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

“`Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there, 
 
“`I hope everything went all right and that Harry is okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal 

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to get him out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, too. I’ve been really worried and 
if Harry is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you 
used a different owl because I think another delivery might finish your one off. 
 
“I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’— How can she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on 
vacation! —‘and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we 
meet in Diagon Alley? 
Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.’” 
“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting 
to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?” 
Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys 
owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that 
they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high. 
They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had 
escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. 
They took turns riding Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron’s 
old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies. 
Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had 
asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at 
mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time. 
“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning. “He’s not himself. His exam results came 
the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all.” 
“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing Harry’s puzzled look. “Bill got twelve, 
too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I don’t think I could stand 
the shame.” 
Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. 
Harry had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and 
Bill in Egypt working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts. 
“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,” said George after a 
while. “Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything…” 
Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London 
was a small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world 
that he had money; you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. He had 
never mentioned his Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their horror of 
anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold. 

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Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon 
sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen 
mantelpiece and peered inside. 
“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more today… Ah well, 
guests first! After you, Harry dear!” 
And she offered him the flowerpot. 
Harry stared at them all watching him. 
“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered. 
“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” said Ron suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I forgot.” 
“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last 
year?” 
“I went on the Underground —” 
“Really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Were there escapators? How exactly —” 
“Not now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if 
you’ve never used it before —” 
“He’ll be all right, Mum,” said Fred. “Harry, watch us first.” 
He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the 
powder into the flames. 
With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, 
shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished. 
“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley told Harry as George dipped his hand into the 
flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate…” 
“The right what?” said Harry nervously as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too. 
“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you’ve 
spoken clearly —” 
“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley, helping himself to Floo powder too. 
“But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain to his aunt and uncle?” 
“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry reassured her. “Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if I got 

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lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that —” 
“Well… all right… you go after Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, when you get into the fire, 
say where you’re going.” 
“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised. 
“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot —” 
“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace —” 
“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George.” 
Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge 
of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the 
fire felt like a warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash. 
“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed. 
It felt as though he was being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — 
the roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green 
flames made him feel sick —something hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still 
spinning and spinning — now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face — squinting 
through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms 
beyond — his bacon sandwiches were churning inside him — he closed his eyes again wishing it 
would stop, and then…
He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his glasses snap. 
Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding his broken glasses up to 
his eyes. He was quite alone, but where he was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was 
standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop — but nothing 
in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list. 
A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a 
staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones 
lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, 
narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley. 
The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry 
made his way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before he’d got halfway toward it, two 
people appeared on the other side of the glass — and one of them was the very last person Harry 
wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy. 
Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and 
pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and 

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Malfoy stepped into the shop. 
The man who followed could only be Draco’s father. He had the same pale, pointed face and 
identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and 
rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying, “Touch nothing, Draco.” 
Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I thought you were going to buy me a present.” 
“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter. 
“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-
tempered. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from 
Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s 
famous… famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead…” 
Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. 
“… everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick —” 
“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at 
his son. “And I would remind you that it is not — prudent — to appear less than fond of Harry 
Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear — 
ah, Mr. Borgin.” 
A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. 
“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. 
“Delighted — and young Master Malfoy, too — charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must 
show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced —” 
“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mr. Malfoy. 
“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face. 
“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking 
a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few 
— ah — items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…” 
Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list. 
“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?” 
Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled. 
“I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry 
grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt 

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that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it —” 
Harry felt a hot surge of anger. 
“— and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear —” 
“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see…” 
“Can I have that?” interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion. 
“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to 
Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and 
plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.” 
“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, 
and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant —” 
“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all 
he is fit for —” 
“It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger —” 
“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every 
exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy. 
“Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry. 
“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less 
everywhere —” 
“Not with me,” said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring. 
“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow. 
“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I am in something of a 
hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today —” 
They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding 
place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope 
and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, Caution: Do Not