[Part 2] "Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets" by Rowling J.K.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖

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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 toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.

Harry couldn’t see how eight people, six large trunks, two owls, and a rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia.

He had reckoned, of course, without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added.

“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to Harry as he opened the trunk and showed him how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fitted easily.

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by side, and said, “Muggles do know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?”

She and Ginny got into the front seat, which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench.

“I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?”

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, Harry turning back for a last look at the house.

He barely had time to wonder when he’d see it again when they were back — George had forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks.

Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Fred could run in for his broomstick.

They had almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked that she’d left her diary.

By the time she had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high.

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his wife.

“Molly, dear —”

“No, Arthur —”

“No one would see — this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in the air — then we fly above the clouds.

We’d be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser —”

“I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight —”

They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven.

Mr. Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all hurried into the station.

Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year.

The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the Muggle eye.

What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten.

It didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at the clock overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.

Percy strode briskly forward and vanished.

Mr. Weasley went next; Fred and George followed.

“I’ll take Ginny and you two come right after us,” Mrs. Weasley told Harry and Ron, grabbing Ginny’s hand and setting off.

In the blink of an eye they were gone.

“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said to Harry.

Harry made sure that Hedwig’s cage was safely wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his trolley around to face the barrier.

He felt perfectly confident; this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder.

Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed.

A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and — CRASH.

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Ron’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Harry was knocked off his feet, and Hedwig’s cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly; people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled, “What in blazes d’you think you’re doing?”

“Lost control of the trolley,” Harry gasped, clutching his ribs as he got up.

Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.

“Why can’t we get through?” Harry hissed to Ron.

“I dunno —”

Ron looked wildly around.

A dozen curious people were still watching them.

“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered.

“I don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself —”

Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Ten seconds . . . nine seconds . . .

He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all his might.

The metal remained solid.

Three seconds . . . two seconds . . . one second . . .

“It’s gone,” said Ron, sounding stunned.

“The train’s left.

What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to us?

Have you got any Muggle money?”

Harry gave a hollow laugh.

“The Dursleys haven’t given me pocket money for about six years.”

Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.

“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely.

“What’re we going to do?

I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and Dad to get back to us.”

They looked around.

People were still watching them, mainly because of Hedwig’s continuing screeches.

“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said Harry.

“We’re attracting too much atten —”

“Harry!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming.

“The car!”

“What about it?”

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”

“But I thought —”

“We’re stuck, right?

And we’ve got to get to school, haven’t we?

And even underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or something of the Restriction of Thingy —”

“But your mum and dad . . .” said Harry, pushing against the barrier again in the vain hope that it would give way.

“How will they get home?”

“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently.

“They know how to Apparate!

You know, just vanish and reappear at home!

They only bother with Floo powder and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not allowed to Apparate yet. . . .”

Harry’s feeling of panic turned suddenly to excitement.

“Can you fly it?”

“No problem,” said Ron, wheeling his trolley around to face the exit.

“C’mon, let’s go.

If we hurry we’ll be able to follow the Hogwarts Express —”

And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side road where the old Ford Anglia was parked.

Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from his wand.

They heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and got into the front.

“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the ignition with another tap of his wand.

Harry stuck his head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty.

“Okay,” he said.

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard.

The car around them vanished — and so did they.

Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from his right.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, and Ron reappeared.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster.

“It’s faulty —”

Both of them pummeled it.

The car vanished.

Then it flickered back again.

“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

“Now what?” said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides.

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go in,” said Ron.

“Dip back down again — quickly —”

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

“I can see it!” Harry yelled.

“Right ahead — there!”

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.

“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard.

“Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every half hour or so — hold on —”

And they shot up through the clouds.

A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world.

The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said Ron.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn’t stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream.

This, thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s jealous faces when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view.

London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to admit that some of the fun was wearing off.

The toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had nothing to drink.

He and Ron had pulled off their sweaters, but Harry’s T-shirt was sticking to the back of his seat and his glasses kept sliding down to the end of his sweaty nose.

He had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch.

Why hadn’t they been able to get onto platform nine and threequarters?

“Can’t be much further, can it?” croaked Ron, hours later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink.

“Ready for another check on the train?”

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped mountain.

It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds.

Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron.

“It’s never been this far before. . . .”

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker.

Stars were blossoming in the blackness.

Harry pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest.

“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to Harry, “not far now,” and he patted the dashboard nervously.

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.

“There!” Harry shouted, making Ron and Hedwig jump.

“Straight ahead!”

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.

“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on —”

The engine groaned.

Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood.

Harry found himself gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew toward the lake.

The car gave a nasty wobble.

Glancing out of his window, Harry saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below.

Ron’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

The car wobbled again.

“Come on,” Ron muttered.

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead — Ron put his foot down.

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence.

The nose of the car dropped.

They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall.

“Noooooo!” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his back pocket —

“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them —

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed, lunging for the steering wheel, but too late — CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt.

Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Harry’s head where he had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron let out a low, despairing groan.

“Are you okay?” Harry said urgently.

“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice.

“Look at my wand —”

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters.

Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they’d be able to mend it up at the school, but he never even got started.

At that very moment, something hit his side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.

“What’s happen — ?”

