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty classroom one day.
He was so upset when she was — you know — attacked. You won’t tease
him, will you?” she added anxiously.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Fred, who was looking like his birthday had
come early.
“Definitely not,” said George, sniggering.
The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped.
Harry pulled out his quill and a bit of parchment and turned to Ron and
Hermione.
“This is called a telephone number,” he told Ron, scribbling it twice,
tearing the parchment in two, and handing it to them. “I told your dad how to
use a telephone last summer — he’ll know. Call me at the Dursleys’, okay? I
can’t stand another two months with only Dudley to talk to. . . .”
“Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won’t they?” said Hermione as
they got off the train and joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted
barrier. “When they hear what you did this year?”
“Proud?” said Harry. “Are you crazy? All those times I could’ve died, and I
didn’t manage it? They’ll be furious. . . .”
And together they walked back through the gateway to the Muggle world.
Text copyright © 1998 by J.K. Rowling.
Cover illustration by Olly Moss © 2015 Pottermore Limited
Interior illustrations by Mary GrandPré © 1999 by Warner Bros.
Harry Potter characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Ent.
Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K. Rowling.
This digital edition first published by Pottermore Limited in 2015
Published in print in the U.S.A. by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-78110-647-1
TO JILL PREWETT AND
AINE KIELY,
THE
GODMOTHERS OF SWING
CONTENTS
ONE
Owl Post
TWO
Aunt Marge’s Big Mistake
THREE
The Knight Bus
FOUR
The Leaky Cauldron
FIVE
The Dementor
SIX
Talons and Tea Leaves
SEVEN
The Boggart in the Wardrobe
EIGHT
Flight of the Fat Lady
NINE
Grim Defeat
TEN
The Marauder’s Map
ELEVEN
The Firebolt
TWELVE
The Patronus
THIRTEEN
Gryffindor Versus Ravenclaw
FOURTEEN
Snape’s Grudge
FIFTEEN
The Quidditch Final
SIXTEEN
Professor Trelawney’s Prediction
SEVENTEEN
Cat, Rat, and Dog
EIGHTEEN
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
NINETEEN
The Servant of Lord Voldemort
TWENTY
The Dementor’s Kiss
TWENTY-ONE
Hermione’s Secret
TWENTY-TWO
Owl Post Again
CHAPTER ONE
OWL POST
H
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 effect 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 hornrimmed 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 owlorder; 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.
CHAPTER TWO
AUNT MARGE’S BIG MISTAKE
H
arry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three
Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching
a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley,
who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and
the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the
kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling
as he ate continually.
Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with
very little neck and a lot of mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy
birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harry
enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped himself
to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the television, who
was halfway through a report on an escaped convict:
“. . . The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A
special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported
immediately.”
“No need to tell us he’s no good,” snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the
top of his newspaper at the prisoner. “Look at the state of him, the filthy
layabout! Look at his hair!”
He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been
a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the
television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbowlength tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.
The reporter had reappeared.
“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today —”
“Hang on!” barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. “You
didn’t tell us where that maniac’s escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic
could be coming up the street right now!”
Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered
intently out of the kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply
love to be the one to call the hot line number. She was the nosiest woman in
the world and spent most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding
neighbors.
“When will they learn,” said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his
large purple fist, “that hanging’s the only way to deal with these people?”
“Very true,” said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door’s
runner beans.
Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, “I’d
better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge’s train gets in at ten.”
Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with the Broomstick Servicing
Kit, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.
“Aunt Marge?” he blurted out. “Sh — she’s not coming here, is she?”
Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though she was not a blood
relative of Harry’s (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had
been forced to call her “Aunt” all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in
a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay at
Privet Drive, because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of
her visits stood out horribly vividly in Harry’s mind.
At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked Harry around
the shins with her walking stick to stop him from beating Dudley at musical
statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with a computerized
robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the
year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the
tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a
tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until past midnight. The
memory of this incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes.
“Marge’ll be here for a week,” Uncle Vernon snarled, “and while we’re on
the subject” — he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry — “we need to
get a few things straight before I go and collect her.”
Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harry
being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley’s favorite form of entertainment.
“Firstly,” growled Uncle Vernon, “you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head
when you’re talking to Marge.”
“All right,” said Harry bitterly, “if she does when she’s talking to me.”
“Secondly,” said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry’s
reply, “as Marge doesn’t know anything about your abnormality, I don’t want
any — any funny stuff while she’s here. You behave yourself, got me?”
“I will if she does,” said Harry through gritted teeth.
“And thirdly,” said Uncle Vernon, his mean little eyes now slits in his great
purple face, “we’ve told Marge you attend St. Brutus’s Secure Center for
Incurably Criminal Boys.”
“What?” Harry yelled.
“And you’ll be sticking to that story, boy, or there’ll be trouble,” spat Uncle
Vernon.
Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, hardly
able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a week-long visit — it was the
worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, including that pair of
Uncle Vernon’s old socks.
“Well, Petunia,” said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, “I’ll be off
to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?”
“No,” said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that
Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry.
“Duddy’s got to make himself smart for his auntie,” said Aunt Petunia,
smoothing Dudley’s thick blond hair. “Mummy’s bought him a lovely new
bow tie.”
Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder.
“See you in a bit, then,” he said, and he left the kitchen.
Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified trance, had a sudden idea.
Abandoning his toast, he got quickly to his feet and followed Uncle Vernon to
the front door.
Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat.
“I’m not taking you,” he snarled as he turned to see Harry watching him.
“Like I wanted to come,” said Harry coldly. “I want to ask you something.”
Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.
“Third years at Hog — at my school are allowed to visit the village
sometimes,” said Harry.
“So?” snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the
door.
“I need you to sign the permission form,” said Harry in a rush.
“And why should I do that?” sneered Uncle Vernon.
“Well,” said Harry, choosing his words carefully, “it’ll be hard work,
pretending to Aunt Marge I go to that St. Whatsits —”
“St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!” bellowed Uncle
Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle
Vernon’s voice.
“Exactly,” said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon’s large, purple
face. “It’s a lot to remember. I’ll have to make it sound convincing, won’t I?
What if I accidentally let something slip?”
“You’ll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won’t you?” roared Uncle
Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist raised. But Harry stood his ground.
“Knocking the stuffing out of me won’t make Aunt Marge forget what I
could tell her,” he said grimly.
Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face an ugly puce.
“But if you sign my permission form,” Harry went on quickly, “I swear I’ll
remember where I’m supposed to go to school, and I’ll act like a Mug — like
I’m normal and everything.”
Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his teeth
were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple.
“Right,” he snapped finally. “I shall monitor your behavior carefully during
Marge’s visit. If, at the end of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll
sign your ruddy form.”
He wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and slammed it so hard that
one of the little panes of glass at the top fell out.
Harry didn’t return to the kitchen. He went back upstairs to his bedroom. If
he was going to act like a real Muggle, he’d better start now. Slowly and sadly
he gathered up all his presents and his birthday cards and hid them under the
loose floorboard with his homework. Then he went to Hedwig’s cage. Errol
seemed to have recovered; he and Hedwig were both asleep, heads under their
wings. Harry sighed, then poked them both awake.
“Hedwig,” he said gloomily, “you’re going to have to clear off for a week.
Go with Errol. Ron’ll look after you. I’ll write him a note, explaining. And
don’t look at me like that” — Hedwig’s large amber eyes were reproachful —
“it’s not my fault. It’s the only way I’ll be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with
Ron and Hermione.”
Ten minutes later, Errol and Hedwig (who had a note to Ron bound to her
leg) soared out of the window and out of sight. Harry, now feeling thoroughly
miserable, put the empty cage away inside the wardrobe.
But Harry didn’t have long to brood. In next to no time, Aunt Petunia was
shrieking up the stairs for Harry to come down and get ready to welcome their
guest.
“Do something about your hair!” Aunt Petunia snapped as he reached the
hall.
Harry couldn’t see the point of trying to make his hair lie flat. Aunt Marge
loved criticizing him, so the untidier he looked, the happier she would be.
All too soon, there was a crunch of gravel outside as Uncle Vernon’s car
pulled back into the driveway, then the clunk of the car doors and footsteps on
the garden path.
“Get the door!” Aunt Petunia hissed at Harry.
A feeling of great gloom in his stomach, Harry pulled the door open.
On the threshold stood Aunt Marge. She was very like Uncle Vernon:
Large, beefy, and purple-faced, she even had a mustache, though not as bushy
as his. In one hand she held an enormous suitcase, and tucked under the other
was an old and evil-tempered bulldog.
“Where’s my Dudders?” roared Aunt Marge. “Where’s my neffy-poo?”
Dudley came waddling down the hall, his blond hair plastered flat to his fat
head, a bow tie just visible under his many chins. Aunt Marge thrust the
suitcase into Harry’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, seized Dudley
in a tight one-armed hug, and planted a large kiss on his cheek.
Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley only put up with Aunt Marge’s hugs
because he was well paid for it, and sure enough, when they broke apart,
Dudley had a crisp twenty-pound note clutched in his fat fist.
“Petunia!” shouted Aunt Marge, striding past Harry as though he was a hat
stand. Aunt Marge and Aunt Petunia kissed, or rather, Aunt Marge bumped
her large jaw against Aunt Petunia’s bony cheekbone.
Uncle Vernon now came in, smiling jovially as he shut the door.
“Tea, Marge?” he said. “And what will Ripper take?”
“Ripper can have some tea out of my saucer,” said Aunt Marge as they all
trooped into the kitchen, leaving Harry alone in the hall with the suitcase. But
Harry wasn’t complaining; any excuse not to be with Aunt Marge was fine by
him, so he began to heave the case upstairs into the spare bedroom, taking as
long as he could.
By the time he got back to the kitchen, Aunt Marge had been supplied with
tea and fruitcake, and Ripper was lapping noisily in the corner. Harry saw
Aunt Petunia wince slightly as specks of tea and drool flecked her clean floor.
Aunt Petunia hated animals.
“Who’s looking after the other dogs, Marge?” Uncle Vernon asked.
“Oh, I’ve got Colonel Fubster managing them,” boomed Aunt Marge.
“He’s retired now, good for him to have something to do. But I couldn’t leave
poor old Ripper. He pines if he’s away from me.”
