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

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
 
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE 
“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice. 
As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; 
Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark 
shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a 
splash. 
Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a 
board, her eyes wide and staring. 
For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said, “Let’s get out of here.” 
“Shouldn’t we try and help —” Harry began awkwardly. 
“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found here.” 
But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just 
ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet 
climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were 
crashing into the passage from both ends. 
The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the 
mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight. 
Then someone shouted through the quiet. 
“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” 
It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually 
bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat. 

---

CHAPTER NINE 
 
 
The Writing on the Wall 
“What’s going on here? What’s going on?” 
Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. 
Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror. 
“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he shrieked. 
And his popping eyes fell on Harry. 
“You!” he screeched. “You! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll —” 
“Argus!” 
Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he 
had swept past Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket. 
“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.” 
Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. 
“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free —” 
“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore. 
The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after 
Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape. 
As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; 
Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The 
real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore lay Mrs. Norris on the 
polished surface and began to examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks 
and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. 
The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was 
looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and 
poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed 
behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying 
hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions. 
“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it 
used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved 

---

her…” 
Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair 
by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Much as he detested Filch, 
Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he felt for himself If 
Dumbledore believed Filch, he would be expelled for sure. 
Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his 
wand but nothing happened. She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed. 
“… I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou,” said Lockhart, “a series of 
attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various 
amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…” 
The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of 
them had forgotten to remove his hair net. 
At last Dumbledore straightened up. 
“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly. 
Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented. 
“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all — all 
stiff and frozen?” 
“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I 
cannot say…” 
“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry. 
“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “it would take Dark Magic of 
the most advanced —” 
“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! 
He found — in my office — he knows I’m a — I’m a —” Filch’s face worked horribly. “He 
knows I’m a Squib!” he finished. 
“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at 
him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t even know what a Squib is.” 
“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell letter!” 
“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and Harry’s sense of foreboding 
increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good. 

---

“Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a 
slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. “But we do have a set of suspicious 
circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t he at the Halloween 
feast?” 
Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the deathday party. “… there 
were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there —” 
“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. 
“Why go up to that corridor?” 
Ron and Hermione looked at Harry. 
“Because — because —” Harry said, his heart thumping very fast; something told him it would 
sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he 
could hear, “because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” he said. 
“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t 
think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.” 
“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble. 
Snape’s nasty smile widened. 
“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good 
idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I 
personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be 
honest.” 
“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, “I see no reason to stop the boy playing 
Quidditch. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that 
Potter has done anything wrong.” 
Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel 
as though he were being X-rayed. 
“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said firmly. 
Snape looked furious. 
So did Filch. 
“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes popping. “I want to see some punishment!” 
“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor Sprout recently 
managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a 

---

potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.” 
“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a 
Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —” 
“Excuse me,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.” 
There was a very awkward pause. 
“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 
They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When they were a floor up from 
Lockhart’s office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. 
Harry squinted at his friends’ darkened faces. 
“D’you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?” 
“No,” said Ron, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even 
in the wizarding world.” 
Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You do believe me, don’t you?” 
“’Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But — you must admit it’s weird…” 
“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s weird. What was that writing on the wall 
about? The Chamber Has Been Opened… What’s that supposed to mean?” 
“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I think someone told me a story about a 
secret chamber at Hogwarts once… might’ve been Bill…” 
“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harry. 
To his surprise, Ron stifled a snigger. 
“Well — it’s not funny really — but as it’s Filch,” he said. “A Squib is someone who was born 
into a wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born 
wizards, but Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch’s trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I 
reckon he must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates students so much.” Ron 
gave a satisfied smile. “He’s bitter.” 
A clock chimed somewhere. 
“Midnight,” said Harry. “We’d better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us 
for something else.” 