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harry looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it.

The tree they had hit was attacking them.

Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.

“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knucklelike twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving —

“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight against his door, but next second he had been knocked backward into Harry’s lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch.

“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the engine had restarted.

“Reverse!” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.

“That,” panted Ron, “was close.

Well done, car —”

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether.

With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Harry felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was sprawled on the damp ground.

Loud thuds told him that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig’s cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look.

Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand.

“Dad’ll kill me!”

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust.

“Can you believe our luck?” said Ron miserably, bending down to pick up Scabbers.

“Of all the trees we could’ve hit, we had to get one that hits back.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly.

“Come on,” said Harry wearily, “we’d better get up to the school. . . .”

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured.

Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron, dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window.

“Hey — Harry — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”

Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered in at the Great Hall.

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle.

Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars.

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first years filing into the Hall.

Ginny was among them, easily visible because of her vivid Weasley hair.

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts Houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin).

Harry well remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in his ear.

For a few horrible seconds he had feared that the hat was going to put him in Slytherin, the House that had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other — but he had ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys.

Last term, Harry and Ron had helped Gryffindor win the House Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in seven years.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on his head.

Harry’s eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight.

Several seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine.

And there at the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.

“Hang on . . .” Harry muttered to Ron.

“There’s an empty chair at the staff table. . . . Where’s Snape?”

Professor Severus Snape was Harry’s least favorite teacher.

Harry also happened to be Snape’s least favorite student.

Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by everybody except the students from his own House (Slytherin), Snape taught Potions.

“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully.

“Maybe he’s left,” said Harry, “because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!”

“Or he might have been sacked!” said Ron enthusiastically.

“I mean, everyone hates him —”

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.”

Harry spun around.

There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape.

He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he was smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were in very deep trouble.

“Follow me,” said Snape.

Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and Ron followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches.

A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons.

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

They entered Snape’s office, shivering.

The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Harry didn’t really want to know the name of at the moment.

The fireplace was dark and empty.

Snape closed the door and turned to look at them.

“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekick Weasley.

Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys?”

“No, sir, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it —”

“Silence!” said Snape coldly.

“What have you done with the car?”

Ron gulped.

This wasn’t the first time Snape had given Harry the impression of being able to read minds.

But a moment later, he understood, as Snape unrolled today’s issue of the Evening Prophet.

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES.

He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower . . . at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing . . . Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police . . . Six or seven Muggles in all.

I believe your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking up at Ron and smiling still more nastily.

“Dear, dear . . . his own son . . .”

Harry felt as though he’d just been walloped in the stomach by one of the mad tree’s larger branches.

If anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car . . . he hadn’t thought of that. . . .

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Snape went on.

“That tree did more damage to us than we —” Ron blurted out.

“Silence!” snapped Snape again.

“Most unfortunately, you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me.

I shall go and fetch the people who do have that happy power.

You will wait here.”

Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced.

Harry didn’t feel hungry anymore.

He now felt extremely sick.

He tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Snape’s desk.

If Snape had gone to fetch Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they were hardly any better off.

She might be fairer than Snape, but she was still extremely strict.

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him.

Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either he had forgotten just how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen her this angry before.

She raised her wand the moment she entered; Harry and Ron both flinched, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted.

“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire.

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

“— so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on the train.”

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl?

I believe you have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.

Harry gaped at her.

Now she said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have done.

“I — I didn’t think —”

“That,” said Professor McGonagall, “is obvious.”

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now looking happier than ever, opened it.

There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

Harry’s whole body went numb.

Dumbledore was looking unusually grave.

He stared down his very crooked nose at them, and Harry suddenly found himself wishing he and Ron were still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow.

There was a long silence.

Then Dumbledore said, “Please explain why you did this.”

It would have been better if he had shouted.

Harry hated the disappointment in his voice.

For some reason, he was unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees.

He told Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station.

He knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions about the car.

When Harry had finished, he merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.

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

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

“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore.

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore.

“But I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done.

I will be writing to both your families tonight.

I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you.”

Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled.

He cleared his throat and said, “Professor Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree — surely acts of this nature —”

“It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys’ punishments, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“They are in her House and are therefore her responsibility.”

He turned to Professor McGonagall.

“I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I’ve got to give out a few notices.

Come, Severus, there’s a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample —”

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as he allowed himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.

“You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve.

“Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted —”

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Your sister is also in Gryffindor.”

“Oh, good,” said Ron.

“And speaking of Gryffindor —” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor shouldn’t really have points taken from it — should it?” he finished, watching her anxiously.

Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but he was sure she had almost smiled.

Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said, and Harry’s heart lightened considerably.

“But you will both get a detention.”

It was better than Harry had expected.

As for Dumbledore’s writing to the Dursleys, that was nothing.

Harry knew perfectly well they’d just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t squashed him flat.

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape’s desk.

A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitory,” she said.

“I must also return to the feast.”

When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a long, low whistle.

“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.

“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too.

“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham.

“Fred and George must’ve flown that car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw them.”

He swallowed and took another huge bite.

“Why couldn’t we get through the barrier?”

Harry shrugged.

“We’ll have to watch our step from now on, though,” he said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice.

