CHAPTER 10: THE ROGUE BLUDGER

CHAPTER TEN

THE ROGUE BLUDGER

Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not
brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his
books to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic
bits. He usually picked Harry to help him with these reconstructions;
so far, Harry had been forced to play a simple Transylvanian villager
whom Lockhart had cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head
cold, and a vampire who had been unable to eat anything except
lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him.
Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their very next
Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf If
he hadn't had a very good reason for keeping Lockhart in a good
mood, he would have refused to do it.
"Nice loud howl, Harry - exactly - and then, if you'll believe it, I
pounced - like this - slammed him to the floor - thus with one hand, I
managed to hold him down - with my other, I
put my wand to his throat -I then screwed up my remaining strength
and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm - he let
out a piteous moan - go on, Harry - higher than that - good - the fur
vanished - the fangs shrank - and he turned back into a man. Simple,
yet effective - and another village will remember me forever as the
hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf
attacks."
The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.
"Homework - compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga
Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to the author of the
best one!"
The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back of the room,
where Ron and Hermione were waiting.
"Ready?" Harry muttered.
"Wait till everyone's gone," said Hermione nervously. "All right . . . "
She approached Lockhart's desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in
her hand, Harry and Ron right behind her.
"Er - Professor Lockhart?" Hermione stammered. "I wanted to - to
get this book out of the library. Just for background reading." She
held out the piece of paper, her hand shaking slightly. "But the thing
is, it's in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to
sign for it - I'm sure it would help me understand what you say in
Gadding with Ghouls about slow-acting venoms
"Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!" said Lockhart, taking the note from
Hermione and smiling widely at her. "Possibly my very favorite
book. You enjoyed it?"
"Oh, yes," said Hermione eagerly. "So clever, the way you trapped that
last one with the tea-strainer -"
"Well, I'm sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year
a little extra help," said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an
enormous peacock quill. "Yes, nice, isn't it?" he said, misreading the
revolted look on Ron's face. "I usually save it for book-signings."
He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it
back to Hermione.
"So, Harry," said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the note with
fumbling fingers and slipped it into her bag. "Tomorrow's the first
Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin,
is it not? I hear you're a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was
asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life
to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need
for a little private training, don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass
on my expertise to less able players ......
Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then hurried off after
Ron and Hermione.
"I don't believe it," he said as the three of them examined the signature
on the note. "He didn't even look at the book we wanted."
"That's because he's a brainless git," said Ron. "But who cares, we've
got what we needed -"
"He is not a brainless git," said Hermione shrilly as they half ran
toward the library.
"Just because he said you were the best student of the year -"
They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the
library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who
looked like an underfed vulture.
"Moste Potente Potions?" she repeated suspiciously, trying to take the
note from Hermione; but Hermione wouldn't let go.
"I was wondering if I could keep it," she said breathlessly.
"Oh, come on," said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp and thrusting it
at Madam Pince. "We'll get you another autograph. Lockhart'll sign
anything if it stands still long enough."
Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to
detect a forgery, but it passed the test. She stalked away between the
lofty shelves and returned several minutes later carrying a large and
moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into her bag and they
left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty.
Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle's out-oforder
bathroom once again. Hermione had overridden Ron's objections
by pointing out that it was the last place anyone in their right minds
would go, so they were guaranteed some privacy. Moaning Myrtle
was crying noisily in her stall, but they were ignoring her, and she
them.
Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and the three of
them bent over the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a glance
why it belonged in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had
effects almost too gruesome to think about, and there were some very
unpleasant illustrations, which included a man who seemed to have
been turned inside out and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of
arms out of her head.
"Here it is," said Hermione excitedly as she found the page headed The
Polyjuice Potion. It was decorated with drawings of people halfway
through transforming into other people. Harry sin
cerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense pain on their
faces.
"This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen," said Hermione as
they scanned the recipe. "Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and
knotgrass," she murmured, running her finger down the list of
ingredients. "Well, they're easy enough, they're in the student storecupboard,
we can help ourselves .... Oooh, look, powdered horn of a
bicorn - don't know where we're going to get that - shredded skin of a
boomslang -. that'll be tricky, too and of course a bit of whoever we
want to change into."
"Excuse me?" said Ron sharply. "What d'you mean, a bit of whoever
we're changing into? I'm drinking nothing with Crabbe's toenails in it -"
Hermione continued as though she hadn't heard him.
"We don't have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those
bits last ......
Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another worry.
"D'you realize how much we're going to have to steal, Hermione?
Shredded skin of a boomslang, that's definitely not in the students'
cupboard. What're we going to do, break into Snape's private stores? I
don't know if this is a good idea ......
Hermione shut the book with a snap.
"Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine," she said. There were
bright pink patches on her cheeks and her eyes were brighter than
usual. "I don't want to break rules, you know. I think threatening
Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if
you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go straight to Madam Pince
now and hand the book back in ='
"I never thought Id see the day when you'd be persuading us to
break rules," said Ron. "All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?"
"How long will it take to make, anyway?" said Harry as Hermione,
looking happier, opened the book again.
"Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and
the lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty-one days ... I'd say
it'd be ready in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients."
"A month?" said Ron. "Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggleborns
in the school by then!" But Hermione's eyes narrowed
dangerously again, and he added swiftly, "But it's the best plan we've
got, so full steam ahead, I say."
However, while Hermione was checking that the coast was clear for
them to leave the bathroom, Ron muttered to Harry, "It'll be a lot less
hassle if you can just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.
Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking
about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the
thought of what Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the
idea of facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms gold
could buy. He had never wanted to beat Slytherin so badly. After
half an hour of lying there with his insides churning, he got up,
dressed, and went down to breakfast early, where he found the rest
of the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking
uptight and not speaking much.
As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to make its
way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day
with a hint of thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying
over to wish Harry good luck as he entered the locker rooms. The
team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor robes, then sat down to listen to
Wood's usual pre-match pep talk.
"Slytherin has better brooms than us," he began. "No point denying it.
But we've got better people on our brooms. We've trained harder than
they have, we've been flying in all weathers -" ("Too true," muttered
George Weasley. "I haven't been properly dry since August") "- and
we're going to make them rue the day they let that little bit of slime,
Malfoy, buy his way onto their team."
Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry.
"It'll be down to you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have
something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or
die trying, Harry, because we've got to win today, we've got to."
"So no pressure, Harry" said Fred, winking at him.
As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly
cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see
Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and
hisses heard, too. Madam Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Flint
and Wood to shake hands, which they did, giving each other
threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was necessary.
"On my whistle," said Madam Hooch. "Three ... two ... one. . .
With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen
players rose toward the leaden sky. Harry flew higher than any of
them, squinting around for the Snitch.
"All right there, Scarhead?" yelled Malfoy, shooting underneath him as
though to show off the speed of his broom.
Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, a heavy black
Bludger came pelting toward him; he avoided it so narrowly that he
felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.
"Close one, Harry!" said George, streaking past him with his club in his
hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw
George give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian
Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight
for Harry again.
Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard
toward Malfoy. Once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang
and shot at Harry's head.
Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the
pitch. He could hear the Bludger whistling along behind him. What
was going on? Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it
was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible ....
Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other end. Harry
ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with all his might; the Bludger
was knocked off course.
"Gotcha!" Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as though it was
magnetically attracted to Harry, the Bludger pelted after him once
more and Harry was forced to fly off at full speed.
It had started to rain; Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face,
splattering onto his glasses. He didn't have a clue what was going on
in the rest of the game until he heard Lee Jordan, who was
commentating, say, "Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero ='
The Slytherins' superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and
meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing all it could to knock Harry
out of the air. Fred and George were now flying so close to him on
either side that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing arms
and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let alone catch it.
"Someone's - tampered - with - this - Bludger -" Fred grunted,
swinging his bat with all his might at it as it launched a new attack on
Harry.
"We need time out," said George, trying to signal to Wood and stop
the Bludger breaking Harry's nose at the same time.
Wood had obviously got the message. Madam Hooch's whistle rang
out and Harry, Fred, and George dived for the ground, still trying to
avoid the mad Bludger.
"What's going on?" said Wood as the Gryffindor team huddled
together, while Slytherins in the crowd jeered. "We're being
flattened. Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger stopped
Angelina scoring?"
"We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from
murdering Harry, Oliver," said George angrily. "Someone's fixed it -
it won't leave Harry alone. It hasn't gone for anyone else all game.
The Slytherins must have done something to it."
"But the Bludgers have been locked in Madam Hooch's office since
our last practice, and there was nothing wrong with them then . . . . "
said Wood, anxiously.
Madam Hooch was walking toward them. Over her shoulder, Harry
could see the Slytherin team jeering and pointing in his direction.
"Listen," said Harry as she came nearer and nearer, "with you two
flying around me all the time the only way I'm going to catch the
Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and
let me deal with the rogue one."
"Don't be thick," said Fred. "It'll take your head off."
Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys.
(I Oliver, this is insane," said Alicia Spinner angrily. "You can't let Harry
deal with that thing on his own. Let's ask for an inquiry -))
"If we stop now, we'll have to forfeit the match!" said Harry. "And
we're not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come
on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!"
"This is all your fault," George said angrily to Wood. " `Get the Snitch
or die trying,' what a stupid thing to tell him -"
Madam Hooch had joined them.
"Ready to resume play?" she asked Wood.
Wood looked at the determined look on Harry's face.
"All right," he said. "Fred, George, you heard Harry -leave him alone
and let him deal with the Bludger on his own."