---

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it 
fresh in everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought 
the attacker might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. 
Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as 
brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was 
skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put 
them in detention for things like “breathing loudly’ and “looking happy.” 
Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris’s fate. According to Ron, she was a great 
cat lover. 
“But you haven’t really got to know Mrs. Norris,” Ron told her bracingly. “Honestly, we’re 
much better off without her.” Ginny’s lip trembled. “Stuff like this doesn’t often happen at 
Hogwarts,” Ron assured her. “They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have him out of here in no 
time. I just hope he’s got time to Petrify Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking —” Ron 
added hastily as Ginny blanched. 
The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was quite usual for Hermione to spend a lot of 
time reading, but she was now doing almost nothing else. Nor could Harry and Ron get much 
response from her when they asked what she was up to, and not until the following Wednesday 
did they find out. 
Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay behind to scrape 
tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he went upstairs to meet Ron in the library, and 
saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming toward him. Harry had 
just opened his mouth to say hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off 
in the opposite direction. 
Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring his History of Magic homework. Professor 
Binns had asked for a three foot long composition on “The Medieval Assembly of European 
Wizards.” 
“I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short said Ron furiously, letting go of his parchment, 
which sprang back into a roll. “And Hermione’s done four feet seven inches and her writing’s 
tiny.” 
“Where is she?” asked Harry, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling his own homework. 
“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the shelves. “Looking for another book. I 
think she’s trying to read the whole library before Christmas.” 
Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from him. 
“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot,” said Ron, scribbling away, making his 
writing as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart being so great —” 

---

Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves. She looked irritable and at last seemed ready 
to talk to them. 
“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out,” she said, sitting down next to 
Harry and Ron. “And there’s a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t left my copy at home, but I 
couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.” 
“Why do you want it?” said Harry. 
“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said Hermione, “to read up on the legend of the 
Chamber of Secrets.” 
“What’s that?” said Harry quickly. 
“That’s just it. I can’t remember,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “And I can’t find the story 
anywhere else —” 
“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron desperately, checking his watch. 
“No, I won’t,” said Hermione, suddenly severe. “You’ve had ten days to finish it —” 
“I only need another two inches, come on —” 
The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic, bickering. 
History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was 
their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his 
entering the room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn’t 
noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him in an 
armchair in front of the staff room fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since. 
Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began to read in a flat drone 
like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally 
coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. He had been 
speaking for half an hour when something happened that had never happened before. Hermione 
put up her hand. 
Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the International Warlock 
Convention of 1289, looked amazed. 
“Miss — er —?” 
“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of 
Secrets,” said Hermione in a clear voice. 
Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, 

---

jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her arms and Neville Longbottom’s 
elbow slipped off his desk. 
Professor Binns blinked. 
“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, wheezy voice. “I deal with facts, Miss 
Granger, not myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a small noise like chalk slipping and 
continued, “In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers —” 
He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving in the air again. 
“Miss Grant?” 
“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in fact?” 
Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Harry was sure no student had ever 
interrupted him before, alive or dead. 
“Well,” said Professor Binns slowly, “yes, one could argue that, I suppose.” He peered at 
Hermione as though he had never seen a student properly before. “However, the legend of which 
you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale —” 
But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns’s every word. He looked dimly at them 
all, every face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show 
of interest. 
“Oh, very well,” he said slowly. “Let me see… the Chamber of Secrets…
“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago — the precise 
date is uncertain — by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school Houses 
are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar 
Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when 
magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.” 
He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued. 
“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed 
signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up 
between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be 
more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning 
should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, 
believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject 
between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school.” 
Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise. 

---

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he said. “But these honest facts have been 
obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had 
built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. 
“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to 
open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the 
Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were 
unworthy to study magic.” 
There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn’t the usual, sleepy silence that filled 
Professor Binns’s classes. There was unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, 
hoping for more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed. 
“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the school has been 
searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. 
It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.” 
Hermione’s hand was back in the air. 
“Sir — what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?” 
“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said 
Professor Binns in his dry, reedy voice. 
The class exchanged nervous looks. 
“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no 
Chamber and no monster.” 
“But, sir,” said Seamus Finnigan, “if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, 
no one else would be able to find it, would they?” 
“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a long succession of 
Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the thing —” 
“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it —” 
“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” 
snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore —” 
“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn’t —” began Dean 
Thomas, but Professor Binns had had enough. 
“That will do,” he said sharply. “It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence 
that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish 
story! We will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact!” 

---

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor. 
“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony,” Ron told Harry and Hermione as 
they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the end of the lesson to drop off their bags 
before dinner. “But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn’t be in his house if 
you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I’d’ve got the train 
straight back home…” 
Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn’t say anything. His stomach had just dropped 
unpleasantly. 
Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting 
him in Slytherin. He could remember, as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had 
spoken in his ear when he’d placed the hat on his head a year before: You could be great, you