Ripper began to growl again as Harry sat down. This directed Aunt
Marge’s attention to Harry for the first time.
“So!” she barked. “Still here, are you?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“Don’t you say ‘yes’ in that ungrateful tone,” Aunt Marge growled. “It’s
damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn’t have done it myself.
You’d have gone straight to an orphanage if you’d been dumped on my
doorstep.”
Harry was bursting to say that he’d rather live in an orphanage than with
the Dursleys, but the thought of the Hogsmeade form stopped him. He forced
his face into a painful smile.
“Don’t you smirk at me!” boomed Aunt Marge. “I can see you haven’t
improved since I last saw you. I hoped school would knock some manners
into you.” She took a large gulp of tea, wiped her mustache, and said, “Where
is it that you send him, again, Vernon?”
“St. Brutus’s,” said Uncle Vernon promptly. “It’s a first-rate institution for
hopeless cases.”
“I see,” said Aunt Marge. “Do they use the cane at St. Brutus’s, boy?” she
barked across the table.
“Er —”
Uncle Vernon nodded curtly behind Aunt Marge’s back.
“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling he might as well do the thing properly, he
added, “All the time.”
“Excellent,” said Aunt Marge. “I won’t have this namby-pamby, wishywashy nonsense about not hitting people who deserve it. A good thrashing is
what’s needed in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. Have you been beaten
often?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Harry, “loads of times.”
Aunt Marge narrowed her eyes.
“I still don’t like your tone, boy,” she said. “If you can speak of your
beatings in that casual way, they clearly aren’t hitting you hard enough.
Petunia, I’d write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the use of
extreme force in this boy’s case.”
Perhaps Uncle Vernon was worried that Harry might forget their bargain; in
any case, he changed the subject abruptly.
“Heard the news this morning, Marge? What about that escaped prisoner,
eh?”
As Aunt Marge started to make herself at home, Harry caught himself
thinking almost longingly of life at number four without her. Uncle Vernon
and Aunt Petunia usually encouraged Harry to stay out of their way, which
Harry was only too happy to do. Aunt Marge, on the other hand, wanted
Harry under her eye at all times, so that she could boom out suggestions for
his improvement. She delighted in comparing Harry with Dudley, and took
huge pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents while glaring at Harry, as
though daring him to ask why he hadn’t got a present too. She also kept
throwing out dark hints about what made Harry such an unsatisfactory person.
“You mustn’t blame yourself for the way the boy’s turned out, Vernon,” she
said over lunch on the third day. “If there’s something rotten on the inside,
there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
Harry tried to concentrate on his food, but his hands shook and his face was
starting to burn with anger. Remember the form, he told himself. Think about
Hogsmeade. Don’t say anything. Don’t rise —
Aunt Marge reached for her glass of wine.
“It’s one of the basic rules of breeding,” she said. “You see it all the time
with dogs. If there’s something wrong with the bitch, there’ll be something
wrong with the pup —”
At that moment, the wineglass Aunt Marge was holding exploded in her
hand. Shards of glass flew in every direction and Aunt Marge sputtered and
blinked, her great ruddy face dripping.
“Marge!” squealed Aunt Petunia. “Marge, are you all right?”
“Not to worry,” grunted Aunt Marge, mopping her face with her napkin.
“Must have squeezed it too hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster’s the
other day. No need to fuss, Petunia, I have a very firm grip . . .”
But Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both looking at Harry
suspiciously, so he decided he’d better skip dessert and escape from the table
as soon as he could.
Outside in the hall, he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. It had been
a long time since he’d lost control and made something explode. He couldn’t
afford to let it happen again. The Hogsmeade form wasn’t the only thing at
stake — if he carried on like that, he’d be in trouble with the Ministry of
Magic.
Harry was still an underage wizard, and he was forbidden by wizard law to
do magic outside school. His record wasn’t exactly clean either. Only last
summer he’d gotten an official warning that had stated quite clearly that if the
Ministry got wind of any more magic in Privet Drive, Harry would face
expulsion from Hogwarts.
He heard the Dursleys leaving the table and hurried upstairs out of the way.
Harry got through the next three days by forcing himself to think about his
Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare whenever Aunt Marge started on him.
This worked quite well, though it seemed to give him a glazed look, because
Aunt Marge started voicing the opinion that he was mentally subnormal.
At last, at long last, the final evening of Marge’s stay arrived. Aunt Petunia
cooked a fancy dinner and Uncle Vernon uncorked several bottles of wine.
They got all the way through the soup and the salmon without a single
mention of Harry’s faults; during the lemon meringue pie, Uncle Vernon
bored them all with a long talk about Grunnings, his drill-making company;
then Aunt Petunia made coffee and Uncle Vernon brought out a bottle of
brandy.
“Can I tempt you, Marge?”
Aunt Marge had already had quite a lot of wine. Her huge face was very
red.
“Just a small one, then,” she chuckled. “A bit more than that . . . and a bit
more . . . that’s the ticket.”
Dudley was eating his fourth slice of pie. Aunt Petunia was sipping coffee
with her little finger sticking out. Harry really wanted to disappear into his
bedroom, but he met Uncle Vernon’s angry little eyes and knew he would
have to sit it out.
“Aah,” said Aunt Marge, smacking her lips and putting the empty brandy
glass back down. “Excellent nosh, Petunia. It’s normally just a fry-up for me
of an evening, with twelve dogs to look after. . . .” She burped richly and
patted her great tweed stomach. “Pardon me. But I do like to see a healthysized boy,” she went on, winking at Dudley. “You’ll be a proper-sized man,
Dudders, like your father. Yes, I’ll have a spot more brandy, Vernon. . . .
“Now, this one here —”
She jerked her head at Harry, who felt his stomach clench. The Handbook,
he thought quickly.
“This one’s got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I had
Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak.
Underbred.”
Harry was trying to remember page twelve of his book: A Charm to Cure
Reluctant Reversers.
“It all comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will
out. Now, I’m saying nothing against your family, Petunia” — she patted
Aunt Petunia’s bony hand with her shovel-like one — “but your sister was a
bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and
here’s the result right in front of us.”
Harry was staring at his plate, a funny ringing in his ears. Grasp your
broom firmly by the tail, he thought. But he couldn’t remember what came
next. Aunt Marge’s voice seemed to be boring into him like one of Uncle
Vernon’s drills.
“This Potter,” said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and
splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, “you never told me
what he did?”
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudley had
even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents.
“He — didn’t work,” said Uncle Vernon, with half a glance at Harry.
“Unemployed.”
“As I expected!” said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and
wiping her chin on her sleeve. “A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy
scrounger who —”
“He was not,” said Harry suddenly. The table went very quiet. Harry was
shaking all over. He had never felt so angry in his life.
“MORE BRANDY!” yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone very white. He
emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge’s glass. “You, boy,” he snarled at Harry.
“Go to bed, go on —”
“No, Vernon,” hiccuped Aunt Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot
eyes fixed on Harry’s. “Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you?
They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect) —”
“They didn’t die in a car crash!” said Harry, who found himself on his feet.
“They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden
on their decent, hardworking relatives!” screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with
fury. “You are an insolent, ungrateful little —”
But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as
though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible
anger — but the swelling didn’t stop. Her great red face started to expand, her
tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech — next
second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off
the walls — she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting
free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami —
“MARGE!” yelled Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia together as Aunt
Marge’s whole body began to rise off her chair toward the ceiling. She was
entirely round, now, like a vast life buoy with piggy eyes, and her hands and
feet stuck out weirdly as she drifted up into the air, making apoplectic
popping noises. Ripper came skidding into the room, barking madly.
“NOOOOOOO!”
Uncle Vernon seized one of Marge’s feet and tried to pull her down again,
but was almost lifted from the floor himself. A second later, Ripper leapt
forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Vernon’s leg.
Harry tore from the dining room before anyone could stop him, heading for
the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door burst magically open as he
reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the front door. He sprinted
upstairs and threw himself under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard,
and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and birthday presents. He
wriggled out, seized Hedwig’s empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his
trunk, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in
bloody tatters.
“COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK AND PUT HER
RIGHT!”
But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He kicked his trunk open, pulled
out his wand, and pointed it at Uncle Vernon.
“She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast. “She deserved what she
got. You keep away from me.”
He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door.
“I’m going,” Harry said. “I’ve had enough.”
And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, quiet street, heaving his
heavy trunk behind him, Hedwig’s cage under his arm.
CHAPTER THREE
THE KNIGHT BUS
H
arry was several streets away before he collapsed onto a low wall in
Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging his trunk. He
sat quite still, anger still surging through him, listening to the frantic
thumping of his heart.
But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new emotion overtook him:
panic. Whichever way he looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He
was stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with absolutely nowhere
to go. And the worst of it was, he had just done serious magic, which meant
that he was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. He had broken the
Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry so badly, he was surprised
Ministry of Magic representatives weren’t swooping down on him where he
sat.
Harry shivered and looked up and down Magnolia Crescent. What was
going to happen to him? Would he be arrested, or would he simply be
outlawed from the wizarding world? He thought of Ron and Hermione, and
his heart sank even lower. Harry was sure that, criminal or not, Ron and
Hermione would want to help him now, but they were both abroad, and with
Hedwig gone, he had no means of contacting them.
He didn’t have any Muggle money, either. There was a little wizard gold in
the money bag at the bottom of his trunk, but the rest of the fortune his
parents had left him was stored in a vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank in
London. He’d never be able to drag his trunk all the way to London.
Unless . . .
He looked down at his wand, which he was still clutching in his hand. If he
was already expelled (his heart was now thumping painfully fast), a bit more
magic couldn’t hurt. He had the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his
father — what if he bewitched the trunk to make it feather-light, tied it to his
broomstick, covered himself in the cloak, and flew to London? Then he could
get the rest of his money out of his vault and . . . begin his life as an outcast. It
was a horrible prospect, but he couldn’t sit on this wall forever, or he’d find
himself trying to explain to Muggle police why he was out in the dead of
night with a trunkful of spellbooks and a broomstick.
Harry opened his trunk again and pushed the contents aside, looking for the
Invisibility Cloak — but before he had found it, he straightened up suddenly,
looking around him once more.