The rain was falling more heavily now. On Madam Hooch's whistle,
Harry kicked hard into the air and heard the telltale whoosh of the
Bludger behind him. Higher and higher Harry climbed; he looped and
swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he nevertheless
kept his eyes wide open, rain was speckling his glasses and ran up his
nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the
Bludger. He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must
look very stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn't change
direction as quickly as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster
ride around the
edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the
Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying to get past
Wood
A whistling in Harry's ear told him the Bludger had just missed him
again; he turned right over and sped in the opposite direction.
"Training for the ballet, Potter?" yelled Malfoy as Harry was forced to
do a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger, and he fled, the
Bludger trailing a few feet behind him; and then, glaring back at
Malfoy in hatred, he saw it - the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches
above Malfoy's left ear - and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn't
seen it.
For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not daring to speed
toward Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the Snitch.
WHAM.
He had stayed still a second too long. The Bludger had hit him at last,
smashed into his elbow, and Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by
the searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched
broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at
his side - the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time
W-ming at his face - Harry swerved out of the way, one idea firmly
lodged in his numb brain: get to Malfoy.
Through a haze of rain and pain he dived for the shimmering, sneering
face below him and saw its eyes widen with fear: Malfoy thought
Harry was attacking him.
"What the -" he gasped, careening out of Harry's way.
Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch;
he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only
gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd
below as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass
out.
With a splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His
arm was hanging at a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard,
as though from a distance, a good deal of whistling and shouting. He
focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.
"Aha," he said vaguely. "We've won."
And he fainted.
He came around, rain falling on his face, still lying on the field, with
someone leaning over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.
"Oh, no, not you," he moaned.
"Doesn't know what he's saying," said Lockhart loudly to the anxious
crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. "Not to worry, Harry.
I'm about to fix your arm."
"No!"said Harry. "I'll keep it like this, thanks ......
He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar
clicking noise nearby.
"I don't want a photo of this, Colin," he said loudly.
"Lie back, Harry," said Lockhart soothingly. "It's a simple charm I've
used countless times -"
"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" said Harry through
clenched teeth.
"He should really, Professor," said a muddy Wood, who couldn't
help grinning even though his Seeker was injured. "Great capture,
Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, Id say -"
Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and
George Weasley, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still
putting up a terrific fight.
"Stand back," said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green
sleeves.
"No - don't -" said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand
and a second later had directed it straight at Harry's arm.
A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry's shoulder and
spread all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was
being deflated. He didn't dare look at what was happening. He had
shut his eyes, his face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears
were realized as the people above him gasped and Colin Creevey
began clicking away madly. His arm didn't hurt anymore - nor did it
feel remotely like an arm.
"Ah," said Lockhart. "Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the
point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in
mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing - ah, Mr. Weasley,
Miss Granger, would you escort him? - and Madam Pomfrey will be
able to - er - tidy you up a bit."
As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep
breath he looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him
pass out again.
Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, fleshcolored
rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.
Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones. He had removed them.
Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.
"You should have come straight to me!" she raged, holding up
the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a
working arm. "I can mend bones in a second - but growing them back -"
"You will be able to, won't you?" said Harry desperately.
"I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful," said Madam Pomfrey
grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pajamas. "You'll have to stay the
night ......
Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around Harry's bed while
Ron helped him into his pajamas. It took a while to stuff the rubbery,
boneless arm into a sleeve.
"How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh?" Ron called
through the curtain as he pulled Harry's limp fingers through the cuff.
"If Harry had wanted deboning he would have asked."
"Anyone can make a mistake," said Hermione. "And it doesn't hurt
anymore, does it, Harry?"
"No," said Harry, getting into bed. "But it doesn't do anything else
either."
As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly.
Hermione and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. Madam
Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled Skele-Gro.
"You're in for a rough night," she said, pouring out a steaming
beakerful and handing it to him. "Regrowing bones is a nasty business.
So was taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry's mouth and throat as it
went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about
dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey re
treated, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some
water.
"We won, though," said Ron, a grin breaking across his face.
"That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face ... he looked ready
to kill ......
"I want to know how he fixed that Bludger," said Hermione
darkly.
"We can add that to the list of questions we'll ask him when
we've taken the Polyjuice Potion," said Harry, sinking back onto
his pillows. "I hope it tastes better than this stuff .....
"If it's got bits of Slytherins in it? You've got to be joking," said
Ron.
The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy
and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see
Harry.
"Unbelievable flying, Harry," said George. "I've just seen Mar
cus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on
top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy."
They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice;
they gathered around Harry's bed and were just getting started on
what promised to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came
storming over, shouting, "This boy needs rest, he's got thirty-three
bones to regrow! Out! OUT!"
And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the
stabbing pains in his limp arm.
