HP & The Chamber of Secrets

Charles

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 Charles to help him with these reconstructions; so far, Charles 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.

Charles 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, Charles - 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, Charles - 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. Charles returned to the back of the room, where Ron and Hermione were waiting. "Ready?" he 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, Charles 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, Charles," 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, albeit new on the team. I was a Seeker, too, you know. 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..."

Charles 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-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 be.

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?" Ron interrupted 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 Charles, 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 are 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 no toenails, okay?"

"How long will it take to make, anyway?" Charles asked 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 Charles, "It'll be a lot less hassle if you can just knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.

Harry

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, because since he'd been rumored to be the heir, he could not get a moment's piece, and he wondered if all the houses would turn against Gryffindor. 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. His friends, save Adrian, 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. Only Harry here has a Nimus Two-Thousand One, and he's only one player. 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, "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 Charles.

"It'll be down to you, Charles, to show them that a Seeker has to have something more than a rich father. Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Charles, because we've got to win today, we've got to."

"So no pressure, Charles," said Fred, winking at him.

It had been announced that Lyra wouldn't be playing in the first match, to test how Malfoy was at the real game. If Slytherin won, Lyra would be reserve. If they lost, however, Malfoy would play reserve and Lyra would regain her position. Needless to say, Lyra had taken Harry and Charles aside earlier and had threatened to hex them if they lost.

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. Harry heaved a sigh of relief to see that no one had ganged up against him.

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 immediately snatched the Quaffle and the game started.

Unfortunately, he lost the Quaffle as 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!" Fred yelled, streaking past him with his club in his hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. He gave the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.

Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and Fred 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...

George 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 into his eyes. He was glad that, unlike Charles, he'd escaped the cursed Potter eyesight, and didn't wear glasses. Harry had left Alicia and Angelina to their own devices to avoid the Bludger, and didn't have a clue what was going on in the rest of the game until he heard Lee commenting, "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, leaving his fellow Chasers helpless. Fred and George were now flying so close to him on either side that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing arms.

"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.

Suddenly, George flew off. Harry had to squint hard to make out him hitting the other bludger as it repeatedly went after Charles.

"Curse your Potter luck!" George howled. Harry was doing that at the moment, yes.

"We need time out," Fred said, 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, George, and Charles dived for the ground, still trying to avoid two mad Bludgers.

"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 are you doing?"

"Stopping the mad Bludgers from murdering the Potters, Oliver," Fred said angrily. "Someone's fixed them - they won't leave Harry and Charles alone. Haven'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," Charles said as she came nearer and nearer, "with you flying around me all the time the only way I'm going to catch the Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve."

Harry nodded. "Charles, can you take over my Chaser position? I'll be the Seeker. The twins can go back to the rest of the team and let us deal with rogue Bludgers."

"Don't be thick," said Fred. "It'll take your head off." Wood was looking from Harry to Charles to the Weasleys.

"Oliver, this is insane," said Alicia angrily. "You can't let them deal with that thing on their own. Let's ask for an inquiry."

"If we stop now, we'll have to forfeit the match!" Harry insisted. "And we're not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone! Look, Charles already wears glasses, and he won't be able to look for the snitch in such weather. He's not experienced enough."

"And I'm a fine Chaser." Charles chimed in. "It's the only way." 

Madam Hooch joined them. "Ready to resume play?" she asked Wood.

Wood looked at the determined look on Harry's and Charles' faces.

"All right," he said. "Fred, George, you heard them -leave them alone and let them deal with the Bludgers on their 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.

Changing positions with Charles didn't matter much, and he was keeping a distance from Angelina and Alicia. It did mean that if either of them caught the snitch, it would be considered viable, though.

Harry 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 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 Graham Montague 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, he headed straight towards him. Harry sped from above Montague, but the Bludger hit him in the arm and he dropped the Quaffle in his hand. Alicia, who caught it, winked at Harry before speeding away.

And then he saw it - the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches above Malfoy's left ear - and Malfoy, busy taunting Charles, 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 the back of his head, and Harry felt something break. Dazed by the searing pain he felt, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it - the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time zooming 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 one hand off his broom and made a wild snatch; he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but now that he had done his job, he felt incredibly light-headed... and the last thing he heard was a yell from the crowd below as darkness took him.

Charles

Charles stared in horror as his brother fell off his broom in mid-air. In the moment of distraction, though, the Bludger got to him and smashed into his elbow, breaking his arm.  

Gasping in pain, Charles flattened himself on his broom and headed for the ground. 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.

And he fainted.

When he came around, rain was falling on his face, and he was 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, Charles. I'm about to fix your arm."

"No! 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, Charles," said Lockhart soothingly. "It's a simple charm I've used countless times -"

"Why can't I just go to the hospital wing?" said Charles through clenched teeth.

"He really should, Professor," said a muddy Wood, who couldn't help grinning even though his Seeker had just been taken to the hospital wing in a stretcher, and his temporary Chaser was injured. 

Through the thicket of legs around him, Charles spotted Fred and George wrestling the rogue Bludgers into a box. They were still putting up a terrific fight.

"Stand back," said Lockhart, who was rolling up his jade-green sleeves.

