Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Ch. Ten)

 

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.

“Er- Professor Lockhart?” Harry asked tentatively, walking up to him after class.

“Yes, Harry?” Lockhart asked, shining his teeth at Harry with an enormous smile.

“There’s a book I’d like, but it’s in the restricted section.” Harry said. “I’m sure it would help me understand what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about er- ‘slow acting venom’?”

“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart, taking the note from Harry and smiling widely him. “Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?”

“Er- yeah- I liked the part where you- er- gadded with the ghoul.” Harry stammered.

“Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving my favorite student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock quill.

He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to Harry.

“Good luck with Quidditch!” Lockhart called.

 

“He didn’t even look at the book I wanted.” Harry said later after dinner as they headed to the library.

“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.

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, taking the note from Harry.

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-of-order 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 store-cupboard, 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 I’d 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 Muggle-borns 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.”

“He’s a great chaser,” Harry protested. “I want him to stay on his broom.”

“Fine then,” Ron said as they exited the bathroom. “I’ll knock him off.”

 

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 Flint would say if Gryffindor won. He had never less cared about winning. He hated being in Slytherin.

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 Slytherin team huddled at the long, empty table, all looking smug and eating quite a bit more than the Gryffindor team, who looked nervous beyond belief. Ron’s plate was empty, and he was biting his lip with nerves.

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. Hermione came hurrying over to wish Ron good luck and told Harry to try not to fly too fast. The team pulled on their Emerald Slytherin robes. After a short and confident pep talk, they marched onto the field.

As they walked out onto the pitch, a roar of noise greeted them; mainly boos, because Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were anxious to see Slytherin beaten, but the Slytherins in the crowd made their cheers 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.

“Slytherin scores!” called Lee.

Harry whirled around in disbelieve. They couldn’t have scored already. But sure enough, Malfoy had thrown the Quaffle through the left hoop, and was already with it again, this time aiming for the right.

Harry turned again and began flying higher, searching for the snitch.

At that very moment however, 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, Potter!” said a Slytherin beater, streaking past him with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward Katie Bell, a Gryffindor chaser.

Harry saw George give the Bludger shooting at Katie a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.

Suspicion prickled in Harry. He decided to test this theory. He shot toward the Gryffindor end of the pitch as Malfoy scored two more goals. Sure enough, the Bludger shot after Harry, following him close behind as he flew through the air on his Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

Harry, upon reaching the edge of the Quidditch pitch, did a quick one eighty and shot again to the other end, where Ron, also looking for the Snitch, was waiting.

“Harry!” Ron called. “What are you doing?”

“The Bludger!” Harry shouted back, twirling in the air to avoid it. “It’s chasing me specifically!”

“Should I call I time out?” asked Ron. Harry nodded. But before Ron could say anything- “HARRY THE SNITCH!” Ron screamed. He pointed at somewhere behind Harry.

Harry spun around and spotted a small golden glint in the air beyond him.

The Bludger was forgotten. Harry and Ron both sped after the Snitch. Neck and neck with Ron, Harry barely spotted the rogue Bludger speeding towards him. He allowed himself to slip, and clutched onto the broom upside down as the Bludger sped past.

Ron slowed slightly to glance back at Harry.

“GO RON DON’T STOP!” Oliver Wood screamed from the Gryffindor side.

Harry swung up back into him broom and chased after Ron. Harry pulled ahead, his eyes watering.

The Snitch was less than a foot away, Harry reached out his hand, his fingers grazed the side of the Snitch.

“HARRY!”

A dull thud. Sickening pain. Screaming. Wind rushing past his face. Sudden cheering.

 

Harry awoke in the hospital wing, his head wrapped up in a turban of bandages.

It seemed to be night outside, and his head felt strangely damp.

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, his head throbbing. “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 head stops pounding, 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, horrorstruck, 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.