Harry Potter 02 & The Chamber Of Secrets (Illustrated) (25 page)

‘Well?’ said Malfoy impatiently, as Harry handed the cutting back to him. ‘Don’t you think it’s funny?’

‘Ha, ha,’ said Harry bleakly.

‘Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in half and go and join them,’ said Malfoy scornfully. ‘You’d never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave.’

Ron’s - or rather, Crabbe’s - face was contorted with fury.

‘What’s up with you, Crabbe?’ snapped Malfoy.

‘Stomach ache,’ Ron grunted.

‘Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick from me,’ said Malfoy, snickering. ‘You know, I’m surprised the
Daily Prophet
hasn’t reported all these attacks yet,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. Father’s always said Dumbledore’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent Headmaster would never’ve let slime like that Creevey in.’

Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of Colin: ‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter?’

He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron.

‘What’s the
matter
with you two?’

Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to laugh, but Malfoy seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were always slow on the uptake.

‘Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,’ said Malfoy slowly. ‘He’s another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that jumped-up Granger Mudblood. And people think
he’s
Slytherin’s heir!’

Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was surely seconds away from telling them it was him. But then -

‘I
wish
I knew who it
is,
‘ said Malfoy petulantly. ‘I could help them.’

Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe’s face looked even more gormless than usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice, and Harry, thinking fast, said, ‘You must have some idea who’s behind it all …’

‘You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?’ snapped Malfoy. ‘And father won’t tell me
anything
about the last time the Chamber was opened, either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing: last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood
died.
So I bet it’s only a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time … I hope it’s Granger,’ he said with relish.

Ron was clenching Crabbe’s gigantic fists. Feeling that it would be a bit of a give-away if Ron punched Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning look and said, ‘D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?’

‘Oh, yeah … whoever it was was expelled,’ said Malfoy. ‘They’re probably still in Azkaban.’

‘Azkaban?’ said Harry, puzzled.

‘Azkaban -
the wizard prison,
Goyle,’ said Malfoy, looking at him in disbelief. ‘Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backwards.’

He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, ‘Father says to keep my head down and let the heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our Manor last week?’

Harry tried to force Goyle’s dull face into a look of concern.

‘Yeah …’ said Malfoy. ‘Luckily, they didn’t find much. Father’s got some
very
valuable Dark arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the drawing-room floor -‘

‘Ho!’ said Ron.

Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed. Even his hair was turning red. His nose was also slowly lengthening - their hour was up. Ron was turning back into himself, and from the look of horror he was suddenly giving Harry, he must be, too.

They both jumped to their feet.

‘Medicine for my stomach,’ Ron grunted, and without further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope that Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Harry could feel his feet slipping around in Goyle’s huge shoes and had to hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the steps into the dark Entrance Hall, which was full of a muffled pounding coming from the cupboard where they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes outside the cupboard door, they sprinted in their socks up the marble staircase towards Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

‘Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,’ Ron panted, closing the bathroom door behind them. ‘I know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the attacks, but I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and tell him to check under the Malfoys’ drawing room.’

Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was back to normal. He put his glasses on as Ron hammered on the door of Hermione’s cubicle.

‘Hermione, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you -‘

‘Go away!’ Hermione squeaked.

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Ron. ‘You must be back to normal by now, we are …’

But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the cubicle door. Harry had never seen her looking so happy.

‘Ooooooh, wait till you see,’ she said. ‘It’s
awful
!’

They heard the lock slide back and Hermione emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled up over her head.

‘What’s up?’ said Ron uncertainly. ‘Have you still got Millicent’s nose or something?’

Hermione let her robes fall and Ron backed into the sink.

Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had gone yellow and there were long pointed ears poking through her hair.

‘It was a c-cat hair!’ she howled. ‘M-Millicent Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the P-Potion isn’t supposed to be used for animal transformations!’

‘Uh oh,’ said Ron.

‘You’ll be teased something
dreadful
,’ said Myrtle happily.