“Wish we could’ve gone up to the feast. . . .”

“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely.

“Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by flying car.”

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left the office, treading the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower.

The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over.

They walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said as they approached.

“Er —” said Harry.

They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having met a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them and turned to see Hermione dashing toward them.

“There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors — someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car —”

“Well, we haven’t been expelled,” Harry assured her.

“You’re not telling me you did fly here?” said Hermione, sounding almost as severe as Professor McGonagall.

“Skip the lecture,” said Ron impatiently, “and tell us the new password.”

“It’s ‘wattlebird,’” said Hermione impatiently, “but that’s not the point —”

Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden storm of clapping.

It looked as though the whole of Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to arrive.

Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Harry and Ron inside, leaving Hermione to scramble in after them.

“Brilliant!” yelled Lee Jordan.

“Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years —”

“Good for you,” said a fifth year Harry had never spoken to; someone was patting him on the back as though he’d just won a marathon; Fred and George pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said together, “Why couldn’t we’ve come in the car, eh?”

Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, but Harry could see one person who didn’t look happy at all.

Percy was visible over the heads of some excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get near enough to start telling them off.

Harry nudged Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction.

Ron got the point at once.

“Got to get upstairs — bit tired,” he said, and the two of them started pushing their way toward the door on the other side of the room, which led to a spiral staircase and the dormitories.

“’Night,” Harry called back to Hermione, who was wearing a scowl just like Percy’s.

They managed to get to the other side of the common room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the peace of the staircase.

They hurried up it, right to the top, and at last reached the door of their old dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying SECOND YEARS.

They entered the familiar, circular room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet and its high, narrow windows.

Their trunks had been brought up for them and stood at the ends of their beds.

Ron grinned guiltily at Harry.

“I know I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed that or anything, but —”

The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second year Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom.

“Unbelievable!” beamed Seamus.

“Cool,” said Dean.

“Amazing,” said Neville, awestruck.

Harry couldn’t help it.

He grinned, too.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈. 𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓

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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 roundfaced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Harry had ever met.

“Mail’s due any minute — I think Gran’s sending a few things I forgot.”

Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd.

A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville’s head and, a second later, something large and gray fell into Hermione’s jug, spraying them all with milk and feathers.

“Errol!” said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet.

Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.

“Oh, no —” Ron gasped.

“It’s all right, he’s still alive,” said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger.

“It’s not that — it’s that.”

Ron was pointing at the red envelope.

It looked quite ordinary to Harry, but Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode.

“What’s the matter?” said Harry.

“She’s — she’s sent me a Howler,” said Ron faintly.

“You’d better open it, Ron,” said Neville in a timid whisper.

“It’ll be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and” — he gulped — “it was horrible.”

Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.

“What’s a Howler?” he said.

But Ron’s whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners.

“Open it,” Neville urged.

“It’ll all be over in a few minutes —”

Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol’s beak, and slit it open.

Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears.

A split second later, Harry knew why.

He thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —”

Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls.

People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.

“— LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED —”

Harry had been wondering when his name was going to crop up.

He tried very hard to look as though he couldn’t hear the voice that was making his eardrums throb.

“— ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.”

A ringing silence fell.

The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron’s hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes.

Harry and Ron sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them.

A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of Ron’s head.

“Well, I don’t know what you expected, Ron, but you —”

“Don’t tell me I deserved it,” snapped Ron.

Harry pushed his porridge away.

His insides were burning with guilt.

Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work.

After all Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had done for him over the summer . . .

But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules.

Harry took his and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept.

At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think they had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Professor Sprout’s arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt, Harry spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint.

Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.

“Oh, hello there!” he called, beaming around at the assembled students.

“Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don’t want you running away with the idea that I’m better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels . . .”

“Greenhouse three today, chaps!” said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest.

They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants.

Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door.

Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling.

He was about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart’s hand shot out.

“Harry! I’ve been wanting a word — you don’t mind if he’s a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?”

Judging by Professor Sprout’s scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, “That’s the ticket,” and closed the greenhouse door in her face.

“Harry,” said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head.

“Harry, Harry, Harry.”

Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.

“When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself.”

Harry had no idea what he was talking about.

He was about to say so when Lockhart went on, “Don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you’d done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry.”

It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn’t talking.

“Gave you a taste for publicity, didn’t I?” said Lockhart.

“Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and you couldn’t wait to do it again.”

“Oh, no, Professor, see —”

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping his shoulder.

“I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you’ve had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, you can’t start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you’re older. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking! ‘It’s all right for him, he’s an internationally famous wizard already!’ But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I’d say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven’t they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!”

He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead.

“I know, I know — it’s not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it’s a start, Harry, it’s a start.”

He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off.

Harry stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened the door and slid inside.

Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the center of the greenhouse.

About twenty pairs of different-colored earmuffs were lying on the bench.

When Harry had taken his place between Ron and Hermione, she said, “We’ll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?”

To nobody’s surprise, Hermione’s hand was first into the air.

“Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative,” said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook.

“It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state.”

“Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor,” said Professor Sprout.

“The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?”

Hermione’s hand narrowly missed Harry’s glasses as it shot up again.

“The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it,” she said promptly.

