Hogwarts Reads the Chamber of Secrets Fictionhunt

1. THE WORST Birthday

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken in the early hours of the forenoon by a loud, hooting racket from his nephew Harry'southward room.

"Third time this week!" he roared beyond the table. "If you can't control that owl, information technology'll have to become!"

Harry tried, however once more, to explicate.

"She'southward bored," he said. "She's used to flying effectually outside. If I could just let her out at dark—"

"Practice I look stupid?" snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. "I know what'll happen if that owl's let out." He exchanged nighttime looks with his married woman, Petunia.

Harry tried to argue dorsum but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursleys' son, Dudley.

"I want more bacon."

"There's more in the frying pan, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. "Nosotros must build you upward while we've got the adventure… I don't like the sound of that school food…"

"Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when I was at Smeltings," said Uncle Vernon heartily. "Dudley gets plenty, don't you, son?"

Dudley, who was then large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Harry.

"Pass the frying pan."

"Y'all've forgotten the magic discussion," said Harry irritably.

The effect of this elementary sentence on the rest of the family unit was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her oral fissure; Mr. Dursley jumped to his anxiety, veins throbbing in his temples.

"I meant 'please'!" said Harry quickly. "I didn't mean—"

"WHAT HAVE I TOLD Y'all," thundered his uncle, spraying spit over the table, "ABOUT Proverb THE 'Chiliad' Give-and-take IN OUR House?"

"Just I—"

"HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!" roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the tabular array with his fist.

"I only—"

"I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY Under THIS ROOF!"

Harry stared from his purple faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

"All right," said Harry, "all right…"

Uncle Vernon sat back downwards, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out of the corners of his small, abrupt optics.

Ever since Harry had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a bomb that might become off at any moment, because Harry Potter wasn't a normal male child. As a matter of fact, he was as non normal every bit it is possible to exist.

Harry Potter was a magician—a wizard fresh from his showtime year at Hogwarts Schoolhouse of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to accept him back for the holidays, it was nothing to how Harry felt.

He missed Hogwarts so much information technology was like having a constant stomachache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and ghosts, his classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions main), the mail arriving past owl, eating banquets in the Nifty Hall, sleeping in his four-affiche bed in the belfry dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his motel side by side to the Forbidden Wood in the grounds, and, specially, Quidditch, the near popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goal posts, 4 flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).

All Harry's spellbooks, his wand, robes, cauldron, and top of the line Nimbus Ii Thousand broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant Harry had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his identify on the House Quidditch squad because he hadn't proficient all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went back to school without whatever of his homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and every bit far as they were concerned, having a sorcerer in the family unit was a thing of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had fifty-fifty padlocked Harry's owl, Hedwig, inside her muzzle, to stop her from carrying letters to anyone in the wizarding world.

Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse faced and bony; Dudley was blond, pinkish, and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was modest and skinny, with vivid green eyes and jet blackness hair that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and on his forehead was a thin, lightning shaped scar.

It was this scar that fabricated Harry then particularly unusual, even for a magician. This scar was the only hint of Harry's very mysterious past, of the reason he had been left on the Dursleys' doorstep eleven years before.

At the historic period of ane year onetime, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose proper name most witches and wizards however feared to speak. Harry'southward parents had died in Voldemort's attack, but Harry had escaped with his lightning scar, and somehow—nobody understood why Voldemort's powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to kill Harry.

So Harry had been brought upward past his dead female parent'south sis and her husband. He had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why he kept making odd things happen without meaning to, believing the Dursleys' story that he had got his scar in the car crash that had killed his parents.

And then, exactly a yr agone, Hogwarts had written to Harry, and the whole story had come out. Harry had taken upward his place at wizard school, where he and his scar were famous… but now the school year was over, and he was dorsum with the Dursleys for the summertime, back to existence treated like a dog that had rolled in something smelly.

The Dursleys hadn't even remembered that today happened to be Harry's twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn't been high; they'd never given him a existent nowadays, permit lone a block—simply to ignore it completely…

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his pharynx chiefly and said, "At present, every bit nosotros all know, today is a very important day."

Harry looked up, inappreciably daring to believe it.

"This could well exist the day I brand the biggest deal of my career," said Uncle Vernon.

Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking nigh the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking of naught else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his married woman were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon's visitor made drills).

