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

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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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 

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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-of-order bathroom once again. 

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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 
sincerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense pain on their faces. 
“This is the most complicated potion I’ve ever seen,” said Hermione as they scanned the recipe. 
“Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she murmured, running her finger down the 
list of ingredients. “Well, they’re easy enough, they’re in the student store-cupboard, we can help 
ourselves… Oooh, look, powdered horn of a bicorn — don’t know where we’re going to get that 
— shredded skin of a boomslang — 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 I’d see the day when you’d be persuading us to break rules,” said Ron. “All 
right, we’ll do it. But not toenails, okay?” 
“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harry as Hermione, looking happier, opened the 
book again. 

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“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings have got to be 
stewed for twenty-one days… I’d say it’d be ready in about a month, if we can get all the 
ingredients.” 
“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggle-borns in the school by 
then!” But Hermione’s eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he added swiftly, “But it’s the best 
plan we’ve got, so full steam ahead, I say.” 
However, while Hermione was checking that the coast was clear for them to leave the bathroom, 
Ron muttered to Harry, “It’ll be a lot less hassle if you can just knock Malfoy off his broom 
tomorrow.” 
Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch 
match. He was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but 
also at the idea of facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms 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…” 

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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 

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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. 
“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 

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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 zooming 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…” 

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He tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking noise nearby. 
“I don’t want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly. 
“Lie back, Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It’s a simple charm I’ve used countless times —” 
“Why can’t I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry through clenched teeth. 
“He should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood, who couldn’t help grinning even though his 
Seeker was injured. “Great capture, Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, I’d say —” 
Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the 
rogue Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight. 
“Stand back,” said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves. 
“No — don’t —” said Harry weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had 
directed it straight at Harry’s arm. 
A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry’s shoulder and spread all the way down to 
his fingertips. It felt as though his arm was being deflated. He didn’t dare look at what was 
happening. He had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears were 
realized as the people above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away madly. His arm 
didn’t hurt anymore — nor did it feel remotely like an arm. 
“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no 
longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing — 
ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him? — and Madam Pomfrey will be able to 
— er — tidy you up a bit.” 
As Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he looked down at his 
right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out again. 
Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick, flesh-colored rubber glove. He 
tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened. 
Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had removed them. 
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. 

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“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 
retreated, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some water. “We won, though,” 
said Ron, a grin breaking across his face. “That was some catch you made. Malfoy’s face… he 
looked ready to kill…” 
“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said Hermione darkly.
“We can add that to the list of questions we’ll ask him when we’ve taken the Polyjuice Potion,” 
said Harry, sinking back onto his pillows. “I hope it tastes better than this stuff…” 
“If it’s got bits of Slytherins in it? You’ve got to be joking,” said Ron. 
The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the 
Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry. “Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I’ve just 
seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and 
not noticing. Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.” They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of 
pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry’s bed and were just getting started on what promised 
to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over, 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 

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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 

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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-elves were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated 
like that, sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. “But mostly, sir, life has improved 
for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry Potter survived, and 
the Dark Lord’s power was broken, and it was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a 
beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, 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!” 

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“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 shadowy face, she didn’t understand this 
any better than he did.