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

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: 

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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. 

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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 

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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 smoldering 
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, 

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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 

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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. 

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“Miss Granger was just talking about you —” said Peeves slyly in Myrtle’s ear. “Just saying —” 
“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 

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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. 

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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. 

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“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.