A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made Harry feel he was
being watched, but the street appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone
from any of the large square houses.
He bent over his trunk again, but almost immediately stood up once more,
his hand clenched on his wand. He had sensed rather than heard it: Someone
or something was standing in the narrow gap between the garage and the
fence behind him. Harry squinted at the black alleyway. If only it would
move, then he’d know whether it was just a stray cat or — something else.
“Lumos,” Harry muttered, and a light appeared at the end of his wand,
almost dazzling him. He held it high over his head, and the pebble-dashed
walls of number two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and
between them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking outline of something
very big, with wide, gleaming eyes.
Harry stepped backward. His legs hit his trunk and he tripped. His wand
flew out of his hand as he flung out an arm to break his fall, and he landed,
hard, in the gutter —
There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his hands to shield his
eyes against a sudden blinding light —
With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in time. A second later, a
gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry
had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw when he raised his head, to
a triple-decker, violently purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold
lettering over the windshield spelled The Knight Bus.
For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been knocked silly by his fall.
Then a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak
loudly to the night.
“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or
wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you
anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your
conductor this eve —”
The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of Harry, who
was still sitting on the ground. Harry snatched up his wand again and
scrambled to his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was only a few
years older than he was, eighteen or nineteen at most, with large, protruding
ears and quite a few pimples.
“What were you doin’ down there?” said Stan, dropping his professional
manner.
“Fell over,” said Harry.
“’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Harry, annoyed. One of the knees in his
jeans was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding.
He suddenly remembered why he had fallen over and turned around quickly
to stare at the alleyway between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s
headlamps were flooding it with light, and it was empty.
“’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan.
“There was a big black thing,” said Harry, pointing uncertainly into the
gap. “Like a dog . . . but massive . . .”
He looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly open. With a feeling
of unease, Harry saw Stan’s eyes move to the scar on Harry’s forehead.
“Woss that on your ’ead?” said Stan abruptly.
“Nothing,” said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over his scar. If the
Ministry of Magic was looking for him, he didn’t want to make it too easy for
them.
“Woss your name?” Stan persisted.
“Neville Longbottom,” said Harry, saying the first name that came into his
head. “So — so this bus,” he went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “did
you say it goes anywhere?”
“Yep,” said Stan proudly, “anywhere you like, long’s it’s on land. Can’t do
nuffink underwater. ’Ere,” he said, looking suspicious again, “you did flag us
down, dincha? Stuck out your wand ’and, dincha?”
“Yes,” said Harry quickly. “Listen, how much would it be to get to
London?”
“Eleven Sickles,” said Stan, “but for firteen you get ’ot chocolate, and for
fifteen you get an ’ot water bottle an’ a toofbrush in the color of your choice.”
Harry rummaged once more in his trunk, extracted his money bag, and
shoved some silver into Stan’s hand. He and Stan then lifted his trunk, with
Hedwig’s cage balanced on top, up the steps of the bus.
There were no seats; instead, half a dozen brass bedsteads stood beside the
curtained windows. Candles were burning in brackets beside each bed,
illuminating the wood-paneled walls. A tiny wizard in a nightcap at the rear of
the bus muttered, “Not now, thanks, I’m pickling some slugs” and rolled over
in his sleep.
“You ’ave this one,” Stan whispered, shoving Harry’s trunk under the bed
right behind the driver, who was sitting in an armchair in front of the steering
wheel. “This is our driver, Ernie Prang. This is Neville Longbottom, Ern.”
Ernie Prang, an elderly wizard wearing very thick glasses, nodded to Harry,
who nervously flattened his bangs again and sat down on his bed.
“Take ’er away, Ern,” said Stan, sitting down in the armchair next to
Ernie’s.
There was another tremendous BANG, and the next moment Harry found
himself flat on his bed, thrown backward by the speed of the Knight Bus.
Pulling himself up, Harry stared out of the dark window and saw that they
were now bowling along a completely different street. Stan was watching
Harry’s stunned face with great enjoyment.
“This is where we was before you flagged us down,” he said. “Where are
we, Ern? Somewhere in Wales?”
“Ar,” said Ernie.
“How come the Muggles don’t hear the bus?” said Harry.
“Them!” said Stan contemptuously. “Don’ listen properly, do they? Don’
look properly either. Never notice nuffink, they don’.”
“Best go wake up Madam Marsh, Stan,” said Ern. “We’ll be in
Abergavenny in a minute.”
Stan passed Harry’s bed and disappeared up a narrow wooden staircase.
Harry was still looking out of the window, feeling increasingly nervous. Ernie
didn’t seem to have mastered the use of a steering wheel. The Knight Bus
kept mounting the pavement, but it didn’t hit anything; lines of lampposts,
mailboxes, and trash cans jumped out of its way as it approached and back
into position once it had passed.
Stan came back downstairs, followed by a faintly green witch wrapped in a
traveling cloak.
“’Ere you go, Madam Marsh,” said Stan happily as Ern stamped on the
brake and the beds slid a foot or so toward the front of the bus. Madam Marsh
clamped a handkerchief to her mouth and tottered down the steps. Stan threw
her bag out after her and rammed the doors shut; there was another loud
BANG, and they were thundering down a narrow country lane, trees leaping
out of the way.
Harry wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had been traveling on a
bus that didn’t keep banging loudly and jumping a hundred miles at a time.
His stomach churned as he fell back to wondering what was going to happen
to him, and whether the Dursleys had managed to get Aunt Marge off the
ceiling yet.
Stan had unfurled a copy of the Daily Prophet and was now reading with
his tongue between his teeth. A large photograph of a sunken-faced man with
long, matted hair blinked slowly at Harry from the front page. He looked
strangely familiar.
“That man!” Harry said, forgetting his troubles for a moment. “He was on
the Muggle news!”
Stan turned to the front page and chuckled.
“Sirius Black,” he said, nodding. “’Course ’e was on the Muggle news,
Neville, where you been?”
He gave a superior sort of chuckle at the blank look on Harry’s face,
removed the front page, and handed it to Harry.
“You oughta read the papers more, Neville.”
Harry held the paper up to the candlelight and read:
BLACK STILL AT LARGE
Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in
Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic
confirmed today.
“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the Minister
of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, “and we beg the magical
community to remain calm.”
Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International
Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of
the crisis.
“Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an irritable Fudge.
“Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or
Muggle. I have the Prime Minister’s assurance that he will not
breathe a word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face it
— who’d believe him if he did?”
While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a
kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical
community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago,
when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.
Harry looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of the
sunken face that seemed alive. Harry had never met a vampire, but he had
seen pictures of them in his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, and Black,
with his waxy white skin, looked just like one.
“Scary-lookin’ fing, inee?” said Stan, who had been watching Harry read.
“He murdered thirteen people,” said Harry, handing the page back to Stan,
“with one curse?”
“Yep,” said Stan, “in front of witnesses an’ all. Broad daylight. Big trouble
it caused, dinnit, Ern?”
“Ar,” said Ern darkly.
Stan swiveled in his armchair, his hands on the back, the better to look at
Harry.
“Black woz a big supporter of You-Know-’Oo,” he said.
“What, Voldemort?” said Harry, without thinking.
Even Stan’s pimples went white; Ern jerked the steering wheel so hard that
a whole farmhouse had to jump aside to avoid the bus.
“You outta your tree?” yelped Stan. “’Choo say ’is name for?”
“Sorry,” said Harry hastily. “Sorry, I — I forgot —”
“Forgot!” said Stan weakly. “Blimey, my ’eart’s goin’ that fast . . .”
“So — so Black was a supporter of You-Know-Who?” Harry prompted
apologetically.
“Yeah,” said Stan, still rubbing his chest. “Yeah, that’s right. Very close to
You-Know-’Oo, they say. Anyway, when little ’Arry Potter got the better of
You-Know-’Oo —”
Harry nervously flattened his bangs down again.
“— all You-Know-’Oo’s supporters was tracked down, wasn’t they, Ern?
Most of ’em knew it was all over, wiv You-Know-’Oo gone, and they came
quiet. But not Sirius Black. I ’eard he thought ’e’d be second-in-command
once You-Know-’Oo ’ad taken over.
“Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street full of Muggles an’
Black took out ’is wand and ’e blasted ’alf the street apart, an’ a wizard got it,
an’ so did a dozen Muggles what got in the way. ’Orrible, eh? An’ you know
what Black did then?” Stan continued in a dramatic whisper.
“What?” said Harry.
“Laughed,” said Stan. “Jus’ stood there an’ laughed. An’ when
reinforcements from the Ministry of Magic got there, ’e went wiv ’em quiet
as anyfink, still laughing ’is ’ead off. ’Cos ’e’s mad, inee, Ern? Inee mad?”
“If he weren’t when he went to Azkaban, he will be now,” said Ern in his
slow voice. “I’d blow meself up before I set foot in that place. Serves him
right, mind you . . . after what he did. . . .”
“They ’ad a job coverin’ it up, din’ they, Ern?” Stan said. “’Ole street blown
up an’ all them Muggles dead. What was it they said ’ad ’appened, Ern?”
“Gas explosion,” grunted Ernie.
“An’ now ’e’s out,” said Stan, examining the newspaper picture of Black’s
gaunt face again. “Never been a breakout from Azkaban before, ’as there,
Ern? Beats me ’ow ’e did it. Frightenin’, eh? Mind, I don’t fancy ’is chances
against them Azkaban guards, eh, Ern?”
Ernie suddenly shivered.
“Talk about summat else, Stan, there’s a good lad. Them Azkaban guards
give me the collywobbles.”
Stan put the paper away reluctantly, and Harry leaned against the window
of the Knight Bus, feeling worse than ever. He couldn’t help imagining what
Stan might be telling his passengers in a few nights’ time.
“’Ear about that ’Arry Potter? Blew up ’is aunt! We ’ad ’im ’ere on the
Knight Bus, di’n’t we, Ern? ’E was tryin’ to run for it. . . .”
He, Harry, had broken Wizard law just like Sirius Black. Was inflating
Aunt Marge bad enough to land him in Azkaban? Harry didn’t know anything
about the wizard prison, though everyone he’d ever heard speak of it did so in
the same fearful tone. Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had spent two
months there only last year. Harry wouldn’t soon forget the look of terror on
Hagrid’s face when he had been told where he was going, and Hagrid was one
of the bravest people Harry knew.