“Precisely. Take another ten points,” said Professor Sprout.

“Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young.”

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look.

A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing there in rows.

They looked quite unremarkable to Harry, who didn’t have the slightest idea what Hermione meant by the “cry” of the Mandrake.

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t pink and fluffy.

“When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered,” said Professor Sprout.

“When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right — earmuffs on.”

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears.

They shut out sound completely.

Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth.

The leaves were growing right out of his head.

He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible.

Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

“As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won’t kill yet,” she said calmly as though she’d just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia.

“However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I’m sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up. “Four to a tray — there is a large supply of pots here — compost in the sacks over there — and be careful of the Venomous Tentacula, it’s teething.”

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but had never spoken to.

“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” he said brightly, shaking Harry by the hand.

“Know who you are, of course, the famous Harry Potter. . . . And you’re Hermione Granger — always top in everything” (Hermione beamed as she had her hand shaken too) “— and Ron Weasley. Wasn’t that your flying car?”

Ron didn’t smile.

The Howler was obviously still on his mind.

“That Lockhart’s something, isn’t he?” said Justin happily as they began filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost.

“Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I’d have died of fear if I’d been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic. “My name was down for Eton, you know. I can’t tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart’s books I think she’s begun to see how useful it’ll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family. . . .”

After that they didn’t have much chance to talk.

Their earmuffs were back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes.

Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn’t.

The Mandrakes didn’t like coming out of the earth, but didn’t seem to want to go back into it either.

They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth.

Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult.

Everything Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer.

He was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand.

Ron was having far worse problems.

He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair.

It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke that smelled of rotten eggs.

Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one.

Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased.

Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell.

His brain felt like a wrung sponge.

Everyone filed out of the classroom except him and Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.

“Stupid — useless — thing —”

“Write home for another one,” Harry suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.

“Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back,” said Ron, stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag.

“‘It’s your own fault your wand got snapped —’”

They went down to lunch, where Ron’s mood was not improved by Hermione’s showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons she had produced in Transfiguration.

“What’ve we got this afternoon?” said Harry, hastily changing the subject.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione at once.

“Why,” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”

Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.

They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard.

Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again.

Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harry became aware that he was being closely watched.

Looking up, he saw the very small, mousy-haired boy he’d seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though transfixed.

He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry looked at him, he went bright red.

“All right, Harry? I’m — I’m Colin Creevey,” he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward.

“I’m in Gryffindor, too. D’you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?” he said, raising the camera hopefully.

“A picture?” Harry repeated blankly.

“So I can prove I’ve met you,” said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward.

“I know all about you. Everyone’s told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you’ve still got a lightning scar on your forehead” (his eyes raked Harry’s hairline) “and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures’ll move.”

Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, “It’s amazing here, isn’t it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad’s a milkman, he couldn’t believe it either. So I’m taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it’d be really good if I had one of you” — he looked imploringly at Harry — “maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?”

“Signed photos? You’re giving out signed photos, Potter?”

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy’s voice echoed around the courtyard.

He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.

“Everyone line up!” Malfoy roared to the crowd.

“Harry Potter’s giving out signed photos!”

“No, I’m not,” said Harry angrily, his fists clenching.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You’re just jealous,” piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe’s neck.

“Jealous?” said Malfoy, who didn’t need to shout anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in.

“Of what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.”

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

“Eat slugs, Malfoy,” said Ron angrily.

Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.

“Be careful, Weasley,” sneered Malfoy.

“You don’t want to start any trouble or your mummy’ll have to come and take you away from school.”

He put on a shrill, piercing voice.

“‘If you put another toe out of line’—”

A knot of Slytherin fifth years nearby laughed loudly at this.

“Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,” smirked Malfoy.

“It’d be worth more than his family’s whole house —”

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, “Look out!”

“What’s all this, what’s all this?” Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him.

“Who’s giving out signed photos?”

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, “Shouldn’t have asked! We meet again, Harry!”

Pinned to Lockhart’s side and burning with humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd.

“Come on then, Mr. Creevey,” said Lockhart, beaming at Colin.

“A double portrait, can’t do better than that, and we’ll both sign it for you.”

Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.

“Off you go, move along there,” Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry, who was wishing he knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to his side.

“A word to the wise, Harry,” said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door.

“I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won’t think you’re setting yourself up so much. . . .”

Deaf to Harry’s stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.

“Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn’t sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you’ll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but” — he gave a little chortle — “I don’t think you’re quite there yet.”

They had reached Lockhart’s classroom and he let Harry go at last.

Harry yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart’s books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking at the real thing.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of Harry.

“You could’ve fried an egg on your face,” said Ron.

“You’d better hope Creevey doesn’t meet Ginny, or they’ll be starting a Harry Potter fan club.”

“Shut up,” snapped Harry.

The last thing he needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase “Harry Potter fan club.”

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell.

He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom’s copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well.

“Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!”

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in —”

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty minutes — start — now!”

Harry looked down at his paper and read: 1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color? 2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition? 3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to: 54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky!”

He gave them another roguish wink.

Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter.

Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when he mentioned her name.

“. . . but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” — he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione raised a trembling hand.

“Excellent!” beamed Lockhart.

“Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business —”

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

“Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm.”

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage.

