Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone


CHAPTER ONE

THE BOY WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say
that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last
people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,
because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made
drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did
have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had
nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she
spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the
neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their
opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't
think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs.
Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years;
in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her
sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was
possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would
say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the
Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy
was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want
Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story
starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that
strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the
country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for
work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming
Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.
Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed,
because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the
walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got
into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of
something peculiar -- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley
didn't realize what he had seen -- then he jerked his head around to
look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet
Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking
of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and
stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the
corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now
reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; cats
couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and
put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of
nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something
else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help
noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people
about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in
funny clothes -- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this
was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering
wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite
close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was
enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man
had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The
nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some
silly stunt -- these people were obviously collecting for something...
yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr.
Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the
ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate
on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swoop ing past in broad
daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed
open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never
seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly
normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made
several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a
very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs
and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of
them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't
know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering
excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on
his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he
caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the
whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better
of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his
secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost
finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the
receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was
being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were
lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think
of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even
seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point
in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her
sister. He didn't blame her -- if he'd had a sister like that... but all
the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and
when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that
he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It
was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a
violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the
ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in
a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir,
for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at
last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy,
happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete
stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that
was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping
he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he
didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw --
and it didn't improve his mood -- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that
morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the
same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a
stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying
to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still
determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all
about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had
learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When
Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to
catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's
owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally
hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been
hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since
sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly
changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin.
"Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going
to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not
only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as
Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead
of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting
stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early -- it's
not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain?
Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place?
And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was
no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat
nervously. "Er -- Petunia, dear -- you haven't heard from your sister
lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all,
they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting
stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you
know... her crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered
whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he
didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son --
he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite
agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.
While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom
window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there.
It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for
something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the
Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of
-- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr.
Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting
thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were
involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs.
Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about
them and their kind.... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get
mixed up in anything that might be going on -- he yawned and turned over
-- it couldn't affect them....

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat
on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as
still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of
Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the
next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly
midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so
suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the
ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall,
thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which
were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes,
a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots.
His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon
spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been
broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a
street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was
busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to
realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat,
which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For
some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and
muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a
silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and
clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He
clicked it again -- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times
he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street
were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat
watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed
Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening
down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his
cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down
on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he
spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling
at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly
the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was
wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight
bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I 've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said
Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a
dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently.
"You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no -- even the Muggles
have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her
head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks
of owls... shooting stars.... Well, they're not completely stupid. They
were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent -- I'll bet
that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious
little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no
reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on
the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes,
swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping
he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A
fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to have
disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he
really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful
for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't
think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if
You-Know-Who has gone -"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him
by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense -- for eleven years I
have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name:
Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was
unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so
confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason
to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half
exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're
the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will
never have."

"Only because you're too -- well -- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey
told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls
are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what
everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally
stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most
anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard
wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed
Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that
whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until
Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing
another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort
turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is
that Lily and James Potter are -- are -- that they're -- dead. "

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it...
Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I
know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all.
They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But -- he
couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how,
but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's
power somehow broke -- and that's why he's gone.

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's
done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy?
It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the
name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her
eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a
golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch.
It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving
around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because
he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was
he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to
tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family
he has left now."

"You don't mean -- you can't mean the people who live here?" cried
Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.
"Dumbledore -- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't
find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son -- I saw
him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets.
Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and
uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've
written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on
the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a
letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous -- a
legend -- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day
in the future -- there will be books written about Harry -- every child
in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his
half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous
before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even
remember! CarA you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away
from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and
then said, "Yes -- yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy
getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she
thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it -- wise -- to trust Hagrid with something as important as
this?"

I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor
McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does
tend to -- what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew
steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a
headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky -- and
a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of
them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride
it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times
as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long
tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands
the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were
like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle
of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did
you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant, climbing
carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to
me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir -- house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right
before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was
flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of
blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a
tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously
shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself
above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well
-- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his
great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very
scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a
wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and
burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead
-- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or
we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly
on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to
the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out
of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to
the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at
the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall
blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from
Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying
here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his
bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself
onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose
into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore,
nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he
stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and
twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet
Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking
around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the
bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish
of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and
tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect
astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his
blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside
him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was
famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs.
Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk
bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and
pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very
moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up
their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy
who lived!"


CHAPTER TWO

THE VANISHING GLASS

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find
their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at
all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass
number four on the Dursleys' front door; it crept into their living
room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when
Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the
photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed.
Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a
large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets -- but Dudley
Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large
blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a
computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother.
The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for
long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made
the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Harry woke with a start. His aunt rapped on the door again.

"Up!" she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then
the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his
back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a
good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny
feeling he'd had the same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Nearly," said Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you
dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Harry groaned.

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Dudley's birthday -- how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out
of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and,
after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to
spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and
that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table
was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as
though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the
second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a
racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated
exercise -- unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley's
favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn't often catch him. Harry
didn't look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry
had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and
skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes
of Dudley's, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry
had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He
wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of
all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry
liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that
was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could
remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt
Petunia was how he had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask
questions."

Don't ask questions -- that was the first rule for a quiet life with the
Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

"Comb your hair!" he barked, by way of a morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and
shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts
than the rest of the boys in his class put

together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way --
all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his
mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face,
not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay
smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley
looked like a baby angel -- Harry often said that Dudley looked like a
pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult
as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents.
His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two
less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here
under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face.
Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down
his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly,
"And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's
that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right''

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said
slowly, "So I'll have thirty ... thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right
then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like
his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it
while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a
video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and
a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia
came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't
take him." She jerked her head in Harry's direction.

Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every
year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the
day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every
year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two
streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage
and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever
owned.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd
planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had
broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be
a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and
Tufty again.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't
there -- or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't
understand them, like a slug.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend -- Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be able to
watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go
on Dudley's computer).

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take him to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "...
and leave him in the car...."

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone...."

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying -- it had
been years since he'd really cried -- but he knew that if he screwed up
his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special
day!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I... don't... want... him... t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge,
pretend sobs. "He always sp- spoils everything!" He shot Harry a nasty
grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang -- "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt
Petunia frantically -- and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers
Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face
like a rat. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their
backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in
the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the
zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able
to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle
Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up
close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy -- any funny business,
anything at all -- and you'll be in that cupboard from now until
Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Harry, "honestly..

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was
just no good telling the Dursleys he didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking
as though he hadn't been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors
and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which
she left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had laughed himself silly
at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day,
where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses.
Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it
had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off He had been given a week
in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he
couldn't explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting
old sweater of Dudley's (brown with orange puff balls) -- The harder she
tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until
finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn't fit
Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to
his great relief, Harry wasn't punished.

On the other hand, he'd gotten into terrible trouble for being found on
the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley's gang had been chasing him as
usual when, as much to Harry's surprise as anyone else's, there he was
sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter
from Harry's headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school
buildings. But all he'd tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon
through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash
cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have
caught him in mid- jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with
Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school,
his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg's cabbage-smelling living room.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to
complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the
bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning,
it was motorcycles.

