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

really he was enchanting it to make it fly.” 
Mr. Weasley blinked. 
“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — 
he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth… There’s a loophole in the law, 
you’ll find… As long as he wasn’t intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly 
wouldn’t —” 
“Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. 
Weasley. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And 
for your information, Harry arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!” 
“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?” 
He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped. 
“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about —” 
“Your sons flew that car to Harry’s house and back last night!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What 
have you got to say about that, eh?” 
“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as 
sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong 
indeed…” 
“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come 
on, I’ll show you my bedroom.” 
They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an uneven staircase, which 
wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry 
just caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it closed with a snap. 
“Ginny,” said Ron. “You don’t know how weird it is for her to be this shy. She never shuts up 

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normally —” 
They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling paint and a small plaque 
on it, saying RONALD’S ROOM. 
Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and blinked. It was like walking 
into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron’s room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the 
bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had covered nearly every 
inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing 
bright orange robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically. 
“Your Quidditch team?” said Harry. 
“The Chudley Cannons,” said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread, which was emblazoned 
with two giant black C’s and a speeding cannonball. “Ninth in the league.” 
Ron’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all 
seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ron’s magic wand was 
lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat, Scabbers, 
who was snoozing in a patch of sun. 
Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out of the tiny 
window. In the field far below he could see a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through 
the Weasleys’ hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was watching him almost nervously, as 
though waiting for his opinion. 
“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I’m right 
underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning…” 
But Harry, grinning widely, said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.” 
Ron’s ears went pink.