Lockhart placed a hand on the cover.

Dean and Seamus had stopped laughing now.

Neville was cowering in his front row seat.

“I must ask you not to scream,” said Lockhart in a low voice.

“It might provoke them.”

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

“Yes,” he said dramatically.

“Freshly caught Cornish pixies.”

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself.

He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror.

“Yes?” He smiled at Seamus.

“Well, they’re not — they’re not very — dangerous, are they?” Seamus choked.

“Don’t be so sure!” said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus.

“Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!”

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing.

The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

“Right, then,” Lockhart said loudly.

“Let’s see what you make of them!”

And he opened the cage.

It was pandemonium.

The pixies shot in every direction like rockets.

Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air.

Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass.

The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino.

They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, upended the wastebasket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.

“Come on now — round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies,” Lockhart shouted.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, “Peskipiksi Pesternomi!”

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, too.

Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit.

In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, “Well, I’ll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage.”

He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.

“Can you believe him?” roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.

“He just wants to give us some hands-on experience,” said Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage.

“Hands on?” said Harry, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out.

“Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing —”

“Rubbish,” said Hermione.

“You’ve read his books — look at all those amazing things he’s done —”

“He says he’s done,” Ron muttered.

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐌𝐔𝐃𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐒

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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 disastrous car journey and Ron’s wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms and hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck.

So with one thing and another, Harry was quite glad to reach the weekend.

He, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning.

Harry, however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily.

“Quidditch practice!” said Wood.

“Come on!”

Harry squinted at the window.

There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky.

Now that he was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were making.

“Oliver,” Harry croaked.

“It’s the crack of dawn.”

“Exactly,” said Wood.

He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm.

“It’s part of our new training program.

Come on, grab your broom, and let’s go,” said Wood heartily.

“None of the other teams have started training yet; we’re going to be first off the mark this year —”

Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.

“Good man,” said Wood.

“Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.”

When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he’d gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two Thousand on his shoulder.

He had just reached the portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.

“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry!

Look what I’ve got here!

I’ve had it developed, I wanted to show you —”

Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his nose.

A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harry recognized as his own.

He was pleased to see that his photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view.

As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.

“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly.

“No,” said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that the room was really deserted.

“Sorry, Colin, I’m in a hurry — Quidditch practice —”

He climbed through the portrait hole.

“Oh, wow!

Wait for me!

I’ve never watched a Quidditch game before!”

Colin scrambled through the hole after him.

“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with excitement.

“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you, Harry?

Weren’t you?” said Colin, trotting alongside him.

“You must be brilliant.

I’ve never flown.

Is it easy?

Is that your own broom?

Is that the best one there is?”

Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him.

It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.

“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin breathlessly.

“Is it true there are four balls?

And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?”

“Yes,” said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch.

“They’re called Bludgers.

There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side.

Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.”

“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Harry.

“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is the one that scores goals.

Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch — they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.”

“And the fourth ball —”

“— is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it’s very small, very fast, and difficult to catch.

But that’s what the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn’t end until the Snitch has been caught.

And whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and fifty points.”

“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said Colin in awe.

“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass.

“And there’s the Keeper, too.

He guards the goalposts.

That’s it, really.”

But Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried off to the stands.

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room.

Wood was the only person who looked truly awake.

Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her.

Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.

“There you are, Harry, what kept you?” said Wood briskly.

“Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference. . . .”

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in different-colored inks.

He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars.

As Wood launched into a speech about his new tactics, Fred Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s shoulder and he began to snore.

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third under that one.

Harry sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on.

“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle.

“Is that clear?

Any questions?”

“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had woken with a start.

“Why couldn’t you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?”

Wood wasn’t pleased.

“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all.

“We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year.

We’re easily the best team.

But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond our control —”

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat.

He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself.

Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.

“So this year, we train harder than ever before. . . . Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms.

Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.

They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium.

As Harry walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously.

“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall.

“Wood’s been teaching us new moves.”

He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air.

The cool morning air whipped his face, waking him far more effectively than Wood’s long talk.

It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field.

He soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and George.

“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.

Harry looked into the stands.

Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

“Look this way, Harry!

This way!” he cried shrilly.

“Who’s that?” said Fred.

“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as possible from Colin.

“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them.

“Why’s that first year taking pictures?

I don’t like it.

He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program.”

“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly.

“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said George.

“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily.

“Because they’re here in person,” said George, pointing.

Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.

“I don’t believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage.

“I booked the field for today!

We’ll see about this!”

Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted.

Harry, Fred, and George followed.

“Flint!” Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain.

“This is our practice time!

We got up specially!

You can clear off now!”

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood.

He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, “Plenty of room for all of us, Wood.”

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too.

There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the Gryffindors, leering to a man.

“But I booked the field!” said Wood, positively spitting with rage.

“I booked it!”

“Ah,” said Flint.

“But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape.

‘I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.’”

“You’ve got a new Seeker?” said Wood, distracted.

“Where?”

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face.

It was Draco Malfoy.

“Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?” said Fred, looking at Malfoy with dislike.

“Funny you should mention Draco’s father,” said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly.

“Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the Slytherin team.”

All seven of them held out their broomsticks.

Seven highly polished, 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.

