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

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. 

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“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 filthy 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 

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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 one-roomed 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. 

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“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’y man for the job,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle fudge, while Ron 
coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the on’y one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find 
anyone fer 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 

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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 —” 
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 I’d 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 

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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-school-rules 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…” 

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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.