The Knight Bus rolled through the darkness, scattering bushes and
wastebaskets, telephone booths and trees, and Harry lay, restless and
miserable, on his feather bed. After a while, Stan remembered that Harry had
paid for hot chocolate, but poured it all over Harry’s pillow when the bus
moved abruptly from Anglesea to Aberdeen. One by one, wizards and witches
in dressing gowns and slippers descended from the upper floors to leave the
bus. They all looked very pleased to go.
Finally, Harry was the only passenger left.
“Right then, Neville,” said Stan, clapping his hands, “whereabouts in
London?”
“Diagon Alley,” said Harry.
“Righto,” said Stan. “’Old tight, then . . .”
BANG!
They were thundering along Charing Cross Road. Harry sat up and
watched buildings and benches squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s
way. The sky was getting a little lighter. He would lie low for a couple of
hours, go to Gringotts the moment it opened, then set off — where, he didn’t
know.
Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of
a small and shabby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the
magical entrance to Diagon Alley.
“Thanks,” Harry said to Ern.
He jumped down the steps and helped Stan lower his trunk and Hedwig’s
cage onto the pavement.
“Well,” said Harry. “’Bye then!”
But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still standing in the doorway to the bus,
he was goggling at the shadowy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.
“There you are, Harry,” said a voice.
Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his shoulder. At the same time,
Stan shouted, “Blimey! Ern, come ’ere! Come ’ere!”
Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his shoulder and felt a
bucketful of ice cascade into his stomach — he had walked right into
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself.
Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them.
“What didja call Neville, Minister?” he said excitedly.
Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak, looked cold and
exhausted.
“Neville?” he repeated, frowning. “This is Harry Potter.”
“I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern! Ern! Guess ’oo Neville is, Ern!
’E’s ’Arry Potter! I can see ’is scar!”
“Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the Knight Bus picked Harry
up, but he and I need to step inside the Leaky Cauldron now . . .”
Fudge increased the pressure on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry found himself
being steered inside the pub. A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared
through the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord.
“You’ve got him, Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be wanting anything?
Beer? Brandy?”
“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let go of Harry.
There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind them, and Stan and Ern
appeared, carrying Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage and looking around
excitedly.
“’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ’oo you are, eh, Neville?” said Stan, beaming
at Harry, while Ernie’s owlish face peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder.
“And a private parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge pointedly.
“’Bye,” Harry said miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom beckoned Fudge
toward the passage that led from the bar.
“’Bye, Neville!” called Stan.
Fudge marched Harry along the narrow passage after Tom’s lantern, and
then into a small parlor. Tom clicked his fingers, a fire burst into life in the
grate, and he bowed himself out of the room.
“Sit down, Harry,” said Fudge, indicating a chair by the fire.
Harry sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his arms despite the glow of
the fire. Fudge took off his pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched
up the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down opposite Harry.
“I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic.”
Harry already knew this, of course; he had seen Fudge once before, but as
he had been wearing his father’s Invisibility Cloak at the time, Fudge wasn’t
to know that.
Tom the innkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and
bearing a tray of tea and crumpets. He placed the tray on a table between
Fudge and Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind him.
“Well, Harry,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve had us all in a right
flap, I don’t mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and uncle’s
house like that! I’d started to think . . . but you’re safe, and that’s what
matters.”
Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the plate toward Harry.
“Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then . . . You will be pleased
to hear that we have dealt with the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie
Dursley. Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad were
dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss Dursley has been punctured
and her memory has been modified. She has no recollection of the incident at
all. So that’s that, and no harm done.”
Fudge smiled at Harry over the rim of his teacup, rather like an uncle
surveying a favorite nephew. Harry, who couldn’t believe his ears, opened his
mouth to speak, couldn’t think of anything to say, and closed it again.
“Ah, you’re worrying about the reaction of your aunt and uncle?” said
Fudge. “Well, I won’t deny that they are extremely angry, Harry, but they are
prepared to take you back next summer as long as you stay at Hogwarts for
the Christmas and Easter holidays.”
Harry unstuck his throat.
“I always stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays,” he said,
“and I don’t ever want to go back to Privet Drive.”
“Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve calmed down,”
said Fudge in a worried tone. “They are your family, after all, and I’m sure
you are fond of each other — er — very deep down.”
It didn’t occur to Harry to put Fudge right. He was still waiting to hear
what was going to happen to him now.
“So all that remains,” said Fudge, now buttering himself a second crumpet,
“is to decide where you’re going to spend the last three weeks of your
vacation. I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron and —”
“Hang on,” blurted Harry. “What about my punishment?”
Fudge blinked.
“Punishment?”
“I broke the law!” Harry said. “The Decree for the Restriction of Underage
Wizardry!”
“Oh, my dear boy, we’re not going to punish you for a little thing like
that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. “It was an accident! We
don’t send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!”
But this didn’t tally at all with Harry’s past dealings with the Ministry of
Magic.
“Last year, I got an official warning just because a house-elf smashed a
pudding in my uncle’s house!” he told Fudge, frowning. “The Ministry of
Magic said I’d be expelled from Hogwarts if there was any more magic
there!”
Unless Harry’s eyes were deceiving him, Fudge was suddenly looking
awkward.
“Circumstances change, Harry. . . . We have to take into account . . . in the
present climate . . . Surely you don’t want to be expelled?”
“Of course I don’t,” said Harry.
“Well then, what’s all the fuss about?” laughed Fudge. “Now, have a
crumpet, Harry, while I go and see if Tom’s got a room for you.”
Fudge strode out of the parlor and Harry stared after him. There was
something extremely odd going on. Why had Fudge been waiting for him at
the Leaky Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he’d done? And now Harry
came to think of it, surely it wasn’t usual for the Minister of Magic himself to
get involved in matters of underage magic?
Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the innkeeper.
“Room eleven’s free, Harry,” said Fudge. “I think you’ll be very
comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure you’ll understand . . . I don’t want
you wandering off into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And
you’re to be back here before dark each night. Sure you’ll understand. Tom
will be keeping an eye on you for me.”
“Okay,” said Harry slowly, “but why — ?”
“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge with a hearty laugh.
“No, no . . . best we know where you are. . . . I mean . . .”
Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his pinstriped cloak.
“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know. . . .”
“Have you had any luck with Black yet?” Harry asked.
Fudge’s finger slipped on the silver fastenings of his cloak.
“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard — well, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter
of time. The Azkaban guards have never yet failed . . . and they are angrier
than I’ve ever seen them.”
Fudge shuddered slightly.
“So, I’ll say good-bye.”
He held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a sudden idea.
“Er — Minister? Can I ask you something?”
“Certainly,” said Fudge with a smile.
“Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but my aunt
and uncle didn’t sign the permission form. D’you think you could — ?”
Fudge was looking uncomfortable.
“Ah,” he said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as I’m not your parent or
guardian —”
“But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry eagerly. “If you gave me
permission —”
“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,” said Fudge flatly. “Perhaps
you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next year. In fact, I think it’s best if you
don’t . . . yes . . . well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry.”
And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand, Fudge left the room. Tom
now moved forward, beaming at Harry.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Potter,” he said, “I’ve already taken your things
up. . . .”
Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase to a door with a
brass number eleven on it, which Tom unlocked and opened for him.
Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some highly polished oak
furniture, a cheerfully crackling fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe —
“Hedwig!” Harry gasped.
The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry’s arm.
“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom. “Arrived about five
minutes after you did. If there’s anything you need, Mr. Potter, don’t hesitate
to ask.”
He gave another bow and left.
Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly stroking Hedwig. The
sky outside the window was changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold,
steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. Harry could hardly
believe that he’d left Privet Drive only a few hours ago, that he wasn’t
expelled, and that he was now facing three completely Dursley-free weeks.
“It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,” he yawned.
And without even removing his glasses, he slumped back onto his pillows
and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE LEAKY CAULDRON
I
t took Harry several days to get used to his strange new freedom. Never
before had he been able to get up whenever he wanted or eat whatever he
fancied. He could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was in Diagon
Alley, and as this long cobbled street was packed with the most fascinating
Wizarding shops in the world, Harry felt no desire to break his word to Fudge
and stray back into the Muggle world.
Harry ate breakfast each morning in the Leaky Cauldron, where he liked
watching the other guests: funny little witches from the country, up for a day’s
shopping; venerable-looking wizards arguing over the latest article in
Transfiguration Today; wild-looking warlocks; raucous dwarfs; and once,
what looked suspiciously like a hag, who ordered a plate of raw liver from
behind a thick woollen balaclava.
After breakfast Harry would go out into the backyard, take out his wand,
tap the third brick from the left above the trash bin, and stand back as the
archway into Diagon Alley opened in the wall.
Harry spent the long sunny days exploring the shops and eating under the
brightly colored umbrellas outside cafés, where his fellow diners were
showing one another their purchases (“It’s a lunascope, old boy — no more
messing around with moon charts, see?”) or else discussing the case of Sirius
Black (“Personally, I won’t let any of the children out alone until he’s back in
Azkaban”). Harry didn’t have to do his homework under the blankets by
flashlight anymore; now he could sit in the bright sunshine outside Florean
Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, finishing all his essays with occasional help
from Florean Fortescue himself, who, apart from knowing a great deal about
medieval witch burnings, gave Harry free sundaes every half an hour.
Once Harry had refilled his money bag with gold Galleons, silver Sickles,
and bronze Knuts from his vault at Gringotts, he had to exercise a lot of selfcontrol not to spend the whole lot at once. He had to keep reminding himself
that he had five years to go at Hogwarts, and how it would feel to ask the
Dursleys for money for spellbooks, to stop himself from buying a handsome
set of solid gold Gobstones (a Wizarding game rather like marbles, in which
the stones squirt a nasty-smelling liquid into the other player’s face when they
lose a point). He was sorely tempted, too, by the perfect, moving model of the
galaxy in a large glass ball, which would have meant he never had to take
another Astronomy lesson. But the thing that tested Harry’s resolution most
appeared in his favorite shop, Quality Quidditch Supplies, a week after he’d
arrived at the Leaky Cauldron.
