CHAPTER TEN
THE ROGUE
BLUDGER
Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart
had not brought live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his
books to them, and sometimes reenacted some of the more dramatic bits. He
usually picked Harry to help him with these reconstructions; so far, Harry had
been forced to play a simple Transylvanian villager whom Lockhart had cured of a
Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, and a vampire who had been unable to
eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had dealt with him.
Harry was
hauled to the front of the class during their very next Defense Against the Dark
Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf If he hadn't had a very good reason for
keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would have refused to do it.
“Nice loud
howl, Harry—exactly—and then, if you'll believe it, I pounced—like this—slammed
him to the floor—thus with one hand, I managed to hold him down—with my other, I
put my wand to his throat -I then screwed up my remaining strength and performed
the immensely complex Homorphus Charm—he let out a piteous moan—go on,
Harry—higher than that—good—the fur vanished—the fangs shrank—and he turned back
into a man. Simple, yet effective—and another village will remember me forever
as the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf
attacks.”
The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.
“Homework—compose a
poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed copies of Magical Me to
the author of the best one!”
The class began to leave. Harry returned to the
back of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting.
“Ready?” Harry
muttered.
“Wait till everyone's gone,” said Hermione nervously. “All right ..
. “
She approached Lockhart's desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her
hand, Harry and Ron right behind her.
“Er—Professor Lockhart?” Hermione
stammered. “I wanted to—to get this book out of the library. Just for background
reading.” She held out the piece of paper, her hand shaking slightly. “But the
thing is, it's in the Restricted Section of the library, so I need a teacher to
sign for it—I'm sure it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with
Ghouls about slow-acting venoms...”
“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart,
taking the note from Hermione and smiling widely at her. “Possibly my very
favorite book. You enjoyed it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever,
the way you trapped that last one with the tea-strainer—”
“Well, I'm sure no
one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little extra help,” said
Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock quill. “Yes, nice, isn't
it?” he said, misreading the revolted look on Ron's face. “I usually save it for
book-signings.”
He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and
handed it back to Hermione.
“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded
the note with fumbling fingers and slipped it into her bag. “Tomorrow's the
first Quidditch match of the season, I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is
it not? I hear you're a useful player. I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try
for the National Squad, but preferred to dedicate my life to the eradication of
the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel the need for a little private training,
don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass on my expertise to less able
players...”
Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then hurried off
after Ron and Hermione.
“I don't believe it,” he said as the three of them
examined the signature on the note. “He didn't even look at the book we
wanted.”
“That's because he's a brainless git,” said Ron. “But who cares,
we've got what we needed—”
“He is not a brainless git,” said Hermione shrilly
as they half ran toward the library.
“Just because he said you were the best
student of the year—”
They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled
stillness of the library. Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable
woman who looked like an underfed vulture.
“Moste Potente Potions?” she
repeated suspiciously, trying to take the note from Hermione; but Hermione
wouldn't let go.
“I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said
breathlessly.
“Oh, come on,” said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp and
thrusting it at Madam Pince. “We'll get you another autograph. Lockhart'll sign
anything if it stands still long enough.”
Madam Pince held the note up to the
light, as though determined to detect a forgery, but it passed the test. She
stalked away between the lofty shelves and returned several minutes later
carrying a large and moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully into her bag
and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty.
Five
minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle's out-oforder bathroom
once again. Hermione had overridden Ron's objections by pointing out that it was
the last place anyone in their right minds would go, so they were guaranteed
some privacy. Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but they were
ignoring her, and she them.
Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully,
and the three of them bent over the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a
glance why it belonged in the Restricted Section. Some of the potions had
effects almost too gruesome to think about, and there were some very unpleasant
illustrations, which included a man who seemed to have been turned inside out
and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out of her head.
“Here it
is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the page headed The Polyjuice Potion.
It was decorated with drawings of people halfway through transforming into other
people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense pain
on their faces.
“This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen,” said
Hermione as they scanned the recipe. “Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and
knotgrass,” she murmured, running her finger down the list of ingredients.
“Well, they're easy enough, they're in the student storecupboard, we can help
ourselves... Oooh, look, powdered horn of a Bicorn—don't know where we're going
to get that—shredded skin of a Boomslang -. that'll be tricky, too and of course
a bit of whoever we want to change into.”
“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply.
“What d'you mean, a bit of whoever we're changing into? I'm drinking nothing
with Crabbe's toenails in it—”
Hermione continued as though she hadn't heard
him.
“We don't have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those
bits last...
Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another
worry.