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a
motorcycle overtook them.

I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "It
was flying."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right
around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet
with a mustache: "MOTORCYCLES DON'T FLY!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

I know they don't," said Harry. "It was only a dream."

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the
Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking
about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a
dream or even a cartoon -- they seemed to think he might get dangerous
ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The
Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the
entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry
what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap
lemon ice pop. It wasn't bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they
watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley,
except that it wasn't blond.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to
walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who
were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn't fall
back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo
restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker
glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him
another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to
last.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in
there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts
of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and
stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick,
man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the
place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car
and crushed it into a trash can -- but at the moment it didn't look in
the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the
glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the
glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly
with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He
wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself -- no
company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying
to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a
bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door
to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised
its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry's.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was
watching. They weren't. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised
its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:

"I get that all the time.

"I know," Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn't sure the
snake could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Harry asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry
peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:
This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see -- so you've never been to
Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of
them jump.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T BELIEVE
WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by
surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened
so fast no one saw how it happened -- one second, Piers and Dudley were
leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with
howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor's tank
had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering
out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and
started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low,
hissing voice said, "Brazil, here I come.... Thanksss, amigo."

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

"But the glass," he kept saying, "where did the glass go?"

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea
while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only
gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn't done anything except
snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were
all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how it had
nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to
squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers
calming down enough to say, "Harry was talking to it, weren't you,
Harry?"

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before
starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to
say, "Go -- cupboard -- stay -- no meals," before he collapsed into a
chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He
didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were
asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen
for some food.

He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as
long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents
had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when
his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long
hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding
flash of green light and a burn- ing pain on his forehead. This, he
supposed, was the crash, though he couldn't imagine where all the green
light came from. He couldn't remember his parents at all. His aunt and
uncle never spoke about them, and of course he was forbidden to ask
questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown
relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the
Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped)
that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers
they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once
while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry
furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the
shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in
green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long
purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and
then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these
people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a
closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated
that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and
nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang.


CHAPTER THREE

THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his
longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard
again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his
new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time
out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet
Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang,
who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and
Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and
stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite
happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house,
wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he
could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off
to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be
with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private
school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the
other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley
thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,"
he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as
horrible as your head down it -- it might be sick." Then he ran, before
Dudley could work out what he'd said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings
uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn 't as bad as
usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats,
and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch
television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though
she'd had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in
his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange
knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried
knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't
looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said
gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst
into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he
looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He
thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to
laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry
went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in
the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like
dirty rags swimming in gray water.

"What's this?" he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always
did if he dared to ask a question.

"Your new school uniform," she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

"Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"DotA be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old
things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've
finished."

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat
down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look
on his first day at Stonewall High -- like he was wearing bits of old
elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the
smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as
usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere,
on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the
doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley."

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things
lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was
vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a
bill, and -- a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant
elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who
would? He had no friends, no other relatives -- he didn't belong to the
library, so he'd never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet
here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the
address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax
seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake
surrounding a large letter H.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you
doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed
Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to
open the yellow envelope.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over
the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk. --."

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the
same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of
his hand by Uncle Vernon.

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open
with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster
than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds
it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it
high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first
line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her
throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness -- Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and
Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He
gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

"I want to read that letter," he said loudly. want to read it," said
Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back
inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move.

I WANT MY LETTER!" he shouted.

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the
scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the
kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but
silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry,
his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at
the crack between door and floor.

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the
address -- how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think
they're watching the house?"

"Watching -- spying -- might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon
wildly.

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't
want --"

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the
kitchen.

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an
answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....

"But --"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took
him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd
never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed
through the door. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. it was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly.
"I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily, "it had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the
ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a
smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er -- yes, Harry -- about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been
thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might
be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom.

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs,
now."

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt
Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one
where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things
that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip
upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He
sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was
broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working
tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the
corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot
through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large
birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school
for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent
because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They
were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been
touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don't
want him in there... I need that room... make him get out...."

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he'd have given
anything to be up here. Today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with
that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in
shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been
sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the
greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was
thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the
letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each
other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice
to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with
his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's
another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive --'"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the
hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the
ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact
that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a
minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the
Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with
Harry's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry.
"Dudley -- go -- just go."

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out
of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first
letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure
they didn't fail. He had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry
turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the
Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and
get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept
across the dark hall toward the front door --

Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on
the doormat -- something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the
big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been
lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making
sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He
shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make
a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the
time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.
Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.

I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into
pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that day. He
stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if
they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not
like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the
piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they
couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door,
slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small
window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got
out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and
back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips"
as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to
Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each
of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt
Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious
telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone
to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in
amazement.

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking
tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade
on his newspapers, "no damn letters today --"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught
him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty
letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys
ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.

"Out! OUT!"

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall.
When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their
faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters
still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling
great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back
here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some
clothes. No arguments!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared
argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the
boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway.
Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the
head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and
computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they
were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and
drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em
off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was
howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd
missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone
so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the
outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds
and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on
the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and
wondering....

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for
breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the
hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred
of these at the front desk."

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out
of the way. The woman stared.

"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following
her from the dining room.

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested
timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly
what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the
middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in
the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle
of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of
a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that
afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside
the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley
sniveled.

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I
want to stay somewhere with a television. "

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you
could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of
television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of
course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys
had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.
Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,
thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd
bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what
looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was
the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was
certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his
hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his
boat!"

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather
wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below
them.

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their
necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like
hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding,
led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind
whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was
damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four
bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked
and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance
of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately
agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the
high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the
filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second
room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle
Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find
the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest,
most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry
couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable,
his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the
low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of
Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat
wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and
watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would
remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the
roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.
Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of
letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like
that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was
the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...
nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three... two...
one...

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the
door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


CHAPTER FOUR

THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he
said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the
room. He was holding a rifle in his hands -- now they knew what had been
in the long, thin package he had brought with them.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you -- I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then --

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and
with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost
completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled
beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles
under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just
brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it
easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a
little. He turned to look at them all.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy
journey..."

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

"Budge up, yeh great lump," said the stranger.

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching,
terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

"An' here's Harry!" said the giant.

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the
beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a
lot like yet dad, but yeh've got yet mom's eyes."

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

I demand that you leave at once, sit!" he said. "You are breaking and
entering!"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he reached over
the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bent
it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it
into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

"Anyway -- Harry," said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, "a
very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here -- I mighta sat on
it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly
squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a
large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in
green icing.

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words
got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, "Who are
you?"

The giant chuckled.

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and
Grounds at Hogwarts."

He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.

"What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands together.
"I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and
he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn't see what he
was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire
there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt
the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and
began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a
copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several
chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from
before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and
smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was
working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt
sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said
sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives you, Dudley."

The giant chuckled darkly.

"Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley, don'
worry."

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never tasted
anything so wonderful, but he still couldn't take his eyes off the
giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said,
"I'm sorry, but I still don't really know who you are."

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand.

"Call me Hagrid," he said, "everyone does. An' like I told yeh, I'm
Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts -- yeh'll know all about Hogwarts, o' course.