Hours and hours later, Harry woke quite suddenly in the pitch
blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now felt full of
large splinters. For a second, he thought that was what had woken
him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was
sponging his forehead in the dark.
"Get off!" he said loudly, and then, "Dobby!"
The house-elf's goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry
through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long,
pointed nose.
"Harry Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably.
"Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you
heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he
missed the train?"
Harry heaved himself up on his pillows and pushed Dobby's sponge
away.
"What're you doing here?" he said. "And how did you know I missed
the train?"
Dobby's lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.
"It was you!" he said slowly. "You stopped the barrier from letting us
through!"
"Indeed yes, sir," said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears
flapping. "Dobby hid and watched for Harry Potter and sealed the
gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward" - he showed
Harry ten long, bandaged fingers - "but Dobby didn't care, sir, for he
thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry
Potter would get to school another way!"
He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head.
"Dobby was 'so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at
Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby
never had, sir . .....
Harry slumped back onto his pillows.
"You nearly got Ron and me expelled," he said fiercely. "You'd better
get lost before my bones come back, Dobby, or I might strangle you."
Dobby smiled weakly.
"Dobby is used to death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day
at home."
He blew his nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking
so pathetic that Harry felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself.
"Why d'you wear that thing, Dobby?" he asked curiously.
"This, sir?" said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. "'Tis a mark of the
house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be freed if his masters
present him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby
even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave their house
forever."
Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, "Harry Potter must
go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make -"
"Your Bludger?" said Harry, anger rising once more. "What d'you
mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?"
"Not kill you, sir, never kill you!" said Dobby, shocked. "Dobby wants
to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than
remain here sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt enough to be
sent home!"
"Oh, is that all?" said Harry angrily. "I don't suppose you're going to
tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?"
"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping
onto his ragged pillowcase. "If he knew what he means
to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we dregs of the magical world!
Dobby remembers how it was when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elfs were treated like
vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that, sir," he admitted,
drying his face on the pillowcase. "But mostly, sir, life has improved
for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it
was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope
for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sit... And
now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening
already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history
is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more
Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Harry's water jug from his
bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight. A
second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering,
"Bad Dobby, very bad Dobby. . ."
"So there is a Chamber of Secrets?" Harry whispered. "And did you
say it's been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!"
He seized the elf's bony wrist as Dobby's hand inched toward the
water jug. "But I'm not Muggle-born - how can I be in danger from the
Chamber?"
"Ah, sir, ask no more, ask no more of poor Dobby," stammered the elf,
his eyes huge in the dark. "Dark deeds are planned in this place, but
Harry Potter must not be here when they happen - go home, Harry
Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too
dangerous -"
"Who is it, Dobby?" Harry said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby's
wrist to stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again. "Who's
opened it? Who opened it last time?"
"Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't, Dobby mustn't tell!" squealed the elf.
"Go home, Harry Potter, go home!"
"I'm not going anywhere!" said Harry fiercely. "One of my best
friends is Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has
been opened -"
"Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!" moaned Dobby in a
kind of miserable ecstasy. "So noble! So valiant! But he must save
himself, he must, Harry Potter must not -"
Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too.
There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.
"Dobby must go!" breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack,
and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back
into bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the
footsteps drew nearer.
Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a
long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end
of what looked like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a
second later, carrying its feet. Together, they heaved it onto a bed.
"Get Madam Pomfrey," whispered Dumbledore, and Professor
McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed out of sight. Harry lay
quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then
Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by
Madam Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress.
He heard a sharp intake of breath.
"What happened?" Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore,
bending over the statue on the bed.
"Another attack," said Dumbledore. "Minerva found him on the stairs.
"There was a bunch of grapes next to him," said Professor
McGonagall. "We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit Potter."
Harry's stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he raised
himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray
of moonlight lay across its staring face.
It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were wide and his hands were stuck
up in front of him, holding his camera.
"Petrified?" whispered Madam Pomfrey.
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "But I shudder to think ... If Albus
hadn't been on the way downstairs for hot chocolate - who knows
what might have -"
The three of them stared down at Colin. Then Dumbledore leaned
forward and wrenched the camera out of Colin's rigid grip.
"You don't think he managed to get a picture of his attacker?" said
Professor McGonagall eagerly.
Dumbledore didn't answer. He opened the back of the camera.
"Good gracious!" said Madam Pomfrey.
A jet of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry, three beds away,
caught the acrid smell of burnt plastic.
"Melted," said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. "All melted..."
"What does this mean, Albus?" Professor McGonagall asked
urgently.
"It means," said Dumbledore, "that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed
open again."
Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall
stared at Dumbledore.

"But, Albus ... surely ... who?"
"The question is not who," said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin.
"The question is, how . . . ."
And from what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall's shad
owy face, she didn't understand this any better than he did.