“Good, aren’t they?” said Malfoy smoothly.

“But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too.

You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.”

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,” said Hermione sharply.

“They got in on pure talent.”

The smug look on Malfoy’s face flickered.

“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,” he spat.

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad because there was an instant uproar at his words.

Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia shrieked, “How dare you!”, and Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, “You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!” and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at Malfoy’s face.

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron’s wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass.

“Ron!

Ron!

Are you all right?” squealed Hermione.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.

The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter.

Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support.

Malfoy was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist.

The Gryffindors were gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs.

Nobody seemed to want to touch him.

“We’d better get him to Hagrid’s, it’s nearest,” said Harry to Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ron up by the arms.

“What happened, Harry?

What happened?

Is he ill?

But you can cure him, can’t you?”

Colin had run down from his seat and was now dancing alongside them as they left the field.

Ron gave a huge heave and more slugs dribbled down his front.

“Oooh,” said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera.

“Can you hold him still, Harry?”

“Get out of the way, Colin!” said Harry angrily.

He and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.

“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the gamekeeper’s cabin came into view.

“You’ll be all right in a minute — almost there —”

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who emerged.

Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.

“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush.

Hermione followed, somewhat reluctantly.

“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!” Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid.

“If you need help, you know where I am!

I’ll let you have a copy of my book.

I’m surprised you haven’t already got one — I’ll sign one tonight and send it over.

Well, good-bye!”

And he strode away toward the castle.

Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front door.

They knocked urgently.

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw who it was.

“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me — come in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again —”

Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other.

Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair.

“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of him.

“Get ’em all up, Ron.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin.

“That’s a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand —”

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea.

His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.

“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harry asked, scratching Fang’s ears.

“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,” growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot.

“Like I don’ know.

An’ banging on about some banshee he banished.

If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.”

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise.

Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair.

Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job —”

“He was the on’y man for the job,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin.

“An’ I mean the on’y one.

Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job.

People aren’t too keen ter take it on, see.

They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed.

No one’s lasted long fer a while now.

So tell me,” said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron.

“Who was he tryin’ ter curse?”

“Malfoy called Hermione something — it must’ve been really bad, because everyone went wild.”

“It was bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale and sweaty.

“Malfoy called her ‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid —”

Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance.

Hagrid looked outraged.

“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione.

“He did,” she said.

“But I don’t know what it means.

I could tell it was really rude, of course —”

“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” gasped Ron, coming back up.

“Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you know, non-magic parents.

There are some wizards — like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what people call pure-blood.”

He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand.

He threw it into the basin and continued, “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t make any difference at all.

Look at Neville Longbottom — he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.”

“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’ do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand.

“Dirty blood, see.

Common blood.

It’s ridiculous.

Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway.

If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.”

He retched and ducked out of sight again.

“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,” said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin.

“Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired.

’Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed his son.

Least yer not in trouble.”

Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn’t come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee had cemented his jaws together.

“Harry,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought.

“Gotta bone ter pick with yeh.

I’ve heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos.

How come I haven’t got one?”

Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.

“I have not been giving out signed photos,” he said hotly.

“If Lockhart’s still spreading that around —”

But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.

“I’m on’y jokin’,” he said, patting Harry genially on the back and sending him face first into the table.

“I knew yeh hadn’t really.

I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh.

Yer more famous than him without tryin’.”

“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Harry, sitting up and rubbing his chin.

“Don’ think he did,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling.

“An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’ he decided ter go.

Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added as Ron reappeared.

“No thanks,” said Ron weakly.

“Better not risk it.”

“Come an’ see what I’ve bin growin’,” said Hagrid as Harry and Hermione finished the last of their tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry had ever seen.

Each was the size of a large boulder.

“Gettin’ on well, aren’t they?” said Hagrid happily.

“Fer the Halloween feast . . . should be big enough by then.”

“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harry.

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.

“Well, I’ve bin givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help —”

Harry noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabin.

Harry had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong impression that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it.

Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic.

He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry had never found out why — any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione, halfway between disapproval and amusement.

“Well, you’ve done a good job on them.”

“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid, nodding at Ron.

“Met her jus’ yesterday.”

Hagrid looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching.

“Said she was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin’she might run inter someone else at my house.”

He winked at Harry.

“If yeh ask me, she wouldn’say no ter a signed —”

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry.

Ron snorted with laughter and the ground was sprayed with slugs.

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, he was keen to go back to school to eat.

They said good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter — Weasley.”

Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern.

“You will both do your detentions this evening.”

“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.

“You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall.

“And no magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”

Ron gulped.

Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.

“And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go and do the trophy room, too?” said Harry desperately.

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows.

“Professor Lockhart requested you particularly.

Eight o’clock sharp, both of you.”

Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression.

Harry didn’t enjoy his shepherd’s pie as much as he’d thought.

Both he and Ron felt they’d got the worse deal.

“Filch’ll have me there all night,” said Ron heavily.

“No magic!

There must be about a hundred cups in that room.

I’m no good at Muggle cleaning.”

“I’d swap anytime,” said Harry hollowly.

“I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys.

Answering Lockhart’s fan mail . . . he’ll be a nightmare. . . .”

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart’s office.

He gritted his teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once.