"Er -- no," said Harry.

Hagrid looked shocked.

"Sorry," Harry said quickly.

"Sony?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back
into the shadows. "It' s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren't
gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou'
Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yet parents
learned it all?"

"All what?" asked Harry.

"ALL WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!"

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut.
The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

"Do you mean ter tell me," he growled at the Dursleys, "that this boy --
this boy! -- knows nothin' abou' -- about ANYTHING?"

Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after
all, and his marks weren't bad.

"I know some things," he said. "I can, you know, do math and stuff." But
Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, "About our world, I mean. Your
world. My world. Yer parents' world."

"What world?"

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

"DURSLEY!" he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded
like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.

"But yeh must know about yet mom and dad," he said. "I mean, they're
famous. You're famous."

"What? My -- my mom and dad weren't famous, were they?"

"Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran his fingers through his
hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.

"Yeh don' know what yeh are?" he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

"Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sit! I forbid you to tell the
boy anything!"

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious
look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled
with rage.

"You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore
left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An'
you've kept it from him all these years?"

"Kept what from me?" said Harry eagerly.

"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

"Ah, go boil yet heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry -- yet a
wizard."

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind
could be heard.

"-- a what?" gasped Harry.

"A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which
groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once
yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else
would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope,
addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock,
The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme
Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all
necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

Questions exploded inside Harry's head like fireworks and he couldn't
decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered, "What does
it mean, they await my owl?"

"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to
his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet
another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl -- a real, live,
rather ruffled-looking owl -- a long quill, and a roll of parchment.
With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Harry could
read upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Harry his letter.

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather's horrible. Hope you're Well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its
beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he
came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the
telephone.

Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.

"Where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still
ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

"He's not going," he said.

Hagrid grunted.

"I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said.

"A what?" said Harry, interested.

"A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like thern.
An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest Muggles I
ever laid eyes on."

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said
Uncle Vernon, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!"

"You knew?" said Harry. "You knew I'm a -- a wizard?"

"Knew!" shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How
could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a
letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school-and came
home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups
into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was -- a freak!
But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that,
they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed
she had been wanting to say all this for years.

"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and
had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange,
just as -- as -- abnormal -- and then, if you please, she went and got
herself blown up and we got landed with you!"

Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, "Blown
up? You told me they died in a car crash!"

"CAR CRASH!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys
scuttled back to their corner. "How could a car crash kill Lily an'
James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin' his
own story when every kid in our world knows his name!" "But why? What
happened?" Harry asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious.

"I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no
idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of
yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right
person ter tell yeh -- but someone 3 s gotta -- yeh can't go off ter
Hogwarts not knowin'."

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

"Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh -- mind, I can't
tell yeh everythin', it's a great myst'ry, parts of it...."

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It
begins, I suppose, with -- with a person called -- but it's incredible
yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows --"

"Who? "

"Well -- I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Why not?"

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is
difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As bad as you
could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..."

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

"Could you write it down?" Harry suggested.

"Nah -can't spell it. All right -- Voldemort. " Hagrid shuddered. "Don'
make me say it again. Anyway, this -- this wizard, about twenty years
ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too -- some were
afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin'
himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust,
didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible
things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him --
an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was
Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of.
Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway.

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew.
Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why
You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before... probably knew
they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the
Dark Side.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em
outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where
you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old.
He came ter yer house an' -- an' --"

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew
his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

"Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad -- knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer
people yeh couldn't find -- anyway..."

"You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then -- an' this is the real myst'ry of
the thing -- he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of
it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't
do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no
ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a Powerful, evil curse touches
yeh -- took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even -- but it didn't
work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after
he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the
best witches an' wizards of the age -- the McKinnons, the Bones, the
Prewetts -- an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

Something very painful was going on in Harry's mind. As Hagrid's story
came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more
clearly than he had ever remembered it before -- and he remembered
something else, for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel
laugh.

Hagrid was watching him sadly.

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought
yeh ter this lot..."

"Load of old tosh," said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had almost
forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to
have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were
clenched.

"Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something
strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured
-- and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no
denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion --
asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types --
just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end --"

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink
umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a
sword, he said, "I'm warning you, Dursley -I'm warning you -- one more
word... "

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant,
Uncle Vernon's courage failed again; he flattened himself against the
wall and fell silent.

"That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on
the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

Harry, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

"But what happened to Vol--, sorry -- I mean, You-Know-Who?"

"Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter
kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see...
he was gettin' more an' more powerful -- why'd he go?

"Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough
human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his
time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back
ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don~ reckon they
could've done if he was comin' back.

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers.
Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished him, Harry.
There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on -- I dunno
what it was, no one does -- but somethin' about you stumped him, all
right."

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but
Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had
been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He'd
spent his life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and
Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn't they been turned
into warty toads every time they'd tried to lock him in his cupboard? If
he'd once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley
had always been able to kick him around like a football?

"Hagrid," he said quietly, "I think you must have made a mistake. I
don't think I can be a wizard."

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

"Not a wizard, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or
angry?"

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it... every odd
thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had
happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry... chased by Dudley's
gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach... dreading going
to school with that ridiculous haircut, he'd managed to make it grow
back... and the very last time Dudley had hit him, hadn't he got his
revenge, without even realizing he was doing it? Hadn't he set a boa
constrictor on him?

Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively
beaming at him.

"See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a wizard -- you wait, you'll be
right famous at Hogwarts."

But Uncle Vernon wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to Stonewall
High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters and he needs
all sorts of rubbish -- spell books and wands and --"

"If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop him," growled
Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter' s son goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad.
His name's been down ever since he was born. He's off ter the finest
school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he
won't know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a
change, an' he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had
Albus Dumbled--"

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL To TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!"
yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled
it over his head, "NEVER," he thundered, "- INSULT- ALBUS- DUMBLEDORE-
IN- FRONT- OF- ME!"

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley
-- there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a
sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with
his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned
his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in
his trousers.

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other
room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door
behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

"Shouldn'ta lost me temper," he said ruefully, "but it didn't work
anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like
a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do."

He cast a sideways look at Harry under his bushy eyebrows.

"Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts," he
said. "I'm -- er -- not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was
allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff
-- one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job

"Why aren't you supposed to do magic?" asked Harry.

"Oh, well -- I was at Hogwarts meself but I -- er -- got expelled, ter
tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an'
everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man,
Dumbledore." "Why were you expelled?"

"It's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," said Hagrid
loudly. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that."

He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Harry.

"You can kip under that," he said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I
think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."


CHAPTER FIVE

DIAGON ALLEY

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was
daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.

"It was a dream, he told himself firmly. "I dreamed a giant called
Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for wizards. When I open
my eyes I'll be at home in my cupboard."

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

And there's Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought, his heart
sinking. But he still didn't open his eyes. It had been such a good
dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"All right," Harry mumbled, "I'm getting up."

He sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of
sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed
sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper
held in its beak.

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large balloon
was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window and jerked it
open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who
didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to
attack Hagrid's coat.

"Don't do that."

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak
fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

"Hagrid!" said Harry loudly. "There's an owl

"Pay him," Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

"What?"

