CHAPTER 06-07-08

GILDEROY LOCKHAR

The next day, however, Harry barely grinned once. Things started to go
downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long house tables
were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of
toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling
(today, a dull, cloudy gray). Harry and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor
table next to Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with Vampires
propped open against a milk jug. There was a slight stiffness in the
way she said "Morning," which told Harry that she was still
disapproving of the way they had arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the
other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a round-faced and
accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Harry had ever
met.
"Mail's due any minute - I think Gran's sending a few things I forgot."
Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure enough, there was
a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls
streamed in, circling the hall and 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.
"Enrol!" 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 fiIled the huge hall, shaking dust from the
ceiling.
"- E CAR, I WO ULDN'T HAVE BEEN S URSTEALING
THE
PRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET
HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO
THINK WHAT YOUR FATHERAND I WENT THROUGH WHEN
WE SAW IT WAS GONE -"
Mrs. Weasleys 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.
"-ABSOLUTELYDISGUSTED - 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
Hufepuffs 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, umbrellasized
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, be
cause 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 in
ternationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was
just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, Id 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-\"o-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 cen
ter of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored ear
muffs were lying on the bench. When Harry had taken his place
between Ron and Hermione, she said, "We'll be repotting Man
drakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Man
drake?"
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 Venemous 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 fiIling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. "Awfully
brave chap. Have you read his books? Id have died of fear if Id 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 fiIed 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 Mommy'll have to come and take you away from
school." He put on a shrill, piercing voice. "Ifyou 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 giv
ing 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 chor
tle - "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:
4. 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 Ogdeds 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, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books
and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the
class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the
iron chandelier in the ceiling.
"Come on now - round them up, round them up, they're only pixies,"
Lockhart shouted.
He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed,
"Peskipiksi 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.
arry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight
whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder
to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry's
schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All
right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back,
however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the disasterous car journey
and Ron's wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday
morning by shooting out of Ron's hand in Charms and hitting tiny old
Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large,
throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and
another, Harry was quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, and
Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry,
however, was shaken awake several hours earlier
than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor
Quidditch team.
"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 Quafe - that's the biggish red one - is the one that scores
goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other
and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch -
they're three long poles with hoops on the end."
"And the fourth ball -"
"- is the Golden Snitch," said Harry, "and it's very small, very fast, and
difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do, because a
game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And
whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra
hundred and fifty points."
"And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?" said Colin in awe.
"Yes," said Harry as they left the castle and started across the dewdrenched
grass. "And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goal
posts. That's it, really."
But Colin didn't stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping
lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he
reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice,
"I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" and hurried off to the stands.
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 touslehaired, 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 differentcolored 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. Stifflegged
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, open-mouthed, 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 fiIthy 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 Malfoys 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 oneroomed
cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire
crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn't seem perturbed by Ron's
slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a
chair.
"Better out than in," he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in
front of him. "Get 'em all up, Ron."
"I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop," said
Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. "That's a
difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand -"
Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang,
was slobbering over Harry.
"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching
Fang's ears.
"Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well," growled
Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and
setting down the teapot. "Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about
some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my
kettle."
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts' teacher, and Harry
looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice
somewhat higher than usual, "I think you're being a bit unfair.
Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for
the job -"
"He was the on' man for the job," said Hagrid, offering them a Y
plate of treacle fudge, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin.
"An' I mean the on' one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer Y
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 fudge 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 -"
*116*
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 Id never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle
fudge, 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
fudge 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-schoolrules
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 bestseller
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 litde
drowsy? Great Scott - look at the time! We've been here nearly four
hours! Id 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."
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 rule-breaker.
There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose
was unusually purple.
"Filth!" he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he
pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry's Quidditch robes.
"Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me,
Potter!"
So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed
Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the
floor.
Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most
students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil
lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about
the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels,
Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch 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 smouldering 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 though 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,
"OY! MYRTLE!"
"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said, she'll be really upset," Hermione
whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her - er, hello, Myrtle."
The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry
had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
"What?" she said sulkily.
"How are you, Myrtle?" said Hermione in a falsely bright voice. "It's nice to
see you out of the toilet."
Myrtle sniffed.
"Miss Granger was just talking about you -" said Peeves slyly in Myrtle's
ear.
"Just saying - saying - how nice you look tonight," said Hermione, glaring
at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.
"You're making fun of me," she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her
small, see-through eyes.
"No - honestly - didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" said
Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.
"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 were turning to
watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave
up as Sir Patrick's head went sailing past him to loud cheers.
Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron muttered, his teeth chattering, as the
orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance
floor.
"Let's go," Harry agreed.
They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked
at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of
black candles.
"Pudding might not be finished yet," said Ron hopefully, leading the way
toward the steps to the entrance hall.
And then Harry heard it.
". . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . ."
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in
Lockhart's office.
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.