"I think we should run through the schedule one more than fourth dimension," said Uncle Vernon. "We should all be in position at viii o'clock. Petunia, you will be—?"

"In the lounge," said Aunt Petunia promptly, "waiting to welcome them graciously to our abode."

"Good, practiced. And Dudley?"

"I'll be waiting to open up the door." Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. "May I accept your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

"They'll love him!" cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

"Excellent, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on Harry. "And you?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," said Harry tonelessly.

"Exactly," said Uncle Vernon nastily. "I will lead them into the lounge, innovate y'all, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen—"

"I'll denote dinner," said Aunt Petunia.

"And, Dudley, yous'll say—"

"May I take yous through to the dining room, Mrs. Bricklayer?" said Dudley, offer his fatty arm to an invisible adult female.

"My perfect trivial gentleman!" sniffed Aunt Petunia.

"And you?" said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.

"I'll be in my room, making no racket and pretending I'1000 not at that place," said Harry dully.

"Precisely. At present, nosotros should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?"

"Vernon tells me you lot're a wonderful golfer, Mr. Mason… Practice tell me where you bought your dress, Mrs. Stonemason…"

"Perfect… Dudley?"

"How аbout: 'We had to write an essay about our hero at schoolhouse, Mr. Stonemason, and I wrote well-nigh you lot.'"

This was besides much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn't run into him laughing.

"And you, boy?"

Harry fought to keep his face direct every bit he emerged. "I'll exist in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm non there," he said.

"Too correct, y'all volition," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "The Masons don't know anything about you and information technology's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, yous take Mrs. Stonemason dorsum to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject around to drills. With whatever luck, I'll have the bargain signed and sealed before the News at Ten. We'll be shopping for a vacation dwelling house in Majorca this time tomorrow."

Harry couldn't feel besides excited virtually this. He didn't think the Dursleys would like him whatever better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.

"Right—I'k off into town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And you lot," he snarled at Harry. "Yous stay out of your aunt'due south way while she'southward cleaning."

Harry left through the back door. Information technology was a bright, sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped downward on the garden bench, and sang under his breath:

"Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me…"

No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so lone. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more than even than playing Quidditch, Harry missed his all-time friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn't seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had written to him all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to inquire Harry to come and stay.

Countless times, Harry had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig's muzzle by magic and sending her to Ron and Hermione with a letter, simply information technology wasn't worth the hazard. Underage wizards weren't immune to use magic outside of school. Harry hadn't told the Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that he might plow them all into dung beetles that stopped them from locking him in the closet under the stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the showtime couple of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering nonsense words nether his breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room equally fast as his fatty legs would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and Hermione had made Harry feel then cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal—and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten his altogether.

What wouldn't he give at present for a bulletin from Hogwarts? From whatsoever witch or wizard? He'd almost exist glad of a sight of his archenemy, Draco Malfoy, but to exist certain it hadn't all been a dream…

Not that his whole yr at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Harry had come face to face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was however terrifying, still cunning, still adamant to regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort's clutches for a second time, but information technology had been a narrow escape, and fifty-fifty now, weeks later, Harry kept waking in the night, drenched in cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now, remembering his livid face up, his wide, mad eyes—

Harry suddenly saturday commodities upright on the garden bench. He had been staring absent mindedly into the hedge—and the hedge was staring back. Two enormous greenish eyes had appeared among the leaves.

Harry jumped to his feet simply as a jeering voice floated across the lawn.

"I know what solar day it is," sang Dudley, waddling toward him.

The huge optics blinked and vanished.

"What?" said Harry, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had been.

"I know what mean solar day it is," Dudley repeated, coming correct up to him.

"Well done," said Harry. "So you've finally learned the days of the week."

"Today's your altogether," sneered Dudley. "How come yous haven't got whatsoever cards? Oasis't you fifty-fifty got friends at that freak place?"

"Meliorate not let your mum hear y'all talking about my school," said Harry coolly.

Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were slipping down his fatty bottom.

"Why're you staring at the hedge?" he said suspiciously.

"I'thousand trying to make up one's mind what would be the best spell to set it on burn down," said Harry.

Dudley stumbled backward at in one case, a look of panic on his fat face.

"Yous c-can't—Dad told you y'all're non to do grand-magic—he said he'll chuck y'all out of the business firm—and y'all haven't got anywhere else to go—you oasis't got whatever friends to take y'all—"

"Jiggery pokery!" said Harry in a fierce vocalization. "Hocus pocus—squiggly wiggly—"

"MUUUUUUM!" howled Dudley, tripping over his anxiety equally he dashed back toward the house. "MUUUUM! He'southward doing you lot know what!"

Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. Every bit neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn't really done magic, only he still had to duck every bit she aimed a heavy blow at his head with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to practice, with the promise he wouldn't consume again until he'd finished.

While Dudley lolled effectually watching and eating ice foam, Harry cleaned the windows, done the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed overhead, called-for the back of his neck. Harry knew he shouldn't have risen to Dudley's allurement, just Dudley had said the very matter Harry had been thinking himself… maybe he didn't have whatever friends at Hogwarts…

Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now, he thought savagely every bit he spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running downwardly his confront.

It was half past seven,in the evening when at last, exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him.

"Go far here! And walk on the newspaper!"

Harry moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On height of the fridge stood tonight'due south pudding: a huge mound of whipped foam and sugared violets. A loin of roast pork was sizzling in the oven.

"Eat quickly! The Masons volition be here soon!" snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to ii slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen tabular array. She was already wearing a salmon pinkish cocktail dress.

Harry washed his hands and bolted downwardly his deplorable supper. The moment he had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away his plate. "Upstairs! Bustle!"

As he passed the door to the living room, Harry defenseless a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. He had merely but reached the upstairs landing when the door bell rang and Uncle Vernon's furious confront appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"Remember, male child—one sound—"

Harry crossed to his chamber on tiptoe slipped within, closed the door, and turned to collapse on his bed. The trouble was, in that location was already someone sitting on it.

ii. DOBBY'S Alert

Harry managed non to shout out, only it was a close matter. The little animate being on the bed had large, bat like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. Harry knew instantly that this was what had been watching him out of the garden hedge that forenoon.

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley'south phonation from the hall.

"May I have your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Bricklayer?"

The beast slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, sparse olfactory organ touched the carpet. Harry noticed that information technology was wearing what looked similar an old pillowcase, with rips for armand leg ho

les.

"Er—hello," said Harry nervously.

"Harry Potter!" said the creature in a loftier pitched voice Harry was sure would carry downwardly the stairs. "So long has Dobby wanted to run into yous, sir… Such an honor it is…"

"Th-cheers," said Harry, edging forth the wall and sinking into his desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her big muzzle. He wanted to ask, "What are you?" but idea it would sound too rude, so instead he said, "Who are you?"

"Dobby, sir. Simply Dobby. Dobby the house-elf," said the brute.

"Oh—really?" said Harry. "Er—I don't want to be rude or anything, but—this isn't a swell time for me to have a house-elf in my chamber."

Aunt Petunia's high, false laugh sounded from the living room. The elf hung his head.

"Non that I'k non pleased to see you," said Harry quickly, "just, er, is there any particular reason yous're here?"

"Oh, yep, sir," said Dobby earnestly. "Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to brainstorm…"

"Sit downwards," said Harry politely, pointing at the bed.

To his horror, the elf burst into tears—very noisy tears.

"S-sit downward!" he wailed. "Never… never ever…"

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs stammer.

"I'one thousand lamentable," he whispered, "I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

"Offend Dobby!" choked the elf. "Dobby has never been asked to sit downwardly by a wizard—similar an equal—"

Harry, trying to say "Shh!" and expect comforting at the aforementioned time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking similar a large and very ugly doll. At terminal he managed to control himself, and sat with his corking eyes stock-still on Harry in an expression of watery adoration.

"You tin't have met many decent wizards," said Harry, trying to cheer him upwards.

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt upward and started banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!"

"Don't—what are yous doing?" Harry hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby dorsum onto the bed—Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was chirapsia her wings wildly against the bars of her cage.

"Dobby had to punish himself, sir," said the elf, who had gone slightly cross eyed. "Dobby most spoke sick of his family, sir…"

"Your family?"

"The magician family Dobby serves, sir… Dobby's is a house-elf—bound to serve one house and one family forever…"

"Practice they know you lot're here?" asked Harry curiously.

Dobby shuddered.

"Oh, no, sir, no… Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see yous, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir—"

"But won't they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?"

"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments…"

"But why don't you leave? Escape?"

"A firm-elf must be fix free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free… Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir…"

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