Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets By J. K. Rowling chapter one the Worst Birthday

 
 
 

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CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 
Mudbloods and Murmurs 
Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy 
Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have 
memorized Harry’s schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, “All right, 
Harry?” six or seven times a day and hear, “Hello, Colin,” back, however exasperated Harry 
sounded when he said it. 
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the disastrous car journey and Ron’s wand was still 
malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron’s hand in Charms 
and hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing 
green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, Harry was quite glad to reach the 
weekend. He, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry, 
however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, 
Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 
“Whassamatter?” said Harry groggily. 
“Quidditch practice!” said Wood. “Come on!” 
Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold sky. Now 
that he was awake, he couldn’t understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds 
were making. 
“Oliver,” Harry croaked. “It’s the crack of dawn.” 
“Exactly,” said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the moment, his eyes were 
gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. “It’s part of our new training program. Come on, grab your 
broom, and let’s go,” said Wood heartily. “None of the other teams have started training yet; 
we’re going to be first off the mark this year —” 
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes. 
“Good man,” said Wood. “Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.” 
When he’d found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a 
note to Ron explaining where he’d gone and went down the spiral staircase to the common room, 
his Nimbus Two Thousand on his shoulder. He had just reached the portrait hole when there was 
a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera 
swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand. 
“I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I’ve got here! I’ve had it 
developed, I wanted to show you —” 

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Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his nose. 
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harry recognized as his own. 
He was pleased to see that his photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be 
dragged into view. As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, Panting, against the white 
edge of the picture. 
“Will you sign it?” said Colin eagerly. 
“No,” said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that the room was really deserted. “Sorry, 
Colin, I’m in a hurry — Quidditch practice —” 
He climbed through the portrait hole. 
“Oh, wow! Wait for me! I’ve never watched a Quidditch game before!” 
Colin scrambled through the hole after him. 
“It’ll be really boring,” Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with 
excitement. 
“You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren’t you, Harry? Weren’t you?” 
said Colin, trotting alongside him. “You must be brilliant. I’ve never flown. Is it easy? Is that 
your own broom? Is that the best one there is?” 
Harry didn’t know how to get rid of him. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow. 
“I don’t really understand Quidditch,” said Colin breathlessly. “Is it true there are four balls? 
And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?” 
“Yes,” said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. “They’re 
called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away 
from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters.” 
“And what are the other balls for?” Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was 
gazing open-mouthed at Harry. 
“Well, the Quaffle — that’s the biggish red one — is the one that scores goals. Three Chasers on 
each team throw the Quaffle to each other and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of 
the pitch — they’re three long poles with hoops on the end.” 
“And the fourth ball —” 
“— is the Golden Snitch,” said Harry, “and it’s very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But 
that’s what the Seeker’s got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn’t end until the Snitch has 
been caught. And whichever team’s Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra hundred and 

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fifty points.” 
“And you’re the Gryffindor Seeker, aren’t you?” said Colin in awe. 
“Yes,” said Harry as they left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. “And there’s 
the Keeper, too. He guards the goal posts. That’s it, really.” 
But Colin didn’t stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch 
field, and Harry only shook him off when he reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him 
in a piping voice, “I’ll go and get a good seat, Harry!” and hurried off to the stands. 
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 different colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the 
arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speech about 
his new tactics, Fred Weasley’s head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet’s shoulder and he began 
to snore. 
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, 
and a third under that one. Harry sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on. 
“So,” said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy about what he could be eating 
for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. “Is that clear? Any questions?” 
“I’ve got a question, Oliver,” said George, who had woken with a start. “Why couldn’t you have 
told us all this yesterday when we were awake?” 
Wood wasn’t pleased. 
“Now, listen here, you lot,” he said, glowering at them all. “We should have won the Quidditch 
cup last year. We’re easily the best team. But unfortunately — owing to circumstances beyond 
our control —” 
Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final 
match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered 
their worst defeat in three hundred years. 
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing 

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him. 
“So this year, we train harder than ever before… Okay, let’s go and put our new theories into 
practice!” Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. 
Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed. 
They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although 
remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry walked onto the field, he saw Ron 
and Hermione sitting in the stands. 
“Aren’t you finished yet?” called Ron incredulously. 
“Haven’t even started,” said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and 
Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. “Wood’s been teaching us new moves.” 
He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning 
air whipped his face, waking him far more effectively than Wood’s long talk. It felt wonderful to 
be back on the Quidditch field. He soared right around the stadium at full speed, racing Fred and 
George. 
“What’s that funny clicking noise?” called Fred as they hurtled around the corner. 
Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, 
taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium. 
“Look this way, Harry! This way!” he cried shrilly. 
“Who’s that?” said Fred. 
“No idea,” Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as possible from 
Colin. 
“What’s going on?” said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them. “Why’s 
that first year taking pictures? I don’t like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about 
our new training program.” 
“He’s in Gryffindor,” said Harry quickly. 
“And the Slytherins don’t need a spy, Oliver,” said George. 
“What makes you say that?” said Wood testily. 
“Because they’re here in person,” said George, pointing. 
Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands. 

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“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.