“D'you realize how much we're going to have to steal,
Hermione? Shredded skin of a boomslang, that's definitely not in the students'
cupboard. What're we going to do, break into Snape's private stores? I don't
know if this is a good idea...”
Hermione shut the book with a snap.
“Well,
if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she said. There were bright pink
patches on her cheeks and her eyes were brighter than usual. “I don't want to
break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than
brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy,
I'll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in -'
“I never
thought Id see the day when you'd be persuading us to break rules,” said Ron.
“All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?”
“How long will it take to
make, anyway?” said Harry as Hermione, looking happier, opened the book
again.
“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and
the lacewings have got to be stewed for twenty-one days... I'd say it'd be ready
in about a month, if we can get all the ingredients.”
“A month?” said Ron.
“Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggleborns in the school by then!” But
Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he added swiftly, “But it's the
best plan we've got, so full steam ahead, I say.”
However, while Hermione was
checking that the coast was clear for them to leave the bathroom, Ron muttered
to Harry, “It'll be a lot less hassle if you can just knock Malfoy off his broom
tomorrow.
Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking
about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the thought of what
Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of facing a team mounted
on the fastest racing brooms gold could buy. He had never wanted to beat
Slytherin so badly. After half an hour of lying there with his insides churning,
he got up, dressed, and went down to breakfast early, where he found the rest of
the Gryffindor team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking uptight and
not speaking much.
As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to
make its way down to the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a
hint of thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying over to wish Harry
good luck as he entered the locker rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet
Gryffindor robes, then sat down to listen to Wood's usual pre-match pep
talk.
“Slytherin has better brooms than us,” he began. “No point denying it.
But we've got better people on our brooms. We've trained harder than they have,
we've been flying in all weathers—” (“Too true,” muttered George Weasley. “I
haven't been properly dry since August”) “and we're going to make them rue the
day they let that little bit of slime, Malfoy, buy his way onto their
team.”
Chest heaving with emotion, Wood turned to Harry.
“It'll be down to
you, Harry, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich
father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Harry, because we've got
to win today, we've got to.”
“So no pressure, Harry” said Fred, winking at
him.
As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly
cheers, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten,
but the Slytherins in the crowd made their boos and hisses heard, too. Madam
Hooch, the Quidditch teacher, asked Flint and Wood to shake hands, which they
did, giving each other threatening stares and gripping rather harder than was
necessary.
“On my whistle,” said Madam Hooch. “Three... two... one...
With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose
toward the leaden sky. Harry flew higher than any of them, squinting around for
the Snitch.
“All right there, Scarhead?” yelled Malfoy, shooting underneath
him as though to show off the speed of his broom.
Harry had no time to reply.
At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward him; he avoided
it so narrowly that he felt it ruffle his hair as it passed.
“Close one,
Harry!” said George, streaking past him with his club in his hand, ready to
knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw George give the Bludger a
powerful whack in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the Bludger changed
direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.
Harry dropped quickly
to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard toward Malfoy. Once again, the
Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Harry's head.
Harry put on a
burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch. He could hear the
Bludger whistling along behind him. What was going on? Bludgers never
concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many
people as possible...
Fred Weasley was waiting for the Bludger at the other
end. Harry ducked as Fred swung at the Bludger with all his might; the Bludger
was knocked off course.
“Gotcha!” Fred yelled happily, but he was wrong; as
though it was magnetically attracted to Harry, the Bludger pelted after him once
more and Harry was forced to fly off at full speed.
It had started to rain;
Harry felt heavy drops fall onto his face, splattering onto his glasses. He
didn't have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until he heard Lee
Jordan, who was commentating, say, “Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero.
'
The Slytherins' superior brooms were clearly doing their jobs, and
meanwhile the mad Bludger was doing all it could to knock Harry out of the air.
Fred and George were now flying so close to him on either side that Harry could
see nothing at all except their flailing arms and had no chance to look for the
Snitch, let alone catch it.
“Someone's—tampered—with—this—Bludger—” Fred
grunted, swinging his bat with all his might at it as it launched a new attack
on Harry.
“We need time out,” said George, trying to signal to Wood and stop
the Bludger breaking Harry's nose at the same time.
Wood had obviously got
the message. Madam Hooch's whistle rang out and Harry, Fred, and George dived
for the ground, still trying to avoid the mad Bludger.
“What's going on?”
said Wood as the Gryffindor team huddled together, while Slytherins in the crowd
jeered. “We're being flattened. Fred, George, where were you when that Bludger
stopped Angelina scoring?”