"No - don't -" Charles moaned weakly, but Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at his arm.

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Charles' 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, Charles, 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 Charles 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, flesh-colored rubber glove. He tried to move his fingers. Nothing happened.

Lockhart hadn't mended Charles' 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 Charles desperately.

"I'll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful," said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing him a pair of pajamas. "You'll have to stay the night..."

Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around Charles' 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 Charles' limp fingers through the cuff. "If Charles had wanted deboning he would have asked."

"Anyone can make a mistake," said Hermione. "And it doesn't hurt anymore, does it, Charles?"

"No," Charles grouched, 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 Charles' mouth and throat as it went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Charles gulp down some water.

"We won, though," said Ron, a grin breaking across his face. "That was some catch Harry made. Malfoy's face... he looked ready to kill... Weren't you the seeker, though?"

"We switched," Charles explained the story. "Is Harry alright?" he added anxiously, looking at the curtained bed across from him. 

"Madam Pompfrey said that his skull wasn't badly damaged. He'll be in here for a while, though, and he might be delirious."

"I want to know how they fixed the Bludgers," said Hermione darkly.

"We can add that to the list of questions we'll ask Malfoy when we've taken the Polyjuice Potion," Charles muttered, 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 and Charles, along with Pucey of the Slytherin team, and other friends of Harry.

"Unbelievable flying, Charles, very good," George praised.

"How's Harry?" Sera asked in concern, going over to sit beside Harry's bed.

"Fine," Charles said. "He'll be loopy for a bit, but nothing permanent."

"Loopy, eh?" Adrian grinned and quirked an eyebrow.

"No, you're not getting any private details from him." Cedric frowned.

"Yeah," Jéricho nodded, "No matter how good an opportunity, no taking advantage of his injury."

Adrian put his hands up in defence. "Hey, I was just joking."

"I've just seen Flint yelling at Malfoy." Jéricho grinned. "Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy. I'll bet he'll be kicked off, if not put on reserve. Either way, it's a win-win for Lyra."

The Gryffindors had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice; they gathered around Charles' 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 Charles was left alone with an unconscious Harry, with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his limp arm.  Hours and hours later, Charles 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 Charles through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long, pointed nose.

"Harry and Charles Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably.

"Dobby warned and warned the Potters. Ah sir, why didn't you heed Dobby? Why didn't Charles Potter go back home when he missed the train?"

Charles 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?"

"It was him, of course," a hoarse voice spoke through the darkness. Harry had woken up. "He stopped the barrier from letting you through. I dare say he was hoping to block us both, but I'd been too quick."

"Indeed yes, sir," said Dobby, nodding his head vigorously, ears flapping. "Dobby hid and watched for Charles Potter and sealed the gateway and Dobby had to iron his hands afterward" - he showed Charles ten long, bandaged fingers - "but Dobby didn't care, sir, for he thought Charles Potter was safe, and that Dobby would think up something to send Harry Potter home, too. Never did Dobby dream that Charles Potter would get to school another way!"

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head. "Dobby was 'so shocked when he heard Charles Potter was back at Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir..."

Charles slumped back onto his pillows. "You nearly got Ron and me expelled. 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 Charles felt his anger ebb away despite himself.

Dobby mopped his bulging eyes and said suddenly, "Harry and Charles Potter must go home! Dobby thought his Bludger would be enough to make -"

"Your Bludger?" Charles raged. "What d'you mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill us?"

"Not kill you, sirs, never kill you!" said Dobby, shocked. "Dobby wants to save the Potters' life! Better sent home, grievously injured, than remain here sir! Dobby only wanted the Potters hurt enough to be sent home!"

"Oh, is that all?" Charles snarled. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you wanted us sent home in pieces?"

"Ah, if the Potters only knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping onto his ragged pillowcase. "If they knew what they mean 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. Charles Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, it was a new dawn, sir, and Charles Potter shone like a beacon of hope for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sir..."

"What's that got to do with me?" Harry interrupted. "He's the boy-who-lived. I've done nothing, and I'm always dragged along for the ride!"

Charles had to admit that was true. Dobby continued, "And now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening already, and Dobby cannot let the Potters stay here now that history is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more."

Dobby froze, horrorstruck, then grabbed Charles' water jug from his bedside table and cracked it over his 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?" Charles 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. Harry said, "But we're not Muggle-born... how can we be in danger from the Chamber?"

"Ah, sirs, 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 the Potters must not be here when they happen - go home, Harry and Charles Potter, go home. The Potters must not meddle in this, sirs, 'tis too dangerous -"

"Who is it, Dobby?" Charles asked, 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, Potters, go home!"

"I'm not going anywhere!" Charles scowled fiercely. "One of my best friends is Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened -"

"Charles 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, Charles Potter must not -"

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Charles and Harry heard it, too. Footsteps were coming down the passageway outside.

"Dobby must go!" breathed the elf, terrified. There was a loud crack, and Charles' 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.

The next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the room, 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 and Charles' beds, out of sight. Charles and Harry lay quite still, both pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then 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 the Potters."

Charles'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 his 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. Charles, 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 Charles could see of Professor McGonagall's shadowy face, she didn't understand this any better than he did.