"He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets."
Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets -- bunches of
keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags...
finally, Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

"Give him five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily.

"Knuts?"

"The little bronze ones."

Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg
so Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then
he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

"Best be Off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy
all yer stuff fer school."

Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He had just
thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon
inside him had got a puncture.

"Um -- Hagrid?"

"Mm?" said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.

"I haven't got any money -- and you heard Uncle Vernon last night ... he
won't pay for me to go and learn magic."

"Don't worry about that," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his
head. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

"But if their house was destroyed --"

"They didn' keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is
Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Have a sausage, they're not bad cold -- an' I
wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake, neither."

"Wizards have banks?"

"Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins."

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.

"Goblins?"

"Yeah -- so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never
mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer
anything yeh want ter keep safe -- 'cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o'
fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts
business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "He usually gets me ter do
important stuff fer him. Fetchin' you gettin' things from Gringotts --
knows he can trust me, see.

"Got everythin'? Come on, then."

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and
the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was
still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

"How did you get here?" Harry asked, looking around for another boat.
"Flew," said Hagrid.

"Flew?"

"Yeah -- but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've
got yeh."

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid, trying to
imagine him flying.

"Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Harry another of
his sideways looks. "If I was ter -- er -- speed things up a bit, would
yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

"Of course not," said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out
the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and
they sped off toward land.

"Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?" Harry asked.

"Spells -- enchantments," said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he
spoke. "They say there's dragons guardin' the highsecurity vaults. And
then yeh gotta find yer way -- Gringotts is hundreds of miles under
London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh'd die of hunger tryin' ter
get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat."

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the
Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to
be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, he'd never
had so many questions in his life.

"Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered, turning
the page.

"There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked, before he could stop
himself.

"'Course," said Hagrid. "They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister, 0 '
course, but he'd never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the
job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls
every morning, askin' fer advice."

"But what does a Ministry of Magic do?"

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there's still
witches an' wizards up an' down the country."

"Why?"

"Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone'd be wantin' magic solutions to their
problems. Nah, we're best left alone."

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid
folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the
street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town
to the station. Harry couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as
tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like
parking meters and saying loudly, "See that, Harry? Things these Muggles
dream up, eh?"

"Hagrid," said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, "did you say
there are dragons at Gringotts?"

"Well, so they say," said Hagrid. "Crikey, I'd like a dragon."

"You'd like one?"

"Wanted one ever since I was a kid -- here we go."

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five
minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand "Muggle money," as he
called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and
sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as he counted stitches. Harry
took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

"Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything yeh need."

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't noticed the night
before, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

glass or crystal phials

telescope set

brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN
BROOMSTICKS

"Can we buy all this in London?" Harry wondered aloud.

"If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know
where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an
ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and
complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

"I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," he said as they
climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined
with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Harry had to do
was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores,
hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it
could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of
ordinary people. Could there really be piles of wizard gold buried miles
beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and
broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Dursleys had
cooked up? If Harry hadn't known that the Dursleys had no sense of
humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything
Hagrid had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn't help
trusting him.

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a
famous place."

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out,
Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't
glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the
record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at
all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and
Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered
him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were
sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was
smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old
bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The
low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know
Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a
glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping his great
hand on Harry's shoulder and making Harry's knees buckle.


"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this -- can this
be --?"


The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an
honor."

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his
hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old
woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out.
Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry
found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand -- I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus
Diggle."

"I've seen you before!" said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle's top hat fell off
in his excitement. "You bowed to me once in a shop."

"He remembers!" cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. "Did
you hear that? He remembers me!" Harry shook hands again and again --
Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes
was twitching.

"Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be
one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand,
"c-can't t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you."

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Quirrell, as
though he'd rather not think about it. "N-not that you n-need it, eh,
P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously. "You'll be g-getting all your
equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires,
m-myself." He looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn't let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It
took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid
managed to make himself heard over the babble.

"Must get on -- lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."

Doris Crockford shook Harry's hand one last time, and Hagrid led them
through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was
nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Harry.

"Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell
was tremblin' ter meet yeh -- mind you, he's usually tremblin'."

"Is he always that nervous?"

"Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was

studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand
experience.... They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there
was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag -- never been the same since.
Scared of the students, scared of his own subject now, where's me
umbrella?"

Vampires? Hags? Harry's head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was
counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

"Three up... two across he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry."

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered -- it wriggled -- in the middle, a
small hole appeared -- it grew wider and wider -- a second later they
were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a
cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley."

He grinned at Harry's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harry
looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly
back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop.
Cauldrons -- All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver -- Self-Stirring
-- Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money
first."

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every
direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at
once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their
shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as
they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they're
mad...."

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl
Emporium -- Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of
about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with
broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus
Two Thousand -- fastest ever --" There were shops selling robes, shops
selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen
before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes,
tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion
bottles, globes of the moon....

"Gringotts," said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other
little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a
uniform of scarlet and gold, was -

"Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white
stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry.
He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very
long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were
facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved
upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a
vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high
stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing
coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses.
There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more
goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made
for the counter.

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money
outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

"You have his key, Sir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his
pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits
over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry
watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as
glowing coals.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

"That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid
importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the YouKnow-What in
vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully.

"Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have Someone
take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog
biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook toward
one of the doors leading off the hall.

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Harry
asked.

"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts
business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh
that."

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more
marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with
flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little
railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came
hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in -- Hagrid with some
difficulty -- and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry
tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left,
but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way,
because Griphook wasn't steering.

Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them
wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a
passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late - -
they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge
stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

I never know," Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart,
"what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"

"Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it," said Hagrid. "An' don' ask me questions
just now, I think I'm gonna be sick."

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small
door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the
wall to stop his knees from trembling.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and
as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns
of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

"All yours," smiled Hagrid.

All Harry's -- it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't have known about
this or they'd have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had
they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there
had been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.

"The gold ones are Galleons," he explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to
a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough. Right,
that should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe
for yeh." He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now,
please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became
colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went
rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the side to
try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and
pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with
one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through
the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.

"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked.

"About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault,
Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous
jewels at the very least -- but at first he thought it was empty. Then
he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on
the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry
longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way
back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside
Gringotts. Harry didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag
full of money. He didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a
pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole
life -- more money than even Dudley had ever had.

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam
Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I
slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them
Gringotts carts." He did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam
Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

"Hogwarts, clear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot
here -- another young man being fitted up just now, in fact. "

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on
a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam
Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him) slipped a long robe over his
head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street
looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then
I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why
first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting
me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be.

"I do -- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my
house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know
I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been -- imagine being in
Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" "Mmm," said Harry, wishing
he could say something a bit more interesting.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the
front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing
at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't.
"He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't
he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," said Harry. He was liking the boy less and less
every second.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage -- lives in a hut on the
school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic,
and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," said Harry coldly.

"Do you?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where
are your parents?"

"They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into
the matter with this boy.

"Oh, sorry," said the other,. not sounding sorry at all. "But they were
our kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're
just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some
of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter,
imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families.
What's your surname, anyway?"

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my
dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy,
hopped down from the footstool.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy.

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him
(chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

"What's up?" said Hagrid.

"Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry
cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you
wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know -- not knowin'
about Quidditch!"

"Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pate
boy in Madam Malkin's.

"--and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed
in."

"Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were -- he's grown
up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what
everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what
does he know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones
with magic in 'em in a long line 0' Muggles -- look at yer mum! Look
what she had fer a sister!"

"So what is Quidditch?"

"It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like -- like soccer in the Muggle
world -- everyone follows Quidditch -- played up in the air on
broomsticks and there's four balls -- sorta hard ter explain the rules."
"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o'
duffers, but --"

"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff" said Harry gloomily.

"Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a
single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin.
You-Know-Who was one."

"Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"

"Years an' years ago," said Hagrid.

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts
where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as
paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in
covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with
nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have
been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag
Harry away from Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and
Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs,
Tongue- Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

"I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley."

"I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the
Muggle world except in very special circumstances," said Hagrid. "An'
anyway, yeh couldn' work any of them curses yet, yeh'll need a lot more
study before yeh get ter that level."

Hagrid wouldn't let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either ("It says
pewter on yer list"), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing
potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited
the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible
smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff
stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined
the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung
from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a
supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself
examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule,
glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Harry's list again.

"Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday
present."

Harry felt himself go red.

"You don't have to --"

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad,
toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don'
like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want
owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been
dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now
carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with
her head under her wing. He couldn't stop stammering his thanks,
sounding just like Professor Quirrell.

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta
presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place fer
wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

A magic wand... this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door
read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay
on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped
inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair
that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had
entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that
had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow
boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of
his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle
with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have
jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly
off the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like
moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon.
Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It
seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten
and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm
work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those
silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches.
Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I
say your father favored it -- it's really the wand that chooses the
wizard, of course."

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to
nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

"And that's where..."

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a
long, white finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly.
"Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in
the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into
the world to do...."

He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid.

"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again.... Oak, sixteen
inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got
expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

"Er -- yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "I've still
got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply.

"Oh, no, sit," said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink
umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now
-- Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver
markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er -- well, I'm right-handed," said Harry.

"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to
finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round
his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of
a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix
tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands
are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite
the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with
another wizard's wand."

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring
between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was
flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on
the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon
heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a
wave."

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr.
Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try --"

Harry tried -- but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was
snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy.
Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting
for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the
spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the
shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here
somewhere -- I wonder, now - - yes, why not -- unusual combination --
holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised
the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air
and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework,
throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and
clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very
good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious... "

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper,
still muttering, "Curious... curious..

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It
so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave
another feather -- just one other. It is very curious indeed that you
should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave
you that scar."

Harry swallowed.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things
happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember.... I think we must expect
great things from you, Mr. Potter.... After all, He-
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things -- terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid
seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his
shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made
their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through
the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all as they walked
down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at
them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped
packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up
another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized
where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said.

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat
them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.

Harry wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best birthday of
his life -- and yet -- he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the
words.

"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the
Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander... but I don't know
anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm
famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what
happened when Vol-, sorry -- I mean, the night my parents died."

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he
wore a very kind smile.

"Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the
beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it's
hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a
great time at Hogwarts -- I did -- still do, 'smatter of fact."

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the
Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, " he said. "First o' September -- King's Cross
-- it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a
letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me.... See yeh soon,
Harry."

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until
he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against
the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.


CHAPTER SIX

THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS

Harry's last month with the Dursleys wasn't fun. True, Dudley was now so
scared of Harry he wouldn't stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia
and Uncle Vernon didn't shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do
anything, or shout at him -- in fact, they didn't speak to him at all.
Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry
in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did
become a bit depressing after a while.

Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for company. He had decided to
call her Hedwig, a name he had found in A History of Magic. His school
books were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late into the
night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It
was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn't come in to vacuum anymore, because
Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before he went to
sleep, Harry ticked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned
to the wall, counting down to September the first.

On the last day of August he thought he'd better speak to his aunt and
uncle about getting to King's Cross station the next day, so he went
down to the living room where they were watching a quiz show on
television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was there, and
Dudley screamed and ran from the room.

"Er -- Uncle Vernon?"

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

"Er -- I need to be at King's Cross tomorrow to -- to go to Hogwarts."

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

"Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?"

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.

"Thank you."

He was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke.

"Funny way to get to a wizards' school, the train. Magic carpets all got
punctures, have they?"

Harry didn't say anything.

"Where is this school, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled
the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket.

"I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven
o'clock," he read.

His aunt and uncle stared.

"Platform what?"

"Nine and three-quarters."

"Don't talk rubbish," said Uncle Vernon. "There is no platform nine and
three-quarters."

"It's on my ticket."

"Barking," said Uncle Vernon, "howling mad, the lot of them. You'll see.
You just wait. All right, we'll take you to King's Cross. We're going up
to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn't bother."

"Why are you going to London?" Harry asked, trying to keep things
friendly.

"Taking Dudley to the hospital," growled Uncle Vernon. "Got to have that
ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings."

Harry woke at five o'clock the next morning and was too excited and
nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because
he didn't want to walk into the station in his wizard's robes -- he'd
change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure
he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her
cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two
hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the
Dursleys' car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to
Harry, and they had set off.

They reached King's Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry's
trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought
this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the
platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

"Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine -- platform ten. Your platform
should be somewhere in the middle, but they don't seem to have built it
yet, do they?"

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over
one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and
in the middle, nothing at all.

"Have a good term," said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He
left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away.
All three of them were laughing. Harry's mouth went rather dry. What on
earth was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny
looks, because of Hedwig. He'd have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard, but didn't dare mention platform nine and
three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry
couldn't even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to
get annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting
desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o'clock, but
the guard said there wasn't one. In the end the guard strode away,
muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying hard not to panic.
According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes
left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he
was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly
lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like
tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He
wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket
inspector's stand between platforms nine and ten.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a
few words of what they were saying.

"-- packed with Muggles, of course --"

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four
boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like
Harry's in front of him -- and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so
did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

"Now, what's the platform number?" said the boys' mother.

"Nine and three-quarters!" piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was
holding her hand, "Mom, can't I go... "

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go
first."

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten.
Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it -- but just as
the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large
crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last
backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

"Fred, you next," the plump woman said.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George," said the boy. "Honestly, woman, you call
yourself our mother? CarA you tell I'm George?"

"Sorry, George, dear."

"Only joking, I am Fred," said the boy, and off he went. His twin called
after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later,
he had gone -- but how had he done it?

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier he was
almost there -- and then, quite suddenly, he wasn't anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

"Excuse me," Harry said to the plump woman.

"Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too."

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and
gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Yes," said Harry. "The thing is -- the thing is, I don't know how to
--"

"How to get onto the platform?" she said kindly, and Harry nodded.

"Not to worry," she said. "All you have to do is walk straight at the
barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared
you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a
run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

"Er -- okay," said Harry.

He pushed his trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very
solid.