“We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other
Bludger from murdering Harry, Oliver,” said George angrily. “Someone's fixed
it—it won't leave Harry alone. It hasn't gone for anyone else all game. The
Slytherins must have done something to it.”
“But the Bludgers have been
locked in Madam Hooch's office since our last practice, and there was nothing
wrong with them then...” said Wood, anxiously.
Madam Hooch was walking toward
them. Over her shoulder, Harry could see the Slytherin team jeering and pointing
in his direction.
“Listen,” said Harry as she came nearer and nearer, “with
you two flying around me all the time the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch
is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and let me deal
with the rogue one.”
“Don't be thick,” said Fred. “It'll take your head
off.”
Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys.
“Oliver, this is
insane,” said Alicia Spinner angrily. “You can't let Harry deal with that thing
on his own. Let's ask for an inquiry...”
“If we stop now, we'll have to
forfeit the match!” said Harry. “And we're not losing to Slytherin just because
of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!”
“This is
all your fault,” George said angrily to Wood. “Get the Snitch or die trying,”
what a stupid thing to tell him!”
Madam Hooch had joined them.
“Ready to
resume play?” she asked Wood.
Wood looked at the determined look on Harry's
face.
“All right,” he said. “Fred, George, you heard Harry -leave him alone
and let him deal with the Bludger on his own.”
The rain was falling more
heavily now. On Madam Hooch's whistle, Harry kicked hard into the air and heard
the telltale whoosh of the Bludger behind him. Higher and higher Harry climbed;
he looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled. Slightly dizzy, he
nevertheless kept his eyes wide open, rain was speckling his glasses and ran up
his nostrils as he hung upside down, avoiding another fierce dive from the
Bludger. He could hear laughter from the crowd; he knew he must look very
stupid, but the rogue Bludger was heavy and couldn't change direction as quickly
as Harry could; he began a kind of roller-coaster ride around the edges of the
stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the Gryffindor goal
posts, where Adrian Pucey was trying to get past Wood...
A whistling in
Harry's ear told him the Bludger had just missed him again; he turned right over
and sped in the opposite direction.
“Training for the ballet, Potter?” yelled
Malfoy as Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the
Bludger, and he fled, the Bludger trailing a few feet behind him; and then,
glaring back at Malfoy in hatred, he saw it—the Golden Snitch. It was hovering
inches above Malfoy's left ear—and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, hadn't seen
it.
For an agonizing moment, Harry hung in midair, not daring to speed toward
Malfoy in case he looked up and saw the Snitch.
WHAM.
He had stayed still
a second too long. The Bludger had hit him at last, smashed into his elbow, and
Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by the searing pain in his arm, he slid
sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right
arm dangling useless at his side—the Bludger came pelting back for a second
attack, this time aiming at his face—Harry swerved out of the way, one idea
firmly lodged in his numb brain: get to Malfoy.
Through a haze of rain and
pain he dived for the shimmering, sneering face below him and saw its eyes widen
with fear: Malfoy thought Harry was attacking him.
“What the—” he gasped,
careening out of Harry's way.
Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and
made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now
only gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd below
as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass out.
With a
splattering thud he hit the mud and rolled off his broom. His arm was hanging at
a very strange angle; riddled with pain, he heard, as though from a distance, a
good deal of whistling and shouting. He focused on the Snitch clutched in his
good hand.
“Aha,” he said vaguely. “We've won.”
And he fainted.
He came
around, rain falling on his face, still lying on the field, with someone leaning
over him. He saw a glitter of teeth.
“Oh, no, not you,” he
moaned.
“Doesn't know what he's saying,” said Lockhart loudly to the anxious
crowd of Gryffindors pressing around them. “Not to worry, Harry. I'm about to
fix your arm.”
“No!” said Harry. “I'll keep it like this, thanks...”
He
tried to sit up, but the pain was terrible. He heard a familiar clicking noise
nearby.
“I don't want a photo of this, Colin,” he said loudly.
“Lie back,
Harry,” said Lockhart soothingly. “It's a simple charm I've used countless
times—”
“Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?” said Harry through
clenched teeth.
“He should really, Professor,” said a muddy Wood, who
couldn't help grinning even though his Seeker was injured. “Great capture,
Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, Id say—”
Through the thicket of
legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and George Weasley, wrestling the rogue
Bludger into a box. It was still putting up a terrific fight.
“Stand back,”
said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.
“No—don't—” said
Harry weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed
it straight at Harry's arm.
A strange and unpleasant sensation started at
Harry's shoulder and spread all the way down to his fingertips. It felt as
though his arm was being deflated. He didn't dare look at what was happening. He
had shut his eyes, his face turned away from his arm, but his worst fears were
realized as the people above him gasped and Colin Creevey began clicking away
madly. His arm didn't hurt anymore—nor did it feel remotely like an
arm.
“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the
point is, the bones are no longer broken. That's the thing to bear in mind. So,
Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing—ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would
you escort him?—and Madam Pomfrey will be able to—er—tidy you up a bit.”
As
Harry got to his feet, he felt strangely lopsided. Taking a deep breath he
looked down at his right side. What he saw nearly made him pass out
again.
Poking out of the end of his robes was what looked like a thick,
fleshcolored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing
happened.
Lockhart hadn't mended Harry's bones. He had removed them.
Madam
Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.
“You should have come straight to me!” she
raged, holding up the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been
a working arm. “I can mend bones in a second—but growing them back—”
“You
will be able to, won't you?” said Harry desperately.
“I'll be able to,
certainly, but it will be painful,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a
pair of pajamas. “You'll have to stay the night...”
Hermione waited outside
the curtain drawn around Harry's bed while Ron helped him into his pajamas. It
took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a sleeve.
“How can you
stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh?” Ron called through the curtain as he
pulled Harry's limp fingers through the cuff. “If Harry had wanted de-boning he
would have asked.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermione. “And it
doesn't hurt anymore, does it, Harry?”
“No,” said Harry, getting into bed.
“But it doesn't do anything else either.”
As he swung himself onto the bed,
his arm flapped pointlessly.
Hermione and Madam Pomfrey came around the
curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled
Skele-Gro.
“You're in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a steaming
beakerful and handing it to him. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.
So was
taking the Skele-Gro. It burned Harry's mouth and throat as it went down, making
him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and ineept
teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Harry gulp
down some water.
“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across his face.
“That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face... he looked ready to kill!”
“I
want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said Hermione darkly.
“We can add
that to the list of questions we'll ask him when we've taken the Polyjuice
Potion,” said Harry, sinking back onto his pillows. “I hope it tastes better
than this stuff...”
“If it's got bits of Slytherins in it? You've got to be
joking,” said Ron.
The door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment.
Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see
Harry.
“Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I've just seen Marcus
Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head
and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy.” They had brought cakes, sweets,
and bottles of pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry's bed and were just
getting started on what promised to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came
storming over, shouting, “This boy needs rest, he's got thirty-three bones to
regrow! Out! OUT!”
And Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him
from the stabbing pains in his limp arm.
Hours and hours later, Harry woke
quite suddenly in the pitch blackness and gave a small yelp of pain: His arm now
felt full of
large splinters. For a second, he thought that was what had
woken him. Then, with a thrill of horror, he realized that someone was sponging
his forehead in the dark.
“Get off!” he said loudly, and then,
“Dobby!”
The house-elf's goggling tennis ball eyes were peering at Harry
through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed
nose.
“Harry Potter came back to school,” he whispered miserably. “Dobby
warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't
Harry Potter go back home when he missed the train?”
Harry heaved himself up
on his pillows and pushed Dobby's sponge away.
“What're you doing here?” he
said. “And how did you know I missed the train?”
Dobby's lip trembled and
Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.
“It was you!” he said slowly. “You
stopped the barrier from letting us through!”
“Indeed yes, sir,” said Dobby,
nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. “Dobby hid and watched for Harry
Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward”—he
showed Harry ten long, bandaged fingers—”but Dobby didn't care, sir, for he
thought Harry Potter was safe, and never did Dobby dream that Harry Potter would
get to school another way!”
He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his
ugly head.
“Dobby was 'so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at
Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had,
sir...”
Harry slumped back onto his pillows.
“You nearly got Ron and me
expelled,” he said fiercely. “You'd better get lost before my bones come back,
Dobby, or I might strangle you.”
Dobby smiled weakly.
“Dobby is used to
death threats, sir. Dobby gets them five times a day at home.”
He blew his
nose on a corner of the filthy pillowcase he wore, looking so pathetic that
Harry felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself.
“Why d'you wear that
thing, Dobby?” he asked curiously.
“This, sir?” said Dobby, plucking at the
pillowcase. “'Tis a mark of the house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be
freed if his masters present him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to
pass Dobby even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave their house
forever.”
Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, “Harry Potter must
go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make—”
“Your Bludger?”
said Harry, anger rising once more. “What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made
that Bludger try and kill me?”
“Not kill you, sir, never kill you!” said
Dobby, shocked. “Dobby wants to save Harry Potter's life! Better sent home,
grievously injured, than remain here sir! Dobby only wanted Harry Potter hurt
enough to be sent home!”
“Oh, is that all?” said Harry angrily. “I don't
suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted me sent home in pieces?”
“Ah,
if Harry Potter only knew!” Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged
pillowcase. “If he knew what he means to us, to the lowly, the enslaved, we
dregs of the magical world! Dobby remembers how it was when
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was at the height of his powers, sir! We house-elves
were treated like vermin, sir! Of course, Dobby is still treated like that,
sir,” he admitted, drying his face on the pillowcase. “But mostly, sir, life has
improved for my kind since you triumphed over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry
Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it was a new dawn,
sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought
the Dark days would never end, sit... And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are
to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay
here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is
open once more—”
Dobby froze, horror-struck, then grabbed Harry's water jug
from his bedside table and cracked it over his own head, toppling out of sight.
A second later, he crawled back onto the bed, cross-eyed, muttering, “Bad Dobby,
very bad Dobby...”
“So there is a Chamber of Secrets?” Harry whispered. “And
did you say it's been opened before? Tell me, Dobby!”
He seized the elf's
bony wrist as Dobby's hand inched toward the water jug. “But I'm not
Muggle-born—how can I be in danger from the Chamber?”
“Ah, sir, ask no more,
ask no more of poor Dobby,” stammered the elf, his eyes huge in the dark. “Dark
deeds are planned in this place, but Harry Potter must not be here when they
happen—go home, Harry Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this,
sir, 'tis too dangerous—”
“Who is it, Dobby?” Harry said, keeping a firm hold
on Dobby's wrist to stop him from hitting himself with the water jug again.
“Who's opened it? Who opened it last time?”
“Dobby can't, sir, Dobby can't,
Dobby mustn't tell!” squealed the elf. “Go home, Harry Potter, go home!”
“I'm
not going anywhere!” said Harry fiercely. “One of my best friends is
Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been
opened—”
“Harry Potter risks his own life for his friends!” moaned Dobby in a
kind of miserable ecstasy. “So noble! So valiant! But he must save himself, he
must, Harry Potter must not—”
Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering.
Harry heard it, too. There were footsteps coming down the passageway
outside.
“Dobby must go!” breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud
crack, and Harry's fist was suddenly clenched on thin air. He slumped back into
bed, his eyes on the dark doorway to the hospital wing as the footsteps drew
nearer.
Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, wearing a
long woolly dressing gown and a nightcap. He was carrying one end of what looked
like a statue. Professor McGonagall appeared a second later, carrying its feet.
Together, they heaved it onto a bed.
“Get Madam Pomfrey,” whispered
Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall hurried past the end of Harry's bed out of
sight. Harry lay quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices,
and then Professor McGonagall swept back into view, closely followed by Madam
Pomfrey, who was pulling a cardigan on over her nightdress. He heard a sharp
intake of breath.
“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore,
bending over the statue on the bed.
“Another attack,” said Dumbledore.
“Minerva found him on the stairs.”
“There was a bunch of grapes next to him,”
said Professor McGonagall. “We think he was trying to sneak up here to visit
Potter.”
Harry's stomach gave a horrible lurch. Slowly and carefully, he
raised himself a few inches so he could look at the statue on the bed. A ray of
moonlight lay across its staring face.
It was Colin Creevey. His eyes were
wide and his hands were stuck up in front of him, holding his
camera.
“Petrified?” whispered Madam Pomfrey.
“Yes,” said Professor
McGonagall. “But I shudder to think... If Albus hadn't been on the way
downstairs for hot chocolate—who knows what might have—”
The three of them
stared down at Colin. Then Dumbledore leaned forward and wrenched the camera out
of Colin's rigid grip.
“You don't think he managed to get a picture of his
attacker?” said Professor McGonagall eagerly.
Dumbledore didn't answer. He
opened the back of the camera.
“Good gracious!” said Madam Pomfrey.
A jet
of steam had hissed out of the camera. Harry, three beds away, caught the acrid
smell of burnt plastic.
“Melted,” said Madam Pomfrey wonderingly. “All
melted...”
“What does this mean, Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked
urgently.
“It means,” said Dumbledore, “that the Chamber of Secrets is indeed
open again.”
Madam Pomfrey clapped a hand to her mouth. Professor McGonagall
stared at Dumbledore.
“But, Albus... surely... who?”
“The question is not
who,” said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin. “The question is, how...”
And from
what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall's shadowy face, she didn't
understand this any better than he did.
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