Harry Potter 02 & The Chamber Of Secrets (Illustrated) (6 page)

‘Errol!’ said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a letter from under its wing. ‘
Finally
- he’s got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.’

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining board instead, muttering, ‘Pathetic.’ Then he ripped open Hermione’s letter and read it out loud:

‘Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,’ said Mrs Weasley, starting to clear the table. ‘What’re you all up to today?’

Harry, Ron, Fred and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could practise Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high. They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for each other to catch. They took it in turns to ride Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron’s old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies.

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at meal-times so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.

‘Wish I knew what he was up to,’ said Fred, frowning. ‘He’s not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.Ls and he hardly gloated at all.’

‘Ordinary Wizarding Levels,’ George explained, seeing Harry’s puzzled look. ‘Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I don’t think I could stand the shame.’

Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania, studying dragons, and Bill in Egypt, working for the wizards’ bank, Gringotts.

‘Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,’ said George after a while. ‘Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything …’

Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that he had money; you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles and Knuts in Muggle shops. He had never mentioned his Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.

*

Mrs Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half-a-dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.

‘We’re running low, Arthur,’ she sighed. ‘We’ll have to buy some more today … ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!’

And she offered him the flowerpot.

Harry stared at them all watching him.

‘W-what am I supposed to do?’ he stammered.

‘He’s never travelled by Floo powder,’ said Ron suddenly. ‘Sorry, Harry, I forgot.’

‘Never?’ said Mr Weasley. ‘But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?’

‘I went on the Underground -‘

‘Really?’ said Mr Weasley eagerly. ‘Were there
escapators
? How exactly -‘

‘Not
now,
Arthur,’ said Mrs Weasley. ‘Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before -‘

‘He’ll be all right, Mum,’ said Fred. ‘Harry, watch us first.’

He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire and threw the powder into the flames.

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted, ‘Diagon Alley!’ and vanished.

‘You must speak clearly, dear,’ Mrs Weasley told Harry, as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot. ‘And mind you get out at the right grate …’

‘The right what?’ said Harry nervously, as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight too.

‘Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly -‘

‘He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,’ said Mr Weasley, helping himself to Floo powder too.

‘But dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain to his aunt and uncle?’

‘They wouldn’t mind,’ Harry reassured her. ‘Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that.’

‘Well … all right … you go after Arthur,’ said Mrs Weasley. ‘Now, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going -‘

‘And keep your elbows tucked in,’ Ron advised.

‘And your eyes shut,’ said Mrs Weasley. ‘The soot -‘

‘Don’t fidget,’ said Ron. ‘Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace -‘

‘But don’t panic and get out too early, wait until you see Fred and George.’

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.

‘D-Dia-gon Alley,’ he coughed.

It felt as though he was being sucked down a giant plug hole. He seemed to be spinning very fast … the roaring in his ears was deafening … he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him feel sick … something hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning … now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face … squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond … his bacon sandwiches were churning inside him … He closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then - he fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt his glasses shatter.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but
where
he was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop - but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a blood-stained pack of cards and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks leered down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley.

The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently towards the door, but before he’d got halfway towards it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass - and one of them was the very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in soot and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy.

Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and pulled the doors to, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into the shop.

The man who followed could only be his father. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold grey eyes. Mr Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying, ‘Touch nothing, Draco.’

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, ‘I thought you were going to buy me a present.’

‘I said I would buy you a racing broom,’ said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

‘What’s the good of that if I’m not in the house team?’ said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-tempered. ‘Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s
famous
… famous for having a stupid
scar
on his forehead …’

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

‘… everyone thinks he’s so
smart,
wonderful
Potter
with his
scar
and his
broomstick
-‘

‘You have told me this at least a dozen times already,’ said Mr Malfoy, with a quelling look at his son, ‘and I would remind you that it is not - prudent - to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear - ah, Mr Borgin.’

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.

‘Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,’ said Mr Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. ‘Delighted - and young Master Malfoy, too - charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced -‘

‘I’m not buying today, Mr Borgin, but selling,’ said Mr Malfoy.

‘Selling?’ The smile faded slightly from Mr Borgin’s face.

‘You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,’ said Mr Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unravelling it for Mr Borgin to read. ‘I have a few - ah - items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call …’

Mr Borgin fixed a pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.

‘The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?’

Mr Malfoy’s lip curled.

‘I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act - no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it -‘

Harry felt a hot surge of anger.

‘- and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it
appear
-‘

‘I understand, sir, of course,’ said Mr Borgin. ‘Let me see …’

‘Can I have
that?
‘ interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.

‘Ah, the Hand of Glory!’ said Mr Borgin, abandoning Mr Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. ‘Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.’

‘I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,’ said Mr Malfoy coldly and Mr Borgin said quickly, ‘No offence, sir, no offence meant -‘

‘Though if his school marks don’t pick up,’ said Mr Malfoy, more coldly still, ‘that may indeed be all he is fit for.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ retorted Draco. ‘The teachers all have favourites, that Hermione Granger -‘

‘I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,’ snapped Mr Malfoy.

‘Ha!’ said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry.

‘It’s the same all over,’ said Mr Borgin, in his oily voice. ‘Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere -‘

‘Not with me,’ said Mr Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.

‘No, sir, nor with me, sir,’ said Mr Borgin, with a deep bow.

‘In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,’ said Mr Malfoy shortly. ‘I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today.’

They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. He paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals:
Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed - Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward … he stretched out his hand for the handle …

‘Done,’ said Mr Malfoy at the counter. ‘Come, Draco!’

Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away.

‘Good day to you, Mr Borgin, I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.’

The moment the door had closed, Mr Borgin dropped his oily manner.

‘Good day yourself,
Mister
Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your
manor
…’

Muttering darkly, Mr Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases and out of the shop door.

Clutching his broken glasses to his face he stared around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads, and two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be able to find a way out of there.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Harry had never heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys’ fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to do.

‘Not lost are you, my dear?’ said a voice in his ear, making him jump.