Curious to know what the crowd in the shop was staring at, Harry edged his
way inside and squeezed in among the excited witches and wizards until he
glimpsed a newly erected podium, on which was mounted the most
magnificent broom he had ever seen in his life.
“Just come out — prototype —” a square-jawed wizard was telling his
companion.
“It’s the fastest broom in the world, isn’t it, Dad?” squeaked a boy younger
than Harry, who was swinging off his father’s arm.
“Irish International Side’s just put in an order for seven of these beauties!”
the proprietor of the shop told the crowd. “And they’re favorites for the World
Cup!”
A large witch in front of Harry moved, and he was able to read the sign
next to the broom:
THE FIREBOLT
This state-of-the-art racing broom sports a streamlined, superfine handle
of ash, treated with a diamond-hard polish and hand-numbered with its
own registration number. Each individually selected birch twig in the
broomtail has been honed to aerodynamic perfection, giving the Firebolt
unsurpassable balance and pinpoint precision. The Firebolt has an
acceleration of 150 miles an hour in ten seconds and incorporates an
unbreakable Braking Charm. Price on request.
Price on request . . . Harry didn’t like to think how much gold the Firebolt
would cost. He had never wanted anything as much in his whole life — but he
had never lost a Quidditch match on his Nimbus Two Thousand, and what
was the point in emptying his Gringotts vault for the Firebolt, when he had a
very good broom already? Harry didn’t ask for the price, but he returned,
almost every day after that, just to look at the Firebolt.
There were, however, things that Harry needed to buy. He went to the
Apothecary to replenish his store of potions ingredients, and as his school
robes were now several inches too short in the arm and leg, he visited Madam
Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions and bought new ones. Most important of
all, he had to buy his new schoolbooks, which would include those for his two
new subjects, Care of Magical Creatures and Divination.
Harry got a surprise as he looked in at the bookshop window. Instead of the
usual display of gold-embossed spellbooks the size of paving slabs, there was
a large iron cage behind the glass that held about a hundred copies of The
Monster Book of Monsters. Torn pages were flying everywhere as the books
grappled with each other, locked together in furious wrestling matches and
snapping aggressively.
Harry pulled his booklist out of his pocket and consulted it for the first
time. The Monster Book of Monsters was listed as the required book for Care
of Magical Creatures. Now Harry understood why Hagrid had said it would
come in useful. He felt relieved; he had been wondering whether Hagrid
wanted help with some terrifying new pet.
As Harry entered Flourish and Blotts, the manager came hurrying toward
him.
“Hogwarts?” he said abruptly. “Come to get your new books?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “I need —”
“Get out of the way,” said the manager impatiently, brushing Harry aside.
He drew on a pair of very thick gloves, picked up a large, knobbly walking
stick, and proceeded toward the door of the Monster Books’ cage.
“Hang on,” said Harry quickly, “I’ve already got one of those.”
“Have you?” A look of enormous relief spread over the manager’s face.
“Thank heavens for that. I’ve been bitten five times already this morning —”
A loud ripping noise rent the air; two of the Monster Books had seized a
third and were pulling it apart.
“Stop it! Stop it!” cried the manager, poking the walking stick through the
bars and knocking the books apart. “I’m never stocking them again, never!
It’s been bedlam! I thought we’d seen the worst when we bought two hundred
copies of the Invisible Book of Invisibility — cost a fortune, and we never
found them. . . . Well . . . is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes,” said Harry, looking down his booklist, “I need Unfogging the Future
by Cassandra Vablatsky.”
“Ah, starting Divination, are you?” said the manager, stripping off his
gloves and leading Harry into the back of the shop, where there was a corner
devoted to fortune-telling. A small table was stacked with volumes such as
Predicting the Unpredictable: Insulate Yourself Against Shocks and Broken
Balls: When Fortunes Turn Foul.
“Here you are,” said the manager, who had climbed a set of steps to take
down a thick, black-bound book. “Unfogging the Future. Very good guide to
all your basic fortune-telling methods — palmistry, crystal balls, bird entrails
—”
But Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes had fallen on another book, which was
among a display on a small table: Death Omens: What to Do When You Know
the Worst Is Coming.
“Oh, I wouldn’t read that if I were you,” said the manager lightly, looking
to see what Harry was staring at. “You’ll start seeing death omens
everywhere. It’s enough to frighten anyone to death.”
But Harry continued to stare at the front cover of the book; it showed a
black dog large as a bear, with gleaming eyes. It looked oddly familiar. . . .
The manager pressed Unfogging the Future into Harry’s hands.
“Anything else?” he said.
“Yes,” said Harry, tearing his eyes away from the dog’s and dazedly
consulting his booklist. “Er — I need Intermediate Transfiguration and The
Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three.”
Harry emerged from Flourish and Blotts ten minutes later with his new
books under his arms and made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, hardly
noticing where he was going and bumping into several people.
He tramped up the stairs to his room, went inside, and tipped his books
onto his bed. Somebody had been in to tidy; the windows were open and sun
was pouring inside. Harry could hear the buses rolling by in the unseen
Muggle street behind him and the sound of the invisible crowd below in
Diagon Alley. He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the basin.
“It can’t have been a death omen,” he told his reflection defiantly. “I was
panicking when I saw that thing in Magnolia Crescent. . . . It was probably
just a stray dog. . . .”
He raised his hand automatically and tried to make his hair lie flat.
“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” said his mirror in a wheezy
voice.
As the days slipped by, Harry started looking wherever he went for a sign of
Ron or Hermione. Plenty of Hogwarts students were arriving in Diagon Alley
now, with the start of term so near. Harry met Seamus Finnigan and Dean
Thomas, his fellow Gryffindors, in Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they
too were ogling the Firebolt; he also ran into the real Neville Longbottom, a
round-faced, forgetful boy, outside Flourish and Blotts. Harry didn’t stop to
chat; Neville appeared to have mislaid his booklist and was being told off by
his very formidable-looking grandmother. Harry hoped she never found out
that he’d pretended to be Neville while on the run from the Ministry of
Magic.
Harry woke on the last day of the holidays, thinking that he would at least
meet Ron and Hermione tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express. He got up,
dressed, went for a last look at the Firebolt, and was just wondering where
he’d have lunch, when someone yelled his name and he turned.
“Harry! HARRY!”
They were there, both of them, sitting outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice
Cream Parlor — Ron looking incredibly freckly, Hermione very brown, both
waving frantically at him.
“Finally!” said Ron, grinning at Harry as he sat down. “We went to the
Leaky Cauldron, but they said you’d left, and we went to Flourish and Blotts,
and Madam Malkin’s, and —”
“I got all my school stuff last week,” Harry explained. “And how come you
knew I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron?”
“Dad,” said Ron simply.
Mr. Weasley, who worked at the Ministry of Magic, would of course have
heard the whole story of what had happened to Aunt Marge.
“Did you really blow up your aunt, Harry?” said Hermione in a very
serious voice.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Harry, while Ron roared with laughter. “I just —
lost control.”
“It’s not funny, Ron,” said Hermione sharply. “Honestly, I’m amazed Harry
wasn’t expelled.”
“So am I,” admitted Harry. “Forget expelled, I thought I was going to be
arrested.” He looked at Ron. “Your dad doesn’t know why Fudge let me off,
does he?”
“Probably ’cause it’s you, isn’t it?” shrugged Ron, still chuckling. “Famous
Harry Potter and all that. I’d hate to see what the Ministry’d do to me if I blew
up an aunt. Mind you, they’d have to dig me up first, because Mum would’ve
killed me. Anyway, you can ask Dad yourself this evening. We’re staying at
the Leaky Cauldron tonight too! So you can come to King’s Cross with us
tomorrow! Hermione’s there as well!”
Hermione nodded, beaming. “Mum and Dad dropped me off this morning
with all my Hogwarts things.”
“Excellent!” said Harry happily. “So, have you got all your new books and
stuff?”
“Look at this,” said Ron, pulling a long thin box out of a bag and opening
it. “Brand-new wand. Fourteen inches, willow, containing one unicorn tailhair. And we’ve got all our books —” He pointed at a large bag under his
chair. “What about those Monster Books, eh? The assistant nearly cried when
we said we wanted two.”
“What’s all that, Hermione?” Harry asked, pointing at not one but three
bulging bags in the chair next to her.
“Well, I’m taking more new subjects than you, aren’t I?” said Hermione.
“Those are my books for Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination,
Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies —”
“What are you doing Muggle Studies for?” said Ron, rolling his eyes at
Harry. “You’re Muggle-born! Your mum and dad are Muggles! You already
know all about Muggles!”
“But it’ll be fascinating to study them from the Wizarding point of view,”
said Hermione earnestly.
“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?” asked Harry,
while Ron sniggered. Hermione ignored them.
“I’ve still got ten Galleons,” she said, checking her purse. “It’s my birthday
in September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an early
birthday present.”
“How about a nice book?” said Ron innocently.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Hermione composedly. “I really want an owl. I
mean, Harry’s got Hedwig and you’ve got Errol —”
“I haven’t,” said Ron. “Errol’s a family owl. All I’ve got is Scabbers.” He
pulled his pet rat out of his pocket. “And I want to get him checked over,” he
added, placing Scabbers on the table in front of them. “I don’t think Egypt
agreed with him.”
Scabbers was looking thinner than usual, and there was a definite droop to
his whiskers.
“There’s a magical creature shop just over there,” said Harry, who knew
Diagon Alley very well by now. “You could see if they’ve got anything for
Scabbers, and Hermione can get her owl.”
So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street to the Magical
Menagerie.
There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of wall was hidden by cages. It
was smelly and very noisy because the occupants of these cages were all
squeaking, squawking, jabbering, or hissing. The witch behind the counter
was already advising a wizard on the care of double-ended newts, so Harry,
Ron, and Hermione waited, examining the cages.
A pair of enormous purple toads sat gulping wetly and feasting on dead
blowflies. A gigantic tortoise with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near
the window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly up the side of their
glass tank, and a fat white rabbit kept changing into a silk top hat and back
again with a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every color, a noisy
cage of ravens, a basket of funny custard-colored furballs that were humming
loudly, and on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats that were playing
some sort of skipping game using their long, bald tails.
