Book 2 - The Chamber of Secrets.txt

J . K . R O W L ! N G 

HARRY 

POTTER 




/ 




THE WORST BIRTHDAY 

Not 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 11 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. 

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“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 / 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. 



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“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 goal posts, four flying balls, and 
fourteen players on broomsticks). 



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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 horse-faced 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. 

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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). 



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“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 11 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. 

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“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 

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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 

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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.” 



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“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 hell 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 pokeryV ’ 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. 



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While Dudley lolled around watching and eating ice 
cream, Harry cleaned the windows, washed the car, 
mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, 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. 

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“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. 



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DOBBY’S WARNING 

Harry 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 



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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 — ” 



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“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. 



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“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 



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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-Not-Be- 
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 



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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? 
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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 



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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 

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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. 



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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 
Page | 23 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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- 

P a g e | 24 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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 11 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. 



Page | 25 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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? 



Page | 26 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 27 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




3 




THE BURROW 

“Ron\” 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 — ” 

Page | 28 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 



“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 
Page | 29 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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. 

Page | 30 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 31 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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?” 



Page | 32 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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.” 



Page | 33 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“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?” 

Page | 34 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“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. 

Page | 35 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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. 



Page | 36 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“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- 

P a g e | 37 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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 havedied, you could 
have been seen, you could have lost your father his 
job 



Page | 38 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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 Magid 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 

Page | 39 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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 — ” 



Page | 40 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“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 Fred. 

“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. 

Page | 41 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




“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 



Page | 42 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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!” 

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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?” 

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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 nighti” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got 
to say about that, eh?” 



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“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.” 

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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. 



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AT FLOURISH AND BLOTTS 

Life 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, 
scruff yV’ 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. 

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“ 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 

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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.” 

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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?” 



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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 wizard’s 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. ...” 

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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 — ” 



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“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 — ” 

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“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. 

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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.” 



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“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. 



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“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, Muggle-loving 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.” 



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“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 



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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. Ill 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 shab by-looking wizards were watching 
him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each 
other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his 
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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. 

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“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. 

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“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. 

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“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 Mugglesl” 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 minature train tracks 
through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry 
enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ 

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vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in 
Knock- turn 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. 

“Well 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, 



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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 

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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. “Well 
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. 

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“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 — ” 



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“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. 

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“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 
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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 from 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. 



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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. 



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5 




THE WHOMPING WILLOW 

The 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 
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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 — ” 



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“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 

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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. 



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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?” 



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“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. 



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“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 — ” 

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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 
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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 three-quarters? 

“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!” 

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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. 

“IVoooooo!” 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. 

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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 

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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 knuckle-like 
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. 



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“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, 

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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. 



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“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. 



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“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. 



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“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. 

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Harry gaped at her. Now she’d 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. 

“Well go and get our stuff,” said Ron in a hopeless 
sort of voice. 

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked 
Professor McGonagall. 

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“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 — ” 



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“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. 

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“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 — ” 

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“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. 

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“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. 

“Unbelievablel” beamed Seamus. 

“Cool,” said Dean. 

“Amazing,” said Neville, awestruck. 

Harry couldn’t help it. He grinned, too. 



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6 




GILDEROY LOCKHART 

The 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 
round-faced 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 

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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. 



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“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.” 



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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 
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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?” 



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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 
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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 ear-muffs 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. 

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“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, 



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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?” 



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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. 

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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 
T ransfiguration . 

“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?” 



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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 



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— “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 mommy’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 



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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 well 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. 



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“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 



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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? 



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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.” 

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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. 



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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, up-ended the waste basket, 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 Pesternomti” 

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 

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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. 



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7 




MUDBLOODS AND MURMURS 

Harry 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 
disasterous 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. 

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“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 — ” 



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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?” 

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“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 goal posts 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 dew-drenched grass. “And there’s the 
Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. 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. 

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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. 

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“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. 

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“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!” 



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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 Tve got a specially signed note 
here from Professor Snape. % Professor S. Snape, give 
the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the 
Quidditch field owinq 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. 



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“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, brand-new 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. 



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“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 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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?” 



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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. 



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“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. 

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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.” 



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“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. ... 



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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 

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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.” 



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d 




THE DEATHDAY PARTY 

October 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 
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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, 

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“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 Head- 
Juggling 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 

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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 rule- 
breaker. 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 
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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!” 

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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: 

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“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. 



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“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. 

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“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. 



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“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 
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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 pearly-white, 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 
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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, 

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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 3 1 ST OCTOBER, 1 492 

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. 



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“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, “OY! 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. 



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“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\ Pimplyl” 

“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 

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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 

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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 were 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. 



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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 — 



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“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. 

“Loo/c!” 

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. 



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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. 



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9 




THE WRITING ON THE WALL 

“What’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. 



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“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 Trans-mogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many 



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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 
Ouagadougou,” 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?” 



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“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?” 



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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.” 

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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 punishmenti” 

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore 
patiently. “Professer 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?” 



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“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.” 



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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 All-Purpose 
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 



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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 

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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 

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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?” 



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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 
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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. 



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“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 



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will return, if you please, to history, to solid, 
believable, verifiable facti” 



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. 

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“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. 

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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. ...” 

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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; 
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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!” 

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“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 — ” 



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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 
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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, MudbloodsV — 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. 



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“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 

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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. ...” 



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10 




THE ROGUE BLUDGER 

Since 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 
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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 GhoulsV’ said Lockhart, taking the 
note from Hermione and smiling widely at her. 
“Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?” 



