Harry Potter 02 - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over. They walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armour, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last they reached the passage where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.
    ‘Password?’ she said, as they approached.
    ‘Er –’ said Harry.
    They didn’t know the new year’s password, not having met a Gryffindor Prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; they heard hurrying feet behind them and turned to see Hermione dashing towards them.
    ‘ There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumours – someone said you’d been expelled for crashing a flying car. ’
    ‘Well, we haven’t been expelled,’ Harry assured her.
    ‘You’re not telling me you did fly here?’ said Hermione, sounding almost as severe as Professor McGonagall.
    ‘Skip the lecture,’ said Ron impatiently, ‘and tell us the new password.’
    ‘It’s “wattlebird”,’ said Hermione impatiently, ‘but that’s not the point –’
    Her words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of Gryffindor house was still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lop-sided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for them to arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Harry and Ron inside, leaving Hermione to scramble in after them.
    ‘Brilliant!’ yelled Lee Jordan. ‘Inspired! What an entrance! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people’ll be talking about that one for years!’
    ‘Good on you,’ said a fifth-year Harry had never spoken to; someone was patting him on the back as though he’d just won a marathon. Fred and George pushed their way to the front of the crowd and said together, ‘Why couldn’t you’ve called us back, eh?’ Ron was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, but Harry could see one person who didn’t look happy at all. Percy was visible over the heads of some excited first-years, and he seemed to be trying to get near enough to start telling them off. Harry nudged Ron in the ribs and nodded in Percy’s direction. Ron got the point at once.
    ‘Got to get upstairs – bit tired,’ he said, and the two of them started pushing their way towards the door on the other side of the room, which led to a spiral staircase and the dormitories.
    ‘Night,’ Harry called back to Hermione, who was wearing a scowl just like Percy’s.
    They managed to get to the other side of the common room, still having their backs slapped, and gained the peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the top, and at last reached the door of their old dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying ‘second-years’. They entered the familiar, circular room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet and its high, narrow windows. Their trunks had been brought up for them and placed at the ends of their beds.
    Ron grinned guiltily at Harry.
    ‘I know I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed that or anything, but –’
    The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second-year Gryffindor boys, Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom.
    ‘Unbelievable!’ beamed Seamus.
    ‘Cool,’ said Dean.
    ‘Amazing,’ said Neville, awestruck.
    Harry couldn’t help it. He grinned, too.

 
— CHAPTER SIX —
     
Gilderoy Lockhart
    The next day, however, Harry barely grinned once. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long house tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy grey). Harry and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, who had her copy of Voyages with Vampires propped open against a milk jug. There was a slight stiffness in the way she said ‘Morning’ which told Harry that she was still disapproving of the way they had arrived. Neville Longbottom, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully. Neville was a round-faced and accident-prone boy with the worst memory of anyone Harry had ever met.
    ‘Post’s due any minute – I think Gran’s sending on a few things I forgot.’
    Harry had only just started his porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling