第 14 页

was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy

would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least

yer not in trouble."

Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse

than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn't; Hagrid's

treacle fudge had cemented his jaws together.

"Harry," said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought.

"Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed

photos. How come I haven't got one?"

Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.

"I have not been giving out signed photos," he said hotly. "If

Lockhart's still spreading that around -"

*116*

But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.

"I'm on'y jokin'," he said, patting Harry genially on the back and

sending him face first into the table. "I knew yeh hadn't really. I told

Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without

tryin'."

"Bet he didn't like that," said Harry, sitting up and rubbing his chin.

"Don' think he did," said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. "An' then I told

him Id never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle

fudge, Ron?" he added as Ron reappeared.

100

"No thanks," said Ron weakly. "Better not risk it."

"Come an' see what I've bin growin'," said Hagrid as Harry and

Hermione finished the last of their tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of

the largest pumpkins Harry had ever seen. Each was the size of a

large boulder.

"Gettin' on well, aren't they?" said Hagrid happily. "Fer the Halloween

feast ... should be big enough by then."

"What've you been feeding them?" said Harry.

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.

"Well, I've bin givin' them - you know - a bit o' help -"

Harry noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back

wall of the cabin. Harry had had reason to believe before now that

this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong

impression that Hagrid's old school wand was concealed inside it.

Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from

Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry had never found out why -any

mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his

*117*

throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was

changed.

"An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?" said Hermione, halfway

between disapproval and amusement. "Well, you've done a good job on

them."

"That's what yer little sister said," said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. "Met

her jus' yesterday." Hagrid looked sideways at Harry, his beard

twitching. "Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon

she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house." He

winked at Harry. "If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed -"

"Oh, shut up," said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter and the ground

101

was sprayed with slugs.

"Watch it!" Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious

pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had one bit of treacle

fudge since dawn, he was keen to go back to school to eat. They said

good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing

occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang

out, "There you are, Potter - Weasley." Professor McGonagall was

walking toward them, looking stern. "You will both do your detentions

this evening."

"What're we doing, Professor?" said Ron, nervously suppressing a

burp.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,"

said Professor McGonagall. "And no magic, Weasley - elbow grease."

*118*

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student

in the school.

"And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan

mail," said Professor McGonagall.

"Oh n - Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" said Harry

desperately.

"Certainly not," said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows.

"Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp,

both of you."

Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest

gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-schoolrules sort of expression. Harry didn't enjoy his shepherd's pie as

much as he'd thought. Both he and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.

"Filch'll have me there all night," said Ron heavily. "No magic! There

102

must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle

cleaning."

"I'd swap anytime," said Harry hollowly. "I've had loads of practice

with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail ... he'll be a

nightmare ......

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no

time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet

along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. He gritted his

teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.

"Ah, here's the scalawag!" he said. "Come in, Harry, come in -"

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were

countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few

of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.

"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart told Harry, as though

this was a huge treat. "This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her

huge fan of mine -"

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him,

occasionally saying, "Mmm" and "Right" and "Yeah." Now and then

he caught a phrase like, "Fame's a fickle friend, Harry," or "Celebrity

is as celebrity does, remember that."

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the

many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his

aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out

Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harry

thought miserably, please let it be nearly time...

And then he heard something - something quite apart from the

spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of

breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

103

"Come ... come to me.... Let me rip you.... Let me tear you .... Let me kill you . .

. ."

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica

Smethley's street.

"What?" he said loudly.

"I know!" said Lockhart. "Six solid months at the top of the best-

seller list! Broke all records!"

"No," said Harry frantically. "That voice!"

"Sorry?" said Lockhart, looking puzzled. "What voice?"

"That - that voice that said - didn't you hear it?"

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

* 3-2o *

"What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a litde

drowsy? Great Scott - look at the time! We've been here nearly four

hours! Id never have believed it - the time's flown, hasn't it?"

Harry didn't answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again,

but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't

expect a treat like this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed,

Harry left.

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty.

Harry went straight up to the dormitory. Ron wasn't back yet. Harry

pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, Ron

arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into

the darkened room.

"My muscles have all seized up," he groaned, sinking on his bed.

"Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch cup before he was

satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award

for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off... How was

it with Lockhart?"

104

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus,

Harry told Ron exactly what he had heard.

"And Lockhart said he couldn't hear it?" said Ron. Harry could see

him frowning in the moonlight. "D'you think he was lying? But I don't

get it - even someone invisible would've had to open the door."

"I know," said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and staring at the

canopy above him. "I don't get it either."

* 12-1 *

122

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle.

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among

the staff and students. Her Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left

the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny Weasley,

who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The

steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole

head was on fire.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on

end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's

pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for

regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry

was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before

Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and

splattered with mud..

123

Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice session.

Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for

themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They

reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs,

shooting through the air like missiles.

As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he came across somebody

who looked just as preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost

of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering

under his breath, ". . . don't fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that .

. ."

"Hello, Nick," said Harry.

105

"Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He

wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff,

which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He

was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark sky

and torrential rain outside.

"You look troubled, young Potter," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as

he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

"So do you," said Harry.

"Ah," Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, "a matter of no

importance. . . . It's not as though I really wanted to join. . . . Thought I'd

apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements' -"

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.

"But you would think, wouldn't you," he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter

back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a

blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"

124

"Oh - yes," said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree.

"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean,

and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great

deal of pain and ridicule. However -" Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter

open and read furiously: "'We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have

parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be

impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as

Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret,

therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements.

With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.'"

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.

"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! Most people

would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir

Properly Decapitated-Podmore."

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far

calmer tone, "So - what's bothering you? Anything I can do?"

"No," said Harry. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free

Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly -"

The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling

from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing

into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat

who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his

endless battle against students.

"You'd better get out of here, Harry," said Nick quickly. "Filch isn't in a

106

good mood - he's got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog

brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He's been cleaning all morning,

and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place -"

.125

"Right," said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris,

but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that