Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - Chapter One
'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 morning by a loud, hooting noise from his
nephew Harry's room.
'Third time this week!' he roared across the
table. 'If you can't control that owl, it'll have to go!'
Harry tried, yet again to explain.
'She's bored,' he said. 'She's used to flying
around outside. If I could just let her out at night...'
'Do I look stupid?' snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit
of fried egg dangling from his bushy moustache. 'I
know what'll happen if that owl's let out.'
He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.
Harry tried to argue back but his words were
drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursley's
son, Dudley.
'I want more bacon.'
'There's more in the frying pan, sweetums,' said
Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive
son, 'We must feed you up while we've got the
chance... 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 enough, don't you, son?'
Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped
over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and
turned to Harry.
'Pass the frying pan.
'You've forgotten the magic word,' said Harry
irritably.
The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of
the family 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 mouth; Mr Dursley jumped to his feet,
veins throbbing in his temples.
'I meant 'please'!' said Harry quickly, 'I didn't
mean-'
'WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,' thundered his
uncle, spraying spit over the table, 'ABOUT
SAYING THE M WORD IN OUR HOUSE?'
'But I-'
'HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!'
roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his
fist.
'I just-'
'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 down, breathing like a
winded rhinoceros and watching Harry closely out
of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.
Ever since Harry had come home for the summer
holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating him like a
bomb that might go off at any moment, because
Harry wasn't a normal boy. As a matter of fact, he
was as not normal as it is possible to be.
Harry Potter was a wizard - a wizard fresh from
his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to
have him back for the holidays, it was nothing
compared to how Harry felt.
He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having
a constant stomach ache. He missed the castle, with
its secret passageways and ghosts, his lessons
(though perhaps not Snape, the potions master), the
post arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great
Hall, sleeping in his four-poster bed in the tower
dormitory, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his
cabin in the grounds next to the forbidden forest
and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport
in the wizarding world (six tall goal-posts, four
flying balls and fourteen players on broomsticks).
All Harry's spellbooks, his wand, robes,
cauldron and top-of-the-range Nimbus Two
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 place on the house
Quidditch team because he hadn't practiced all
summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Harry went
back to school without any of his homework done?
The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles
(not a drop of magic blood in their veins) and as far
as they were concerned, having a wizard in the
family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle
Vernon had even padlocked Harry's owl, Hedwig,
inside her cage, to stop her carrying messages 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 moustache; Aunt Petunia was
horse-faced and boney; Dudley was blonde, pink
and porky. Harry, on the other hand, was small and
skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet black hair
that was always untidy. He wore round glasses, and
on his forehead was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.
It was this scar that made Harry so particularly
unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only
hint of Harry's very mysterious past, of the reason
he had been left on Dursley's doorstep eleven years
before.
At the age of one, Harry had somehow survived
a curse from the greatest dark sorcerer of all time,
Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and
wizards still feared to speak. Harry's 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 up by his dead
mother's sister 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 which had killed his parents.
And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had
written to Harry, and the whole story had come
out. Harry had taken up his place at wizard school,
where he and his scar were famous... but now the
school year was over, and he was back with the
Dursleys for the summer, back to being 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
proper present, let alone a cake - but to ignore it
completely...
At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat
importantly and said, 'Now, as we all know, today
is a very important day.'
Harry looked up, hardly daring to believe it.
'This could well be the day I make the biggest
deal of my career,' said Uncle Vernon.
Harry went back to his toast. Of course, he
thought bitterly, Uncle Vernon was talking about
the stupid dinner party. He'd been talking of nothing
else for a fortnight. Some rich builder and his wife
were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was
hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle
Vernon's company made drills).
'I think we should run through the schedule one
more time,' said Uncle Vernon. 'We should all be in
position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be -?'
'In the lounge,' said Aunt Petunia promptly,
'waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.'
'Good, good. And Dudley?'
'I'll be waiting to open the door.' Dudley put on a
foul, simpering smile. 'May I take 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, introduce you, Petunia, and
pour them drinks. At eight fifteen -'
'I'll announce dinner,' said Aunt Petunia.
'And Dudley, you'll say -'
'May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs
Mason?' said Dudley, offering his fat arm to the
invisible woman.
'My perfect little gentleman!' sniffed Aunt
Petunia.
'And you?' said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.
'I'll be in my room, making no noise, and
pretending I'm not there,' said Harry dully.
'Precisely. Now, we should aim to get in a few
good compliments at dinner. Petunia, any ideas?'
'Vernon tells me you're a wonderful golfer, Mr
Mason... do tell me where you bought your dress,
Mrs Mason...'
'Perfect... Dudley?'
'How about: "We had to write an essay about
our hero at school, Mr Mason, and I wrote about
you."'
This was too 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 see him laughing.
'And you, boy?'
Harry fought to keep his face straight as he
emerged.
'I'll be in my room, making no noise and
pretending I'm not there,' he said.
'Too right you will,' said Uncle Vernon forcefully.
'The Masons don't know anything about you and
it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you
take Mrs Mason back to the lounge for coffee,
Petunia, and I'll bring the subject round to drills.
With any luck, I'll have the deal signed and sealed
before the News at Ten. We'll be shopping for a
holiday home in Majorca this time tomorrow.'
Harry couldn't feel too excited about this. He
didn't think the Dursleys would like him any better
in Majorca than they did in Privet Drive.
'Right - I'm off into town to pick up the dinner
jackets for Dudley and me. And you,' he snarled at
Harry, 'You stay out of your aunt's way while she's
cleaning.'
Harry left through the back door. I was a
brilliant, sunny day. He crossed the lawn, slumped
down 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 lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts,
more even than playing Quidditch, Harry missed his
best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.
They, however, didn't seem to be missing him at all.
Neither one of them had written to him all summer,
even though Ron had said he was going to ask
Harry to come and stay.
Countless times, Harry had been on the point of
unlocking Hedwig's cage by magic and sending her
to Ron and Hermione with a letter, but it wasn't
worth the risk. Under-age wizards weren't allowed
to use magic outside school. Harry hadn't told the
Dursleys this; he knew it was only their terror that
he might turn them all into dung beetles that stopped
them locking him in the cupboard under the stairs
with his wand and broomstick. For the first couple
of weeks back, Harry had enjoyed muttering
nonsense words under his breath and watching
Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs
would carry him. But the long silence from Ron and
Hermione had made Harry feel so cut off from the
magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its
appeal - and now Ron and Hermione had forgotten
his birthday.
What wouldn't he give now for a message from
Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? He'd almost
be glad of a sight of his arch-enemy, Draco Malfoy,
just to be sure it hadn't all been a dream...
Not that his whole year 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 still terrifying, still cunning, still
determined to regain power. Harry had slipped
through Voldemort's clutches for a second time, but
it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks
later, Harry kept waking in the night, drenched in
cold sweat, wondering where Voldemort was now,
remembering his livid face, his wide, mad eyes...
Harry suddenly sat bolt upright on the garden
bench. He had been staring absent-mindedly into
the hedge - and the hedge was staring back. Two
enormous green eyes had appeared among the
leaves.
Harry jumped to his feet just as a jeering voice
floated across the lawn.
'I know what day it is,' sang Dudley, waddling
towards him.
The huge eyes blinked and vanished.
'What?' said Harry, not taking his eyes off the
spot where they had been.
'I know what day it is,' Dudley repeated, coming
right up to him.
'Well done,' said Harry. 'So you've finally
learned the days of the week?'
'Today's your birthday,' sneered Dudley. 'How
come you haven't got any cards? Haven't you even
got friends at that freak place?'
'Better not let your mum hear you talking about
my school,' said Harry coolly.
Dudley hitched up his trousers, which were
slipping down his fat bottom.
'Why're you staring at the hedge?' he said
suspiciously.
'I'm trying to decide what would be the best spell
to set it on fire,' said Harry.
Dudley stumbled backwards at once, a look of
panic on his fat face.
'You c-can't - Dad told you you're not to do
m-magic - he said he'll chuck you out of the house -
and you haven't got anywhere else to go - you
haven't got any friends to take you -'
'Jiggery pokery!' said Harry in a fierce voice.
'Hocus pocus... squiggly wiggly...'
'MUUUUUUM' howled Dudley, tripping over
his feet as he dashed back towards the house,
'MUUUUM! He's doing you know what!'
Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As
neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt,
Aunt Petunia knew he hadn't really done magic, but
he still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at
his head with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave
him work to do, with the promise he wouldn't eat
again until he'd finished.
While Dudley lolled around watching and eating
ice-creams, Harry cleaned the windows, washed
the car, mowed the lawn and trimmed the
flowerbeds, pruned and watered the roses and
repainted the garden bench. The sun blazed
overhead, burning the back of his neck. Harry knew he
shouldn't have risen to Dudley's bait, but Dudley
had said the very thing Harry had been thinking
himself... maybe he didn't have any friends at
Hogwarts...
'Wish they could see famous Harry Potter now,'
he thought savagely, as he spread manure on the
flowerbeds, his back aching, sweat running down
his face.
It was half past seven in the evening when at last,
exhausted, he heard Aunt Petunia calling him.
'Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!'
Harry moved gladly into the shade of the
gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood
tonight's pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream
and sugared violets. A joint of roast pork was
sizzling in the oven.
'Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!'
snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to two slices of
bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table.
She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail
dress.
Harry washed his hands and bolted down his
pitiful supper. The moment he had finished, Aunt
Petunia whisked away his plate. 'Upstairs! Hurry!'
As he passed the door to the living room, Harry
caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in
bow ties and dinner jackets. He had only just
reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang
and Uncle Vernon's furious face appeared at the
foot of the stairs.
'Remember, boy - one sound...'
Harry crossed to his bedroom on tiptoe, slipped
inside, closed the door and turned to collapse on
his bed.
The trouble was, there was already someone
sitting on it.