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“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 — ” 

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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 
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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 — thatll 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. ...” 



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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. / 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 
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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 field, 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 
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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 field. 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. ... 

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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 



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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!” 



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“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 goal posts, 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 

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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 

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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.” 

“iVo!” 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 



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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, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to 
move his fingers. Nothing happened. 

Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had 
removed them. 



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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. 



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“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, 



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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 

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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.” 



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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 house-elves 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-Be- 
Named. 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 — ” 



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Dobby froze, horrors truck, 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 — ” 



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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. 

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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?” 

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“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. 



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THE DUELING CLUB 

Harry 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. 



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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 



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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 

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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.” 



k k k 



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; 



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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 matter-of-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. 



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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. 



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“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. 

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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. 



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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.” 



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“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: 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ 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. 



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“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, “Rictusempral” 

A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he 
doubled up, wheezing. 



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“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, “Tarantallegral” 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 



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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?” 



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But Lockhart wasn’t listening. 

“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted. 

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, 

“ Serpensortial” 

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. 

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“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. 



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“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.” 

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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.” 



•k k k 



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 

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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 

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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 Muggle-born. 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?” 



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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.” 



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“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 
spellbook. 

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 

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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 Blood-Suckin’ 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 

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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. 



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“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, 



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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. 

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He knew now where he was being taken. This must be 
where Dumbledore lived. 



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THE POLY JUICE POTION 

They 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 



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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 



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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 

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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 



“Hagridl” 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.” 



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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. 



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“At this rate, well 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. 

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“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 



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hour, adding more lace-wings to the potion. It’s 
ready.” 

Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Positive,” said Hermione, shirting 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. 



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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 frost-covered 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 “Pin-head,” 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 
Page | 237 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - J.K. Rowling 




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, 

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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. 

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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. 

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“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 

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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. 



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“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. 

“Well 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. ...” 



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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. 



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“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 

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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 — ” 



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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. 



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“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?” 



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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?” 

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“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 

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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?” 

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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\” 



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* V 




THE VERY SECRET DIARY 

Hermione 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 

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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 
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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 

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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 

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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 cra2y?” 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.” 

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“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. 



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“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, 
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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 half-forgotten. But 
this was absurd. He’d never had friends before 
Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that. 



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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, 

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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, heart-shaped confetti was falling 
from the pale blue ceiling. Harry went over to the 

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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 forty-six 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. 

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“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. 

“Oy, 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 stilll” 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. 



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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 — ” 



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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, 

“ ExpelliarmusV’ 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. 



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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. 



Jc Jc Jc 



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. 



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“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 
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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 
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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 

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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?” 



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“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. 

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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-year-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, 



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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. 

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“ ’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 — 



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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.” 



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CORNELIUS FUDGE 

Harry, 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. 

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“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?” 



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“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. 



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“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 the 
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.” 

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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. 

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“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 half-empty, 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 
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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 

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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 goal posts; 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: 

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“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 — 

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“HermioneY’ 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. 



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“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 — ” 



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“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?” 



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“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 

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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 



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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. 



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“ 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 

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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. 

“iVo!” 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’.” 

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Fudge stared at him in amazement. 



“All right, I’m cornin’,” 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. 



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ARAGOG 

Summer 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 

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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 Hog warts 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. ...” 

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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 



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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 

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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. 

“Well 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. 



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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. 



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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, 

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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. ...” 

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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. 



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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. 

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“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. 

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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. 



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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. 

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“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 

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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. ...” 



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“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. 

“Well 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.” 

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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 

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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.” 

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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 fourposter, 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. 



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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 ?” 



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THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS 

All 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?” 



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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. 



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“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. 

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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 



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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. 

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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 



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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. 



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“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. 



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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 
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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 crowing of the rooster ... is fatal to if!” 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 it\ 

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. 

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“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?” 



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“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. 

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“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?” 



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Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues. 



“I — I really never — you may have misunderstood — ” 

“Well leave it to you, then, Gilderoy,” said Professor 
McGonagall. “Tonight will be an excellent time to do 
it. Well make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll 
be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. 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. 

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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 

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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 



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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 
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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.” 



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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 
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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. 



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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. 



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“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. 

“Lumosl” 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. 



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“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. 



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“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 good-bye to your memories!” 

He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head 
and yelled, “Obliviatel” 

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 
rock-fall. “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. ...” 



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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. 



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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. 



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THE HEIR OF SLYTHERIN 

He 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. 

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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. 

“Ginnyl” 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.” 



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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. 



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“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 



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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 eleven-year-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 ...” 



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“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, “7 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. ...” 



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“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 / 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. ...” 

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“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 



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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 



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“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. 



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“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, spine-tingling, 
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 — ” 

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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 
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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. There are strange likenesses between us, after 
all. 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. 



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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. 

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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. 

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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 

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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 

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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 

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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 — ” 



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“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. 



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“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. 

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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. 

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“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. 



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DOBBY’S REWARD 

For 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?” 

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“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. 

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“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?” 



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“His d-diary!” Ginny sobbed. “I’ve b-been writing in it, 
and he’s been w- writing back all year — ” 

“Ginnyl” 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?” 

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“Right,” said Professor McGonagall crisply, also 
moving to the door. “Ill 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. 



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“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. 



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“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 / 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.” 



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“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 hand-picked 
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 



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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. “Well 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.” 



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“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 

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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. 



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“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 

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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.” 



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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 He-Who- 
Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well — ” 



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“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.” 

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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 

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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. 



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