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to
platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash
right into that barrier and then he'd be in trouble -- leaning forward
on his cart, he broke into a heavy run -- the barrier was coming nearer
and nearer -- he wouldn't be able to stop -- the cart was out of control
-- he was a foot away -- he closed his eyes ready for the crash --

It didn't come... he kept on running... he opened his eyes. A scarlet
steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign
overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven O'clock. Harry looked behind him
and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the
words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it, He had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd,
while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls
hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and
the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging
out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats.
Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat.
He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, "Gran, I've lost my toad
again."

"Oh, Neville," he heard the old woman sigh.

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

"Give us a look, Lee, go on."

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him
shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment
near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first and then started
to shove and heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift it
up the steps but could hardly raise one end and twice he dropped it
painfully on his foot.

"Want a hand?" It was one of the red-haired twins he'd followed through
the barrier.

"Yes, please," Harry panted.

"Oy, Fred! C'mere and help!"

With the twins' help, Harry's trunk was at last tucked away in a corner
of the compartment.

"Thanks," said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry's
lightning scar.

"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you

"He is," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.

"What?" said Harry.

"Harry Potter, "chorused the twins.

"Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am."

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning red. Then, to
his relief, a voice came floating in through the train's open door.

"Fred? George? Are you there?"

"Coming, Mom."

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.

Harry sat down next to the window where, half hidden, he could watch the
red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their
mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

"Ron, you've got something on your nose."

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and
began rubbing the end of his nose.

"Mom -- geroff" He wriggled free.

"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?" said one of the
twins.

"Shut up," said Ron.

"Where's Percy?" said their mother.

"He's coming now."

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had already changed into his
billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny silver badge
on his chest with the letter P on it.

"Can't stay long, Mother," he said. "I'm up front, the prefects have got
two compartments to themselves --"

"Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" said one of the twins, with an air of
great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea."

"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it," said the
other twin. "Once --"

"Or twice --"

"A minute --"

"All summer --"

"Oh, shut up," said Percy the Prefect.

"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?" said one of the twins.

"Because he's a prefect," said their mother fondly. "All right, dear,
well, have a good term -- send me an owl when you get there."

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.

"Now, you two -- this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl
telling me you've -- you've blown up a toilet or --"

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

"Great idea though, thanks, Mom."

"It's not funny. And look after Ron."

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."

"Shut up," said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already
and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

"Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?"

Harry leaned back quickly so they couldn't see him looking.

"You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who
he is?"

"Who?"

"Harry Potter!"

Harry heard the little girl's voice.

"Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, eh please...."

"You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you
goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"

"Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there - like lightning."

"Poor dear - no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite
when he asked how to get onto the platform."

"Never mind that, do you think he remembers what You-Know-Who looks
like?"

Their mother suddenly became very stern.

"I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don't you dare. As though he needs
reminding of that on his first day at school."

"All right, keep your hair on."

A whistle sounded.

"Hurry up!" their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the
train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and
their younger sister began to cry.

"Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls."

"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat."

"George!"

"Only joking, Mom."

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and their
sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train
until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the
corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of
excitement. He didn't know what he was going to but it had to be better
than what he was leaving behind.

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded boy
came in.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry.
"Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then
looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Harry saw
he still had a black mark on his nose.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins were back.

"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train -- Lee Jordan's got a
giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and
George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.

"Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut
behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

Harry nodded.

"Oh -well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said
Ron. "And have you really got -- you know..."

He pointed at Harry's forehead.

Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared.

"So that's where You-Know-Who

"Yes," said Harry, "but I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly.

"Well -- I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as
though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out
of the window again.

"Are all your family wizards?" asked Harry, who found Ron just as
interesting as Ron found him.

"Er -- Yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mom's got a second cousin
who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

"So you must know loads of magic already."

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale
boy in Diagon Alley had talked about.

"I heard you went to live with Muggles," said Ron. "What are they like?"

"Horrible -well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are,
though. Wish I'd had three wizard brothers."

"Five," said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. "I'm the sixth
in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up
to. Bill and Charlie have already left -- Bill was head boy and Charlie
was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess
around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks
they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others,
but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get
anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes,
Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was
asleep.

"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy
got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff
-- I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, because he
went back to staring out of the window.

Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with not being able to
afford an owl. After all, he'd never had any money in his life until a
month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley's old
clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer
Ron up.

"... and until Hagrid told me, I didn't know anything about be ing a
wizard or about my parents or Voldemort"

Ron gasped.

"What?" said Harry.

"You said You-Know-Who's name!" said Ron, sounding both shocked and
impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people --"

"I'm not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name," said Harry, I
just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've got loads to
learn.... I bet," he added, voicing for the first time something that
had been worrying him a lot lately, "I bet I'm the worst in the class."

"You won't be. There's loads of people who come from Muggle families and
they learn quick enough."

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London.
Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were
quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the
corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said,
"Anything off the cart, dears?"

Harry, who hadn't had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron's ears
went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry went
out into the corridor.

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he
had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many
Mars Bars as he could carry -- but the woman didn't have Mars Bars. What
she did have were Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best
Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice
Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his
life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid
the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped
it onto an empty seat.

"Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty.

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four
sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always
forgets I don't like corned beef."

"Swap you for one of these," said Harry, holding up a pasty. "Go on --"

"You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got much
time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us."

"Go on, have a pasty," said Harry, who had never had anything to share
before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling,
sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry's pasties,
cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).

"What are these?" Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs.
"They're not really frogs, are they?" He was starting to feel that
nothing would surprise him.

"No," said Ron. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa."

"What?"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know -- Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside
them, you know, to collect -- famous witches and wizards. I've got about
five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy."

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a
man's face. He wore half- moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and
flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the
name Albus Dumbledore.

"So this is Dumbledore!" said Harry.

"Don't tell me you'd never heard of Dumbledore!" said Ron. "Can I have a
frog? I might get Agrippa -- thanks

Harry turned over his card and read:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is
particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in
1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his
work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore
enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that
Dumbledore's face had disappeared.

"He's gone!"

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be
back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her... do you
want it? You can start collecting."

Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be
unwrapped.

"Help yourself," said Harry. "But in, you know, the Muggle world, people
just stay put in photos."

"Do they? What, they don't move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "weird!"

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and
gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the frogs than
looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn't keep
his eyes off them. Soon he had not only Dumbledore and Morgana, but
Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin.
He finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, who was
scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"You want to be careful with those," Ron warned Harry. "When they say
every flavor, they mean every flavor -- you know, you get all the
ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and mar- malade, but then
you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger-
flavored one once."

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a
corner.

"Bleaaargh -- see? Sprouts."

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast,
coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was
even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn't
touch, which turned out to be pepper.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat
fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green
hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced
boy Harry had passed on platform nine and threequarters came in. He
looked tearful.

"Sorry," he said, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

When they shook their heads, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting
away from me!"

"He'll turn up," said Harry.

"Yes," said the boy miserably. "Well, if you see him..."

He left.

"Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a toad I'd
lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't
talk."

The rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap.

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said Ron in
disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more
interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking
wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the
end.

"Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway

He had just raised his 'wand when the compartment door slid open again.
The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was
already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy
sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron, but the girl
wasn't listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

"Er -- all right."

He cleared his throat.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast
asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well, it's not very
good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's
all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such
a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I
mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard --
I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it
will be enough -- I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you.

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he
hadn't learned all the course books by heart either.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course -- I
got a few extra books. for background reading, and you're in Modern
Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great
Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.

"Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed.

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it
was me," said Hermione. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in?
I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far
the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw
wouldn't be too bad.... Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's
toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there
soon."

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron. He threw his
wand back into his trunk. "Stupid spell -- George gave it to me, bet he
knew it was a dud."

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom
and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I
don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in
Slytherin."

"That's the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?"

"Yeah," said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.

"You know, I think the ends of Scabbers' whiskers are a bit lighter,"
said Harry, trying to take Ron's mind off houses. "So what do your
oldest brothers do now that they've left, anyway?"

Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he'd finished school.

"Charlie's in Romania studying dragons, and Bill's in Africa doing
something for Gringotts," said Ron. "Did you hear about

Gringotts? It's been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don't suppose you
get that with the Muggles -- someone tried to rob a high security
vault."

Harry stared.

"Really? What happened to them?"

"Nothing, that's why it's such big news. They haven't been caught. My
dad says it must've been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts,
but they don't think they took anything, that's what's odd. 'Course,
everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case
You-Know-Who's behind it."

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a
prickle of fear every time You- Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this
was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more
comfortable saying "Voldemort" without worrying.

"What's your Quidditch team?" Ron asked.

"Er -- I don't know any," Harry confessed.

"What!" Ron looked dumbfounded. "Oh, you wait, it's the best game in the
world --" And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the
positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to
with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the
money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game
when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the
toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was
the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop. He was looking at Harry with
a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry
Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were
thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale
boy, they looked like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly,
noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigget. Draco
Malfoy looked at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father
told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than
they can afford."

He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families
are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends
with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said
coolly.

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale
cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a
bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know
what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the
Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up.

"Say that again," Ron said, his face as red as his hair.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Malfoy sneered.

"Unless you get out now," said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because
Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron.

"But we don't feet like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food
and you still seem to have some."

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron - Ron leapt
forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a
horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk
deep into Goyle's knuckle - Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung
Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbets finally flew off
and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they
thought there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they'd
heard footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.

"What has been going on?" she said, looking at the sweets all over the
floor and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail.

I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry. He looked closer at
Scabbers. "No -- I don't believe it -- he's gone back to sleep-"

And so he had.

"You've met Malfoy before?"

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

"I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the
first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said
they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's
father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side." He turned to
Hermione. "Can we help you with something?"

"You'd better hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the
front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. You haven't
been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

"Scabbers has been fighting, not us," said Ron, scowling at her. "Would
you mind leaving while we change?"

"All right -- I only came in here because people outside are behaving
very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a
sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you
know?"

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It was
getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple
sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes.
Ron's were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers underneath
them.

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five
minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken
to the school separately."

Harry's stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under
his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and
joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way
toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in
the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the
students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: "Firs' years! Firs' years
over here! All right there, Harry?"

Hagrid's big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

"C'mon, follow me -- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs'
years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a
steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry
thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the
boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

"Ye' all get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over
his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black take.
Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in
the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little
boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed
into their boat by Neville and Hermione. "Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid,
who had a boat to himself. "Right then -- FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the
lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at
the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer
and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they
all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain
of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried
along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the
castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they
clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad?" said Hagrid, who was checking the
boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they
clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at
last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, Oak
front door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle
door.


CHAPTER SEVEN

THE SORTING HAT

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green
robes stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry's first thought
was that this was not someone to cross.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have
fit the whole of the Dursleys' house in it. The stone walls were lit
with flaming torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too
high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to
the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry
could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right
-the rest of the school must already be here -- but Professor McGonagall
showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They
crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have
done, peering about nervously.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term
banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great
Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very
important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be
something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with
the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free
time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and
Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced
outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your
triumphs will earn your house points, while any rulebreaking will lose
house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is
awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a
credit to whichever house becomes yours.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the
rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as
you can while you are waiting."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened
under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to
flatten his hair.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall.
"Please wait quietly."

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he
was joking."

Harry's heart gave a horrible jolt. A test? In front of the whole
school? But he didn't know any magic yet -- what on earth would he have
to do? He hadn't expected something like this the moment they arrived.
He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified,
too. No one was talking much except Hermione Granger, who was whispering
very fast about all the spells she'd learned and wondering which one
she'd need. Harry tried hard not to listen to her. He'd never been more
nervous, never, not even when he'd had to take a school report home to
the Dursleys saying that he'd somehow turned his teacher's wig blue. He
kept his eyes fixed on the door. Any second now, Professor McGonagall
would come back and lead him to his doom.

Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the air --
several people behind him screamed.

"What the --?"

He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just
streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent,
they glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing
at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a fat
little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him
a second chance --"

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He
gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost -- I
say, what are you all doing here?"

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.

Nobody answered.

"New students!" said the Fat Friar, smiling around at them. "About to be
Sorted, I suppose?"

A few people nodded mutely.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" said the Friar. "My old house, you
know."

"Move along now," said a sharp voice. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to
start."

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away
through the opposite wall.

"Now, form a line," Professor McGonagall told the first years, "and
follow me."

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line
behind a boy with sandy hair, with Ron behind him, and they walked out
of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors
into the Great Hall.

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was
lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair
over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting.
These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the
top of the hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting.
Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a
halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them.
The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the
flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the
ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry
looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He
heard

Hermione whisper, "Its bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read
about it in Hogwarts, A History."

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the
Great Hall didn't simply open on to the heavens.

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed
a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she
put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and
extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let it in the house.

Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it, Harry thought wildly,
that seemed the sort of thing -- noticing that everyone in the hall was
now staring at the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there
was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened
wide like a mouth -- and the hat began to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffis are true And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It
bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

"So we've just got to try on the hat!" Ron whispered to Harry. "I'll
kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll."

Harry. smiled weakly. Yes, trying on the hat was a lot better than
having to do a spell, but he did wish they could have tried it on
without everyone watching. The hat seemed to be asking rather alot;
Harry didn't feel brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If
only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy,
that would have been the one for him.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of
parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to
be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the
hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moments pause
--

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at
the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving
merrily at her.

"Bones, Susan!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next
to Hannah.

"Boot, Terry!"

"RAVENCLAW!"

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws
stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them.

" Brocklehurst, Mandy" went to Ravenclaw too, but "Brown, Lavender"
became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded
with cheers; Harry could see Ron's twin brothers catcalling.

"Bulstrode, Millicent" then became a Slytherin. Perhaps it was Harry's
imagination, after all he'd heard about Slytherin, but he thought they
looked like an unpleasant lot. He was starting to feel definitely sick
now. He remembered being picked for teams during gym at his old school.
He had always been last to be chosen, not because he was no good, but
because no one wanted Dudley to think they liked him.

"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Sometimes, Harry noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once, but at
others it took a little while to decide. "Finnigan, Seamus," the
sandy-haired boy next to Harry in the line, sat on the stool for almost
a whole minute before the hat declared him a Gryffindor.

"Granger, Hermione!"

Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the hat. Ron groaned.

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts always do when
you're very nervous. What if he wasn't chosen at all? What if he just
sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor
McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a
mistake and he'd better get back on the train?

