Harry Potter 02 - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

thrown everywhere. His cloak lay ripped on the floor. The bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster and the drawer had been pulled out of his bedside cabinet, the contents strewn over the mattress.
    Harry walked over to the bed, open-mouthed, treading on a few loose pages of Travels with Trolls.
    As he and Neville pulled the blankets back onto his bed, Ron, Dean and Seamus came in. Dean swore loudly.
    ‘What happened, Harry?’
    ‘No idea,’ said Harry. But Ron was examining Harry’s robes. All the pockets were hanging out.
    ‘Someone’s been looking for something,’ said Ron. ‘Is there anything missing?’
    Harry started to pick up all his things and throw them into his trunk. It was only as he threw the last of the Lockhart books back into it that he realised what wasn’t there.
    ‘Riddle’s diary’s gone,’ he said in an undertone to Ron.
    ‘What?’
    Harry jerked his head towards the dormitory door and Ron followed him out. They hurried back down to the Gryffindor common room, which was half-empty, and joined Hermione, who was sitting alone, reading a book called Ancient Runes Made Easy.
    Hermione looked aghast at the news.
    ‘But – only a Gryffindor could have stolen – nobody else knows our password …’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Harry.
    *
    They woke next day to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze.
    ‘Perfect Quidditch conditions!’ said Wood enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the team’s plates with scrambled eggs. ‘Harry, buck up there, you need a decent breakfast.’
    Harry had been staring down the packed Gryffindor table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle’s diary was right in front of his eyes. Hermione had been urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn’t like the idea. He’d have to tell a teacher all about the diary and how many people knew why Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago? He didn’t want to be the one who brought it all up again.
    As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go and collect his Quidditch things, another, very serious worry was added to Harry’s growing list. He had just set foot on the marble staircase when he heard it yet again: ‘Kill this time … let me rip … tear …’
    He shouted aloud and Ron and Hermione both jumped away from him in alarm.
    ‘The voice!’ said Harry, looking over his shoulder. ‘I just heard it again – didn’t you?’
    Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however, clapped a hand to her forehead.
    ‘Harry – I think I’ve just understood something! I’ve got to go to the library!’
    And she sprinted away, up the stairs.
    ‘ What does she understand?’ said Harry distractedly, still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had come from.
    ‘Loads more than I do,’ said Ron, shaking his head.
    ‘But why’s she got to go to the library?’
    ‘Because that’s what Hermione does,’ said Ron, shrugging. ‘When in doubt, go to the library.’
    Harry stood, irresolute, trying to catch the voice again, but people were now emerging from the Great Hall behind him, talking loudly, exiting through the front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch.
    ‘You’d better get moving,’ said Ron. ‘It’s nearly eleven – the match.’
    Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, collected his Nimbus Two Thousand and joined the large crowd swarming across the grounds, but his mind was still in the castle, along with the bodiless voice, and as he pulled on his scarlet robes in the changing room, his only comfort was that everyone was now outside to watch the game.
    The teams walked onto the pitch to tumultuous applause. Oliver Wood took off for a warm-up flight around the goalposts, Madam Hooch released the balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow, were standing in a huddle, having a last-minute discussion of tactics.
    Harry was just mounting his broom when Professor McGonagall came half-marching, half-running across the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone.
    Harry’s heart dropped like a stone.
    ‘This match has been cancelled,’ Professor McGonagall called through the megaphone, addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and shouts. Oliver Wood, looking devastated, landed and ran towards Professor McGonagall without getting off his broomstick.
    ‘But Professor!’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got to play … the Cup … Gryffindor …’
    Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to shout through her megaphone: ‘All students are to