The double-ended newt wizard left, and Ron approached the counter.
“It’s my rat,” he told the witch. “He’s been a bit off-color ever since I
brought him back from Egypt.”
“Bang him on the counter,” said the witch, pulling a pair of heavy black
spectacles out of her pocket.
Ron lifted Scabbers out of his inside pocket and placed him next to the
cage of his fellow rats, who stopped their skipping tricks and scuffled to the
wire for a better look.
Like nearly everything Ron owned, Scabbers the rat was second-hand (he
had once belonged to Ron’s brother Percy) and a bit battered. Next to the
glossy rats in the cage, he looked especially woebegone.
“Hm,” said the witch, picking up Scabbers. “How old is this rat?”
“Dunno,” said Ron. “Quite old. He used to belong to my brother.”
“What powers does he have?” said the witch, examining Scabbers closely.
“Er —” The truth was that Scabbers had never shown the faintest trace of
interesting powers. The witch’s eyes moved from Scabbers’s tattered left ear
to his front paw, which had a toe missing, and tutted loudly.
“He’s been through the mill, this one,” she said.
“He was like that when Percy gave him to me,” said Ron defensively.
“An ordinary common or garden rat like this can’t be expected to live
longer than three years or so,” said the witch. “Now, if you were looking for
something a bit more hard-wearing, you might like one of these —”
She indicated the black rats, who promptly started skipping again. Ron
muttered, “Show-offs.”
“Well, if you don’t want a replacement, you can try this rat tonic,” said the
witch, reaching under the counter and bringing out a small red bottle.
“Okay,” said Ron. “How much — OUCH!”
Ron buckled as something huge and orange came soaring from the top of
the highest cage, landed on his head, and then propelled itself, spitting madly,
at Scabbers.
“NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!” cried the witch, but Scabbers shot from
between her hands like a bar of soap, landed splay-legged on the floor, and
then scampered for the door.
“Scabbers!” Ron shouted, racing out of the shop after him; Harry followed.
It took them nearly ten minutes to catch Scabbers, who had taken refuge
under a wastepaper bin outside Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron stuffed the
trembling rat back into his pocket and straightened up, massaging his head.
“What was that?”
“It was either a very big cat or quite a small tiger,” said Harry.
“Where’s Hermione?”
“Probably getting her owl —”
They made their way back up the crowded street to the Magical Menagerie.
As they reached it, Hermione came out, but she wasn’t carrying an owl. Her
arms were clamped tightly around the enormous ginger cat.
“You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth hanging open.
“He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing.
That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The cat’s ginger fur was thick
and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy
and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall. Now that
Scabbers was out of sight, however, the cat was purring contentedly in
Hermione’s arms.
“Hermione, that thing nearly scalped me!” said Ron.
“He didn’t mean to, did you, Crookshanks?” said Hermione.
“And what about Scabbers?” said Ron, pointing at the lump in his chest
pocket. “He needs rest and relaxation! How’s he going to get it with that thing
around?”
“That reminds me, you forgot your rat tonic,” said Hermione, slapping the
small red bottle into Ron’s hand. “And stop worrying, Crookshanks will be
sleeping in my dormitory and Scabbers in yours, what’s the problem? Poor
Crookshanks, that witch said he’d been in there for ages; no one wanted him.”
“I wonder why,” said Ron sarcastically as they set off toward the Leaky
Cauldron.
They found Mr. Weasley sitting in the bar, reading the Daily Prophet.
“Harry!” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” said Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione joined Mr. Weasley
with all their shopping.
Mr. Weasley put down his paper, and Harry saw the now-familiar picture of
Sirius Black staring up at him.
“They still haven’t caught him, then?” he asked.
“No,” said Mr. Weasley, looking extremely grave. “They’ve pulled us all
off our regular jobs at the Ministry to try and find him, but no luck so far.”
“Would we get a reward if we caught him?” asked Ron. “It’d be good to get
some more money —”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said Mr. Weasley, who on closer inspection
looked very strained. “Black’s not going to be caught by a thirteen-year-old
wizard. It’s the Azkaban guards who’ll get him back, you mark my words.”
At that moment Mrs. Weasley entered the bar, laden with shopping bags
and followed by the twins, Fred and George, who were about to start their
fifth year at Hogwarts; the newly elected Head Boy, Percy; and the Weasleys’
youngest child and only girl, Ginny.
Ginny, who had always been very taken with Harry, seemed even more
heartily embarrassed than usual when she saw him, perhaps because he had
saved her life during their previous year at Hogwarts. She went very red and
muttered “Hello” without looking at him. Percy, however, held out his hand
solemnly as though he and Harry had never met and said, “Harry. How nice to
see you.”
“Hello, Percy,” said Harry, trying not to laugh.
“I hope you’re well?” said Percy pompously, shaking hands. It was rather
like being introduced to the mayor.
“Very well, thanks —”
“Harry!” said Fred, elbowing Percy out of the way and bowing deeply.
“Simply splendid to see you, old boy —”
“Marvelous,” said George, pushing Fred aside and seizing Harry’s hand in
turn. “Absolutely spiffing.”
Percy scowled.
“That’s enough, now,” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Mum!” said Fred as though he’d only just spotted her and seizing her hand
too. “How really corking to see you —”
“I said, that’s enough,” said Mrs. Weasley, depositing her shopping in an
empty chair. “Hello, Harry, dear. I suppose you’ve heard our exciting news?”
She pointed to the brand-new silver badge on Percy’s chest. “Second Head
Boy in the family!” she said, swelling with pride.
“And last,” Fred muttered under his breath.
“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning suddenly. “I notice they
haven’t made you two prefects.”
“What do we want to be prefects for?” said George, looking revolted at the
very idea. “It’d take all the fun out of life.”
Ginny giggled.
“You want to set a better example for your sister!” snapped Mrs. Weasley.
“Ginny’s got other brothers to set her an example, Mother,” said Percy
loftily. “I’m going up to change for dinner. . . .”
He disappeared and George heaved a sigh.
“We tried to shut him in a pyramid,” he told Harry. “But Mum spotted us.”
Dinner that night was a very enjoyable affair. Tom the innkeeper put three
tables together in the parlor, and the seven Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione ate
their way through five delicious courses.
“How’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, Dad?” asked Fred as they
dug into a sumptuous chocolate pudding.
“The Ministry’s providing a couple of cars,” said Mr. Weasley.
Everyone looked up at him.
“Why?” said Percy curiously.
“It’s because of you, Perce,” said George seriously. “And there’ll be little
flags on the hoods, with HB on them —”
“— for Humongous Bighead,” said Fred.
Everyone except Percy and Mrs. Weasley snorted into their pudding.
“Why are the Ministry providing cars, Father?” Percy asked again, in a
dignified voice.
“Well, as we haven’t got one anymore,” said Mr. Weasley, “— and as I
work there, they’re doing me a favor —”
His voice was casual, but Harry couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Weasley’s
ears had gone red, just like Ron’s did when he was under pressure.
“Good thing, too,” said Mrs. Weasley briskly. “Do you realize how much
luggage you’ve all got between you? A nice sight you’d be on the Muggle
Underground. . . . You are all packed, aren’t you?”
“Ron hasn’t put all his new things in his trunk yet,” said Percy, in a longsuffering voice. “He’s dumped them on my bed.”
“You’d better go and pack properly, Ron, because we won’t have much
time in the morning,” Mrs. Weasley called down the table. Ron scowled at
Percy.
After dinner everyone felt very full and sleepy. One by one they made their
way upstairs to their rooms to check their things for the next day. Ron and
Percy were next door to Harry. He had just closed and locked his own trunk
when he heard angry voices through the wall, and went to see what was going
on.
The door of number twelve was ajar and Percy was shouting.
“It was here, on the bedside table, I took it off for polishing —”
“I haven’t touched it, all right?” Ron roared back.
“What’s up?” said Harry.
“My Head Boy badge is gone,” said Percy, rounding on Harry.
“So’s Scabbers’s rat tonic,” said Ron, throwing things out of his trunk to
look. “I think I might’ve left it in the bar —”
“You’re not going anywhere till you’ve found my badge!” yelled Percy.
“I’ll get Scabbers’s stuff, I’m packed,” Harry said to Ron, and he went
downstairs.
Harry was halfway along the passage to the bar, which was now very dark,
when he heard another pair of angry voices coming from the parlor. A second
later, he recognized them as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s. He hesitated, not
wanting them to know he’d heard them arguing, when the sound of his own
name made him stop, then move closer to the parlor door.
“. . . makes no sense not to tell him,” Mr. Weasley was saying heatedly.
“Harry’s got a right to know. I’ve tried to tell Fudge, but he insists on treating
Harry like a child. He’s thirteen years old and —”
“Arthur, the truth would terrify him!” said Mrs. Weasley shrilly. “Do you
really want to send Harry back to school with that hanging over him? For
heaven’s sake, he’s happy not knowing!”
“I don’t want to make him miserable, I want to put him on his guard!”
retorted Mr. Weasley. “You know what Harry and Ron are like, wandering off
by themselves — they’ve even ended up in the Forbidden Forest! But Harry
mustn’t do that this year! When I think what could have happened to him that
night he ran away from home! If the Knight Bus hadn’t picked him up, I’m
prepared to bet he would have been dead before the Ministry found him.”
“But he’s not dead, he’s fine, so what’s the point —”
“Molly, they say Sirius Black’s mad, and maybe he is, but he was clever
enough to escape from Azkaban, and that’s supposed to be impossible. It’s
been a month, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him, and I don’t care what
Fudge keeps telling the Daily Prophet, we’re no nearer catching Black than
inventing self-spelling wands. The only thing we know for sure is what
Black’s after —”
“But Harry will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts.”
“We thought Azkaban was perfectly safe. If Black can break out of
Azkaban, he can break into Hogwarts.”
“But no one’s really sure that Black’s after Harry —”
There was a thud on wood, and Harry was sure Mr. Weasley had banged his
fist on the table.
“Molly, how many times do I have to tell you? They didn’t report it in the
press because Fudge wanted it kept quiet, but Fudge went out to Azkaban the
night Black escaped. The guards told Fudge that Black’s been talking in his
sleep for a while now. Always the same words: ‘He’s at Hogwarts . . . he’s at
Hogwarts.’ Black is deranged, Molly, and he wants Harry dead. If you ask me,
he thinks murdering Harry will bring You-Know-Who back to power. Black
lost everything the night Harry stopped You-Know-Who, and he’s had twelve
years alone in Azkaban to brood on that. . . .”
There was a silence. Harry leaned still closer to the door, desperate to hear
more.
“Well, Arthur, you must do what you think is right. But you’re forgetting
Albus Dumbledore. I don’t think anything could hurt Harry at Hogwarts
while Dumbledore’s headmaster. I suppose he knows about all this?”
“Of course he knows. We had to ask him if he minds the Azkaban guards
stationing themselves around the entrances to the school grounds. He wasn’t
happy about it, but he agreed.”
“Not happy? Why shouldn’t he be happy, if they’re there to catch Black?”
“Dumbledore isn’t fond of the Azkaban guards,” said Mr. Weasley heavily.
“Nor am I, if it comes to that . . . but when you’re dealing with a wizard like
Black, you sometimes have to join forces with those you’d rather avoid.”
“If they save Harry —”
“— then I will never say another word against them,” said Mr. Weasley
wearily. “It’s late, Molly, we’d better go up. . . .”
Harry heard chairs move. As quietly as he could, he hurried down the
passage to the bar and out of sight. The parlor door opened, and a few seconds
later footsteps told him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were climbing the stairs.
The bottle of rat tonic was lying under the table they had sat at earlier.
Harry waited until he heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s bedroom door close, then
headed back upstairs with the bottle.
Fred and George were crouching in the shadows on the landing, heaving
with laughter as they listened to Percy dismantling his and Ron’s room in
search of his badge.
“We’ve got it,” Fred whispered to Harry. “We’ve been improving it.”
The badge now read Bighead Boy.
Harry forced a laugh, went to give Ron the rat tonic, then shut himself in
his room and lay down on his bed.
So Sirius Black was after him. That explained everything. Fudge had been
lenient with him because he was so relieved to find him alive. He’d made
Harry promise to stay in Diagon Alley where there were plenty of wizards to
keep an eye on him. And he was sending two Ministry cars to take them all to
the station tomorrow, so that the Weasleys could look after Harry until he was
on the train.
Harry lay listening to the muffled shouting next door and wondered why he
didn’t feel more scared. Sirius Black had murdered thirteen people with one
curse; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley obviously thought Harry would be panicstricken if he knew the truth. But Harry happened to agree wholeheartedly
with Mrs. Weasley that the safest place on earth was wherever Albus
Dumbledore happened to be. Didn’t people always say that Dumbledore was
the only person Lord Voldemort had ever been afraid of? Surely Black, as
Voldemort’s right-hand man, would be just as frightened of him?
And then there were these Azkaban guards everyone kept talking about.
They seemed to scare most people senseless, and if they were stationed all
around the school, Black’s chances of getting inside seemed very remote.
No, all in all, the thing that bothered Harry most was the fact that his
chances of visiting Hogsmeade now looked like zero. Nobody would want
Harry to leave the safety of the castle until Black was caught; in fact, Harry
suspected his every move would be carefully watched until the danger had
passed.
He scowled at the dark ceiling. Did they think he couldn’t look after
himself? He’d escaped Lord Voldemort three times; he wasn’t completely
useless. . . .
Unbidden, the image of the beast in the shadows of Magnolia Crescent
crossed his mind. What to do when you know the worst is coming. . . .
“I’m not going to be murdered,” Harry said out loud.
“That’s the spirit, dear,” said his mirror sleepily.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DEMENTOR
T
om woke Harry the next morning with his usual toothless grin and a cup
of tea. Harry got dressed and was just persuading a disgruntled Hedwig
to get back into her cage when Ron banged his way into the room, pulling a
sweatshirt over his head and looking irritable.
“The sooner we get on the train, the better,” he said. “At least I can get
away from Percy at Hogwarts. Now he’s accusing me of dripping tea on his
photo of Penelope Clearwater. You know,” Ron grimaced, “his girlfriend.
She’s hidden her face under the frame because her nose has gone all
blotchy. . . .”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry began, but they were interrupted by
Fred and George, who had looked in to congratulate Ron on infuriating Percy
again.
They headed down to breakfast, where Mr. Weasley was reading the front
page of the Daily Prophet with a furrowed brow and Mrs. Weasley was telling
Hermione and Ginny about a love potion she’d made as a young girl. All
three of them were rather giggly.
“What were you saying?” Ron asked Harry as they sat down.
“Later,” Harry muttered as Percy stormed in.
Harry had no chance to speak to Ron or Hermione in the chaos of leaving;
they were too busy heaving all their trunks down the Leaky Cauldron’s
narrow staircase and piling them up near the door, with Hedwig and Hermes,
Percy’s screech owl, perched on top in their cages. A small wickerwork
basket stood beside the heap of trunks, spitting loudly.
“It’s all right, Crookshanks,” Hermione cooed through the wickerwork.
“I’ll let you out on the train.”
“You won’t,” snapped Ron. “What about poor Scabbers, eh?”
He pointed at his chest, where a large lump indicated that Scabbers was
curled up in his pocket.
Mr. Weasley, who had been outside waiting for the Ministry cars, stuck his
head inside.
“They’re here,” he said. “Harry, come on.”
Mr. Weasley marched Harry across the short stretch of pavement toward
the first of two old-fashioned dark green cars, each of which was driven by a
furtive-looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet.
“In you get, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, glancing up and down the crowded
street.
Harry got into the back of the car and was shortly joined by Hermione,
Ron, and, to Ron’s disgust, Percy.
The journey to King’s Cross was very uneventful compared with Harry’s
trip on the Knight Bus. The Ministry of Magic cars seemed almost ordinary,
though Harry noticed that they could slide through gaps that Uncle Vernon’s
new company car certainly couldn’t have managed. They reached King’s
Cross with twenty minutes to spare; the Ministry drivers found them trolleys,
unloaded their trunks, touched their hats in salute to Mr. Weasley, and drove
away, somehow managing to jump to the head of an unmoving line at the
traffic lights.
Mr. Weasley kept close to Harry’s elbow all the way into the station.
“Right then,” he said, glancing around them. “Let’s do this in pairs, as there
are so many of us. I’ll go through first with Harry.”
Mr. Weasley strolled toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten,
pushing Harry’s trolley and apparently very interested in the InterCity 125
that had just arrived at platform nine. With a meaningful look at Harry, he
leaned casually against the barrier. Harry imitated him.
In a moment, they had fallen sideways through the solid metal onto
platform nine and three-quarters and looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, a
scarlet steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform packed with witches and
wizards seeing their children onto the train.
Percy and Ginny suddenly appeared behind Harry. They were panting and
had apparently taken the barrier at a run.
“Ah, there’s Penelope!” said Percy, smoothing his hair and going pink
again. Ginny caught Harry’s eye, and they both turned away to hide their
laughter as Percy strode over to a girl with long, curly hair, walking with his
chest thrown out so that she couldn’t miss his shiny badge.
Once the remaining Weasleys and Hermione had joined them, Harry and
Ron led the way to the end of the train, past packed compartments, to a
carriage that looked quite empty. They loaded the trunks onto it, stowed
Hedwig and Crookshanks in the luggage rack, then went back outside to say
good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.
Mrs. Weasley kissed all her children, then Hermione, and finally, Harry. He
was embarrassed, but really quite pleased, when she gave him an extra hug.
“Do take care, won’t you, Harry?” she said as she straightened up, her eyes
oddly bright. Then she opened her enormous handbag and said, “I’ve made
you all sandwiches. . . . Here you are, Ron . . . no, they’re not corned beef. . . .
Fred? Where’s Fred? Here you are, dear. . . .”
“Harry,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “come over here a moment.”
He jerked his head toward a pillar, and Harry followed him behind it,
leaving the others crowded around Mrs. Weasley.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you before you leave —” said Mr.
Weasley, in a tense voice.
“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry. “I already know.”
“You know? How could you know?”
“I — er — I heard you and Mrs. Weasley talking last night. I couldn’t help
hearing,” Harry added quickly. “Sorry —”
“That’s not the way I’d have chosen for you to find out,” said Mr. Weasley,
looking anxious.
“No — honestly, it’s okay. This way, you haven’t broken your word to
Fudge and I know what’s going on.”
“Harry, you must be very scared —”
“I’m not,” said Harry sincerely. “Really,” he added, because Mr. Weasley
was looking disbelieving. “I’m not trying to be a hero, but seriously, Sirius
Black can’t be worse than Voldemort, can he?”
Mr. Weasley flinched at the sound of the name but overlooked it.
“Harry, I knew you were, well, made of stronger stuff than Fudge seems to
think, and I’m obviously pleased that you’re not scared, but —”
“Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, who was now shepherding the rest onto the
train. “Arthur, what are you doing? It’s about to go!”
“He’s coming, Molly!” said Mr. Weasley, but he turned back to Harry and
kept talking in a lower and more hurried voice. “Listen, I want you to give me
your word —”
“— that I’ll be a good boy and stay in the castle?” said Harry gloomily.
“Not entirely,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked more serious than Harry had
ever seen him. “Harry, swear to me you won’t go looking for Black.”
Harry stared. “What?”
There was a loud whistle. Guards were walking along the train, slamming
all the doors shut.
“Promise me, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, talking more quickly still, “that
whatever happens —”
“Why would I go looking for someone I know wants to kill me?” said
Harry blankly.
“Swear to me that whatever you might hear —”
“Arthur, quickly!” cried Mrs. Weasley.
Steam was billowing from the train; it had started to move. Harry ran to the
compartment door and Ron threw it open and stood back to let him on. They
leaned out of the window and waved at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley until the train
turned a corner and blocked them from view.
“I need to talk to you in private,” Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione as
the train picked up speed.
“Go away, Ginny,” said Ron.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Ginny huffily, and she stalked off.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off down the corridor, looking for an empty
compartment, but all were full except for the one at the very end of the train.
This had only one occupant, a man sitting fast asleep next to the window.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione checked on the threshold. The Hogwarts Express
was usually reserved for students and they had never seen an adult there
before, except for the witch who pushed the food cart.
The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard’s robes that
had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite
young, his light brown hair was flecked with gray.
“Who d’you reckon he is?” Ron hissed as they sat down and slid the door
shut, taking the seats farthest away from the window.
“Professor R. J. Lupin,” whispered Hermione at once.
“How d’you know that?”
“It’s on his case,” she replied, pointing at the luggage rack over the man’s
head, where there was a small, battered case held together with a large
quantity of neatly knotted string. The name Professor R. J. Lupin was
stamped across one corner in peeling letters.
“Wonder what he teaches?” said Ron, frowning at Professor Lupin’s pallid
profile.
“That’s obvious,” whispered Hermione. “There’s only one vacancy, isn’t
there? Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione had already had two Defense Against the Dark
Arts teachers, both of whom had lasted only one year. There were rumors that
the job was jinxed.
“Well, I hope he’s up to it,” said Ron doubtfully. “He looks like one good
hex would finish him off, doesn’t he? Anyway . . .” He turned to Harry.
“What were you going to tell us?”
Harry explained all about Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s argument and the
warning Mr. Weasley had just given him. When he’d finished, Ron looked
thunderstruck, and Hermione had her hands over her mouth. She finally
lowered them to say, “Sirius Black escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry . . .
you’ll have to be really, really careful. Don’t go looking for trouble, Harry
—”
“I don’t go looking for trouble,” said Harry, nettled. “Trouble usually finds
me.”
“How thick would Harry have to be, to go looking for a nutter who wants
to kill him?” said Ron shakily.
They were taking the news worse than Harry had expected. Both Ron and
Hermione seemed to be much more frightened of Black than he was.
“No one knows how he got out of Azkaban,” said Ron uncomfortably. “No
one’s ever done it before. And he was a top-security prisoner too.”
“But they’ll catch him, won’t they?” said Hermione earnestly. “I mean,
they’ve got all the Muggles looking out for him too. . . .”
“What’s that noise?” said Ron suddenly.
A faint, tinny sort of whistle was coming from somewhere. They looked all
around the compartment.
“It’s coming from your trunk, Harry,” said Ron, standing up and reaching
into the luggage rack. A moment later he had pulled the Pocket Sneakoscope
out from between Harry’s robes. It was spinning very fast in the palm of
Ron’s hand and glowing brilliantly.
“Is that a Sneakoscope?” said Hermione interestedly, standing up for a
better look.
“Yeah . . . mind you, it’s a very cheap one,” Ron said. “It went haywire just
as I was tying it to Errol’s leg to send it to Harry.”
“Were you doing anything untrustworthy at the time?” said Hermione
shrewdly.
“No! Well . . . I wasn’t supposed to be using Errol. You know he’s not
really up to long journeys . . . but how else was I supposed to get Harry’s
present to him?”
“Stick it back in the trunk,” Harry advised as the Sneakoscope whistled
piercingly, “or it’ll wake him up.”
He nodded toward Professor Lupin. Ron stuffed the Sneakoscope into a
particularly horrible pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks, which deadened the
sound, then closed the lid of the trunk on it.
“We could get it checked in Hogsmeade,” said Ron, sitting back down.
“They sell that sort of thing in Dervish and Banges, magical instruments and
stuff. Fred and George told me.”
“Do you know much about Hogsmeade?” asked Hermione keenly. “I’ve
read it’s the only entirely non-Muggle settlement in Britain —”
“Yeah, I think it is,” said Ron in an offhand sort of way, “but that’s not why
I want to go. I just want to get inside Honeydukes!”
“What’s that?” said Hermione.
“It’s this sweetshop,” said Ron, a dreamy look coming over his face,
“where they’ve got everything. . . . Pepper Imps — they make you smoke at
the mouth — and great fat Chocoballs full of strawberry mousse and clotted
cream, and really excellent sugar quills, which you can suck in class and just
look like you’re thinking what to write next —”
“But Hogsmeade’s a very interesting place, isn’t it?” Hermione pressed on
eagerly. “In Sites of Historical Sorcery it says the inn was the headquarters for
the 1612 goblin rebellion, and the Shrieking Shack’s supposed to be the most
severely haunted building in Britain —”
“— and massive sherbet balls that make you levitate a few inches off the
ground while you’re sucking them,” said Ron, who was plainly not listening
to a word Hermione was saying.
Hermione looked around at Harry.
“Won’t it be nice to get out of school for a bit and explore Hogsmeade?”
“’Spect it will,” said Harry heavily. “You’ll have to tell me when you’ve
found out.”
“What d’you mean?” said Ron.
“I can’t go. The Dursleys didn’t sign my permission form, and Fudge
wouldn’t either.”
Ron looked horrified.
“You’re not allowed to come? But — no way — McGonagall or someone
will give you permission —”
Harry gave a hollow laugh. Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor
House, was very strict.
“— or we can ask Fred and George, they know every secret passage out of
the castle —”
“Ron!” said Hermione sharply. “I don’t think Harry should be sneaking out
of school with Black on the loose —”
“Yeah, I expect that’s what McGonagall will say when I ask for
permission,” said Harry bitterly.
“But if we’re with him,” said Ron spiritedly to Hermione, “Black wouldn’t
dare —”
“Oh, Ron, don’t talk rubbish,” snapped Hermione. “Black’s already
murdered a whole bunch of people in the middle of a crowded street. Do you
really think he’s going to worry about attacking Harry just because we’re
there?”
She was fumbling with the straps of Crookshanks’s basket as she spoke.
“Don’t let that thing out!” Ron said, but too late; Crookshanks leapt lightly
from the basket, stretched, yawned, and sprang onto Ron’s knees; the lump in
Ron’s pocket trembled and he shoved Crookshanks angrily away.
“Get out of here!”
“Ron, don’t!” said Hermione angrily.
Ron was about to answer back when Professor Lupin stirred. They watched
him apprehensively, but he simply turned his head the other way, mouth
slightly open, and slept on.
The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the scenery outside the
window became wilder and darker while the clouds overhead thickened.
People were chasing backward and forward past the door of their
compartment. Crookshanks had now settled in an empty seat, his squashed
face turned toward Ron, his yellow eyes on Ron’s top pocket.
At one o’clock, the plump witch with the food cart arrived at the
compartment door.
“D’you think we should wake him up?” Ron asked awkwardly, nodding
toward Professor Lupin. “He looks like he could do with some food.”
Hermione approached Professor Lupin cautiously.
“Er — Professor?” she said. “Excuse me — Professor?”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t worry, dear,” said the witch as she handed Harry a large stack of
Cauldron Cakes. “If he’s hungry when he wakes, I’ll be up front with the
driver.”
“I suppose he is asleep?” said Ron quietly as the witch slid the
compartment door closed. “I mean — he hasn’t died, has he?”
“No, no, he’s breathing,” whispered Hermione, taking the Cauldron Cake
Harry passed her.
He might not be very good company, but Professor Lupin’s presence in
their compartment had its uses. Midafternoon, just as it had started to rain,
blurring the rolling hills outside the window, they heard footsteps in the
corridor again, and their three least favorite people appeared at the door:
Draco Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.
Draco Malfoy and Harry had been enemies ever since they had met on their
very first train journey to Hogwarts. Malfoy, who had a pale, pointed,
sneering face, was in Slytherin House; he played Seeker on the Slytherin
Quidditch team, the same position that Harry played on the Gryffindor team.
Crabbe and Goyle seemed to exist to do Malfoy’s bidding. They were both
wide and musclely; Crabbe was taller, with a pudding-bowl haircut and a very
thick neck; Goyle had short, bristly hair and long, gorilla-ish arms.
“Well, look who it is,” said Malfoy in his usual lazy drawl, pulling open the
compartment door. “Potty and the Weasel.”
Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly.
“I heard your father finally got his hands on some gold this summer,
Weasley,” said Malfoy. “Did your mother die of shock?”
Ron stood up so quickly he knocked Crookshanks’s basket to the floor.
Professor Lupin gave a snort.
“Who’s that?” said Malfoy, taking an automatic step backward as he
spotted Lupin.
“New teacher,” said Harry, who got to his feet, too, in case he needed to
hold Ron back. “What were you saying, Malfoy?”
Malfoy’s pale eyes narrowed; he wasn’t fool enough to pick a fight right
under a teacher’s nose.
“C’mon,” he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and Goyle, and they
disappeared.
Harry and Ron sat down again, Ron massaging his knuckles.
“I’m not going to take any crap from Malfoy this year,” he said angrily. “I
mean it. If he makes one more crack about my family, I’m going to get hold
of his head and —”
Ron made a violent gesture in midair.
“Ron,” hissed Hermione, pointing at Professor Lupin, “be careful . . .”
But Professor Lupin was still fast asleep.
The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; the windows were
now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually darkened until lanterns
flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train
rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept.
“We must be nearly there,” said Ron, leaning forward to look past
Professor Lupin at the now completely black window.
The words had hardly left him when the train started to slow down.
“Great,” said Ron, getting up and walking carefully past Professor Lupin to
try and see outside. “I’m starving. I want to get to the feast. . . .”
“We can’t be there yet,” said Hermione, checking her watch.
“So why’re we stopping?”
The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell
away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows.
Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into the corridor. All along
the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments.
The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them
that luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps
went out and they were plunged into total darkness.
“What’s going on?” said Ron’s voice from behind Harry.
“Ouch!” gasped Hermione. “Ron, that was my foot!”
Harry felt his way back to his seat.
“D’you think we’ve broken down?”
“Dunno . . .”
There was a squeaking sound, and Harry saw the dim black outline of Ron,
wiping a patch clean on the window and peering out.
“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said. “I think people are
coming aboard. . . .”
The compartment door suddenly opened and someone fell painfully over
Harry’s legs.
“Sorry — d’you know what’s going on? — Ouch — sorry —”
“Hullo, Neville,” said Harry, feeling around in the dark and pulling Neville
up by his cloak.
“Harry? Is that you? What’s happening?”
“No idea — sit down —”
There was a loud hissing and a yelp of pain; Neville had tried to sit on
Crookshanks.
“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,” came Hermione’s
voice. Harry felt her pass him, heard the door slide open again, and then a
thud and two loud squ