Lockhart beamed down at him.

“Ah, here’s the scalawag!” he said.

“Come in, Harry, come in —”

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart.

He had even signed a few of them.

Another large pile lay on his desk.

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry, as though this was a huge treat.

“This first one’s to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine —”

The minutes snailed by.

Harry let Lockhart’s voice wash over him, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah.”

Now and then he caught a phrase like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that.”

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him.

Harry moved his aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out Veronica Smethley’s address.

It must be nearly time to leave, Harry thought miserably, please let it be nearly time. . . .

And then he heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart’s prattle about his fans.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

“Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . .”

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley’s street.

“What?” he said loudly.

“I know!” said Lockhart.

“Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list!

Broke all records!”

“No,” said Harry frantically.

“That voice!”

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled.

“What voice?”

“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?”

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

“What are you talking about, Harry?

Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy?

Great Scott — look at the time!

We’ve been here nearly four hours!

I’d never have believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer.

He was straining his ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn’t expect a treat like this every time he got detention.

Feeling dazed, Harry left.

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty.

Harry went straight up to the dormitory.

Ron wasn’t back yet.

Harry pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and waited.

Half an hour later, Ron arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into the darkened room.

“My muscles have all seized up,” he groaned, sinking on his bed.

“Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch Cup before he was satisfied.

And then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award for Services to the School.

Took ages to get the slime off. . . . How was it with Lockhart?”

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Harry told Ron exactly what he had heard.

“And Lockhart said he couldn’t hear it?” said Ron.

Harry could see him frowning in the moonlight.

“D’you think he was lying?

But I don’t get it — even someone invisible would’ve had to open the door.”

“I know,” said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and staring at the canopy above him.

“I don’t get it either.”

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘

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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 been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones.

They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles.

As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he came across somebody who looked just as preoccupied as he was.

Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, “. . . don’t fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that . . .”

“Hello, Nick,” said Harry.

“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round.

He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed.

He was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark sky and torrential rain outside.

“You look troubled, young Potter,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

“So do you,” said Harry.

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no importance. . . . It’s not as though I really wanted to join. . . . Thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements’ —”

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.

“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, “that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”

“Oh — yes,” said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree.

“I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule.

However —” Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:

“‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies.

You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback 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 ankles.

He looked down and found himself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes.

It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

“You’d better get out of here, Harry,” said Nick quickly.

“Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five.

He’s been cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place —”

“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough.

Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Harry’s right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rulebreaker.

There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose was unusually purple.

“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch robes.

“Mess and muck everywhere!

I’ve had enough of it, I tell you!

Follow me, Potter!”

So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the floor.

Harry had never been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most students avoided.

The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling.

A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place.

Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever punished.

Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves.

A highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch’s desk.

It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies . . . frog brains . . . rat intestines . . . I’ve had enough of it . . . make an example . . . where’s the form . . . yes . . .”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

“Name . . . Harry Potter. Crime . . .”

“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry.

“It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose.

“Crime . . . befouling the castle . . . suggested sentence . . .”

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry, who waited with bated breath for his sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage.

“I’ll have you this time, I’ll have you!”

And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress.

Harry didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling grateful for his timing.

Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from Harry.

Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harry sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk.

There was only one thing on it apart from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front.

With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch wasn’t on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read:

KWIKSPELL

A Correspondence Course in Beginners’ Magic

Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of parchment inside.

More curly silver writing on the front page said:

Feel out of step in the world of modern magic?

Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells?

Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork?

There is an answer!

Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course.

Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method!

Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes:

“I had no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!”

Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says:

“My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!”

Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope’s contents.

Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course?

Did this mean he wasn’t a proper wizard?

Harry was just reading “Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was coming back.

Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

“That Vanishing Cabinet was extremely valuable!” he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris.

“We’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet —”

His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which, Harry realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch’s pasty face went brick red.

Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of fury.

Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.

“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered.

“No,” Harry lied quickly.

Filch’s knobbly hands were twisting together.

“If I thought you’d read my private — not that it’s mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however —”

Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder.

His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn’t help.

“Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word — not that — however, if you didn’t read — go now, I have to write up Peeves’ report — go —”

Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs.

To escape from Filch’s office without punishment was probably some kind of school record.

“Harry! Harry! Did it work?”

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom.

Behind him, Harry could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been dropped from a great height.

“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,” said Nick eagerly.

“Thought it might distract him —”

“Was that you?” said Harry gratefully.

“Yeah, it worked, I didn’t even get detention. Thanks, Nick!”

They set off up the corridor together.

Nearly Headless Nick, Harry noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s rejection letter.

“I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry walked right through him.

He wished he hadn’t; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

“But there is something you could do for me,” said Nick excitedly.

“Harry — would I be asking too much — but no, you wouldn’t want —”

“What is it?” said Harry.

“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

“Oh,” said Harry, not sure whether he should look sorry or happy about this.

“Right.”

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons.

Friends will be coming from all over the country.

It would be such an honor if you would attend.

Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of course — but I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?”

He watched Harry on tenterhooks.

“No,” said Harry quickly, “I’ll come —”

“My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! And” — he hesitated, looking excited — “do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?”

“Of — of course,” said Harry.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him.