‘It’s OK, Hermione,’ said Harry quickly. ‘We’ll take you up to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never asks too many questions …’

It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the bathroom. Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way with a hearty guffaw.

‘Wait till everyone finds out you’ve got a
tail
!’

Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a flurry of rumour about her disappearance when the rest of the school arrived back from their Christmas holidays, because of course everyone thought that she had been attacked. So many students filed past the hospital wing trying to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took out her curtains again and placed them around Hermione’s bed, to spare her the shame of being seen with a furry face.

Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. When the new term started, they brought her each day’s homework.

‘If I’d sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work,’ said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione’s bedside table one evening.

‘Don’t be silly, Ron, I’ve got to keep up,’ said Hermione briskly. Her spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any new leads?’ she added in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t hear her.

‘Nothing,’ said Harry gloomily.

‘I was so
sure
it was Malfoy,’ said Ron, for about the hundredth time.

‘What’s that?’ asked Harry, pointing to something gold sticking out from under Hermione’s pillow.

‘Just a Get Well card,’ said Hermione hastily, trying to poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He pulled it out, flicked it open and read aloud:

‘To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League and five times winner of
Witch Weekly’s
Most-Charming-Smile Award.’

Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.

‘You sleep with this under your
pillow
?’

But Hermione was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of medicine.

‘Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you’ve ever met, or what?’ Ron said to Harry as they left the dormitory and started up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower. Snape had given them so much homework, Harry thought he was likely to be in the sixth year before he finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had asked Hermione how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion, when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears.

‘That’s Filch,’ Harry muttered, as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

‘You don’t think someone else’s been attacked?’ said Ron tensely.

They stood still, their heads inclined towards Filch’s voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

‘… even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven’t got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I’m going to Dumbledore …’

His footsteps receded and they heard a distant door slam.

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: they were once again on the spot where Mrs Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Now Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle’s wails echoing off the bathroom walls.

‘
Now
what’s up with her?’ said Ron.

‘Let’s go and see,’ said Harry, and holding their robes over their ankles they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its ‘Out of Order’ sign, ignored it as always, and entered.

Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom, because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.

‘What’s up, Myrtle?’ said Harry.

‘Who’s that?’ glugged Myrtle miserably. ‘Come to throw something else at me?’

Harry waded across to her cubicle and said, ‘Why would I throw something at you?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. ‘Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it’s funny to throw a book at me …’

‘But it can’t hurt you if someone throws something at you,’ said Harry, reasonably. ‘I mean, it’d just go right through you, wouldn’t it?’

He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked, ‘Let’s all throw books at Myrtle, because
she
can’t feel it! Ten points if you can get it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through her head! Well, ha ha ha! What a lovely game, I
don’t
think!’

‘Who threw it at you, anyway?’ asked Harry.

‘
I
don’t know … I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head,’ said Myrtle, glaring at them. ‘It’s over there, it got washed out.’

Harry and Ron looked under the sink, where Myrtle was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.

‘What?’ said Harry.

‘Are you mad?’ said Ron. ‘It could be dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’
said Harry, laughing. ‘Come off it, how could it be dangerous?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Ron, who was looking apprehensively at the book. ‘Some of the books the Ministry’s confiscated - Dad’s told me - there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read
Sonnets of a Sorcerer
spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could
never stop reading
! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed. And -‘

‘All right, I’ve got the point,’ said Harry.

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.

‘Well, we won’t find out unless we look at it,’ he said, and he ducked round Ron and picked it off the floor.

Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He opened it eagerly. On the first page he could just make out the name ‘T. M. Riddle’ in smudged ink.

‘Hang on,’ said Ron, who had approached cautiously and was looking over Harry’s shoulder. ‘I know that name … T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago.’

‘How on earth d’you know that?’ said Harry in amazement.

‘Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention,’ said Ron resentfully. ‘That was the one I burped slugs all over. If you’d wiped slime off a name for an hour, you’d remember it, too.’