“A deathday party?” said Hermione keenly when Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron in the common room.

“I bet there aren’t many living people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll be fascinating!”

“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?” said Ron, who was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy.

“Sounds dead depressing to me. . . .”

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside all looked bright and cheerful.

The firelight glowed over the countless squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Fred and George Weasley, trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander.

Fred had “rescued” the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room.

The sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from Harry’s mind.

By the time Halloween arrived, Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the deathday party.

The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

“A promise is a promise,” Hermione reminded Harry bossily.

“You said you’d go to the deathday party.”

So at seven o’clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces.

The temperature dropped with every step they took.

As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

“Is that supposed to be music?” Ron whispered.

They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully.

“Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased you could come. . . .”

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight.

The dungeon was full of hundreds of 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 with a thousand more black candles.

Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his feet.

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” said Ron nervously, and they set off around the edge of the dance floor.

They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead.

Harry wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

“Oh, no,” said Hermione, stopping abruptly.

“Turn back, turn back, I don’t want to talk to Moaning Myrtle —”

“Who?” said Harry as they backtracked quickly.

“She haunts one of the toilets in the girls’ bathroom on the first floor,” said Hermione.

“She haunts a toilet?”

“Yes.

It’s been out of order all year because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place.

I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it’s awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you —”

“Look, food!” said Ron.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet.

They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified.

The smell was quite disgusting.

Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON

DIED 31ST OCTOBER, 1492

Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

“Can you taste it if you walk through it?” Harry asked him.

“Almost,” said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

“I expect they’ve let it rot to give it a stronger flavor,” said Hermione knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid haggis.

“Can we move? I feel sick,” said Ron.

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.

“Hello, Peeves,” said Harry cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent.

He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.

“Nibbles?” he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

“No thanks,” said Hermione.

“Heard you talking about poor Myrtle,” said Peeves, his eyes dancing.

“Rude you was about poor Myrtle.”

He took a deep breath and bellowed, “OI! MYRTLE!”

“Oh, no, Peeves, don’t tell her what I said, she’ll be really upset,” Hermione whispered frantically.

“I didn’t mean it, I don’t mind her — er, hello, Myrtle.”

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over.

She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

“What?” she said sulkily.

“How are you, Myrtle?” said Hermione in a falsely bright voice.

“It’s nice to see you out of the toilet.”

Myrtle sniffed.

“Miss Granger was just talking about you —” said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear.

“Just saying — saying — how nice you look tonight,” said Hermione, glaring at Peeves.

Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.

“You’re making fun of me,” she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes.

“No — honestly — didn’t I just say how nice Myrtle’s looking?” said Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.

“Oh, yeah —”

“She did —”

“Don’t lie to me,” Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder.

“D’you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back?

Fat Myrtle!

Ugly Myrtle!

Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!”

“You’ve forgotten pimply,” Peeves hissed in her ear.

Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon.

Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, “Pimply! Pimply!”

“Oh, dear,” said Hermione sadly.

Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.

“Enjoying yourselves?”

“Oh, yes,” they lied.

“Not a bad turnout,” said Nearly Headless Nick proudly.

“The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent. . . . It’s nearly time for my speech, I’d better go and warn the orchestra. . . .”

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment.

They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounded.

“Oh, here we go,” said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman.

The assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too, but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick’s face.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging.

At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn.

The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.

“Nick!” he roared.

“How are you?

Head still hanging in there?”

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.

“Welcome, Patrick,” said Nick stiffly.

“Live ’uns!” said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, and Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the crowd howled with laughter).

“Very amusing,” said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.

“Don’t mind Nick!” shouted Sir Patrick’s head from the floor.

“Still upset we won’t let him join the Hunt!

But I mean to say — look at the fellow —”

“I think,” said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, “Nick’s very — frightening and — er —”

“Ha!” yelled Sir Patrick’s head.

“Bet he asked you to say that!”

“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue spotlight.

“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow . . .”

But nobody heard much more.

Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd was turning to watch.

Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went sailing past him to loud cheers.

Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance floor.

“Let’s go,” Harry agreed.

They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.

“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Ron hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the entrance hall.

And then Harry heard it.

“. . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . .”

It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in Lockhart’s office.

He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

“Harry, what’re you — ?”

“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute —”

“. . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . .”

“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, watching him.

“. . . kill . . . time to kill . . .”

The voice was growing fainter.

Harry was sure it was moving away — moving upward.

A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward?

Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn’t matter?

“This way,” he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall.

It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall.

Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him.

“Harry, what’re we —”

“SHH!”

Harry strained his ears.

Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: “. . . I smell blood. . . . I SMELL BLOOD!”

His stomach lurched —

“It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted, and ignoring Ron’s and Hermione’s bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps —

Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

“Harry, what was that all about?” said Ron, wiping sweat off his face.

“I couldn’t hear anything. . . .”

But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

“Look!”

Something was shining on the wall ahead.

They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness.

Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it.

All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.

Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket.

She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.

For a few seconds, they didn’t move.

Then Ron said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we try and help —” Harry began awkwardly.

“Trust me,” said Ron.

“We don’t want to be found here.”

But it was too late.

A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended.

From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone shouted through the quiet.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

It was Draco Malfoy.

He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.