When Neville Longbottom, the boy who kept losing his toad, was called,
he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time to decide
with Neville. When it finally shouted, "GRYFFINDOR," Neville ran off
still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it
to "MacDougal, Morag."

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at
once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

Malfoy went to join his friends Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with
himself.

There weren't many people left now. "Moon" "Nott" "Parkinson" then a
pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil" then "Perks, Sally-Anne" and
then, at last -- "Potter, Harry!"

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little
hissing fires all over the hall.

"Potter, did she say?"

The Harry Potter?"

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the
hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he
was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty
of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, A my goodness,
yes -- and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting....
So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Slytherin, not
Slytherin.

"Not Slytherin, eh?" said the small voice. "Are you sure? You could be
great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you
on the way to greatness, no doubt about that -- no? Well, if you're sure
-- better be GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off
the hat and walked shakily toward the Gryffindor table. He was so
relieved to have been chosen and not put in Slytherin, he hardly noticed
that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Percy the Prefect got up and
shook his hand vigorously, while the Weasley twins yelled, "We got
Potter! We got Potter!" Harry sat down opposite the ghost in the ruff
he'd seen earlier. The ghost patted his arm, giving Harry the sudden,
horrible feeling he'd just plunged it into a bucket of ice-cold water.

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end nearest him sat
Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him the thumbs up. Harry grinned
back. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair,
sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once from the card he'd
gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore's silver hair
was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the
ghosts. Harry spotted Professor Quirtell, too, the nervous young man
from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking very peculiar in a large purple
turban.

And now there were only three people left to be sorted. "Thomas, Dean,"
a Black boy even taller than Ron, joined Harry at the Gryffindor table.
"Turpin, Lisa," became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron's turn. He was
pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table and a
second later the hat had shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry clapped loudly with the rest as Ron collapsed into the chair next
to him.

"Well done, Ron, excellent," said Percy Weasley Pompously across Harry
as "Zabini, Blaise," was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled
up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how
hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago.

Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students,
his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to
see them all there.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin
our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit!
Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn't know
whether to laugh or not.

"Is he -- a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly.

"Mad?" said Percy airily. "He's a genius! Best wizard in the world! But
he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?"

Harry's mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with
food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table:
roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon
and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding,
peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint
humbugs.

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he'd never been
allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything
that Harry really wanted, even if It made him sick. Harry piled his
plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat.
It was all delicious.

"That does look good," said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry
cut up his steak,

"Can't you --?"

I haven't eaten for nearly four hundred years," said the ghost. "I don't
need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've in troduced
myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington at your service. Resident ghost
of Gryffindor Tower."

"I know who you are!" said Ron suddenly. "My brothers told me about you
-- you're Nearly Headless Nick!"

"I would prefer you to call me Sir Nicholas de Mimsy --" the ghost began
stiffly, but sandy-haired Seamus Finnigan interrupted.

"Nearly Headless? How can you be nearly headless?"

Sir Nicholas looked extremely miffed, as if their little chat wasn't
going at all the way he wanted.

"Like this," he said irritably. He seized his left ear and pulled. His
whole head swung off his neck and fell onto his shoulder as if it was on
a hinge. Someone had obviously tried to behead him, but not done it
properly. Looking pleased at the stunned looks on their faces, Nearly
Headless Nick flipped his head back onto his neck, coughed, and said,
"So -- new Gryffindors! I hope you're going to help us win the house
championship this year? Gryffindors have never gone so long without
winning. Slytherins have got the cup six years in a row! The Bloody
Baron's becoming almost unbearable -- he's the Slytherin ghost."

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost
sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained
with silver blood. He was right next to Malfoy who, Harry was pleased to
see, didn't look too pleased with the seating arrangements.

"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest.

"I've never asked," said Nearly Headless Nick delicately.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food
faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment
later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you
could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate eclairs and jam
doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding -- "

As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their
families.

"I'm half-and-half," said Seamus. "Me dad's a Muggle. Mom didn't tell
him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock
for him."

The others laughed.

"What about you, Neville?" said Ron.

"Well, my gran brought me up and she's a witch," said Neville, "but the
family thought I was all- Muggle for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept
trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me -- he
pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned -- but
nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for
dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles
when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let
go. But I bounced -- all the way down the garden and into the road. They
were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you
should have seen their faces when I got in here -- they thought I might
not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased
he bought me my toad."

On Harry's other side, Percy Weasley and Hermione were talking about
lessons ("I do hope they start right away, there's so much to learn, I'm
particularly interested in Transfiguration, you know, turning something
into something else, of course, it's supposed to be very difficult-";
"You'll be starting small, just matches into needles and that sort of
thing -- ").

Harry, who was starting to feel warm and sleepy, looked up at

the High Table again. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet.
Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor
Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy
black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's
turban straight into Harry's eyes -- and a sharp, hot pain shot across
the scar on Harry's forehead.

"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.

"What is it?" asked Percy.

"N-nothing."

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the
feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look -- a feeling that he
didn't like Harry at all.

"Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy.

"Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so
nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want
to -- everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about
the Dark Arts, Snape."

Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn't look at him again.

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to
his feet again. The hall fell silent.

"Ahern -- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I
have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to
all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember
that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley
twins.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all
that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone
interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor
on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to
die a very painful death."

Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.

"He's not serious?" he muttered to Percy.

"Must be," said Percy, frowning at Dumbledore. "It's odd, because he
usually gives us a reason why we're not allowed to go somewhere -- the
forest's full of dangerous beasts, everyone knows that. I do think he
might have told us prefects, at least."

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried
Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become
rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a
fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose
high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"
And the school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flies and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot,

just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot.

Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the
Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march.
Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they
had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here!
And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

The Gryffindor first years followed Percy through the chattering crowds,
out of the Great Hall, and up the marble staircase. Harry's legs were
like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He
was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits
along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice
Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging
tapestries. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their
feet, and Harry was just wondering how much farther they had to go when
they came to a sudden halt.

A bundle of walking sticks was floating in midair ahead of them, and as
Percy took a step toward them they started throwing themselves at him.

"Peeves," Percy whispered to the first years. "A poltergeist." He raised
his voice, "Peeves -- show yourself"

A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered.

"Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?"

There was a pop, and a little man with wicked, dark eyes and a wide
mouth appeared, floating cross- legged in the air, clutching the walking
sticks.

"Oooooooh!" he said, with an evil cackle. "Ickle Firsties! What fun!"

He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked.

"Go away, Peeves, or the Baron'll hear about this, I mean it!" barked
Percy.

Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on
Neville's head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armor as
he passed.

"You want to watch out for Peeves," said Percy, as they set off again.
"The Bloody Baron's the only one who can control him, he won't even
listen to us prefects. Here we are."

At the very end of the corridor hung a portrait of a very fat woman in a
pink silk dress.

"Password?" she said. "Caput Draconis," said Percy, and the portrait
swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. They all scrambled
through it -- Neville needed a leg up -- and found themselves in the
Gryffindor common room, a cozy, round room full of squashy armchairs.

Percy directed the girls through one door to their dormitory and the
boys through another. At the top of a spiral staircase -- they were
obviously in one of the towers -- they found their beds at last: five
four-posters hung with deep red, velvet curtains. Their trunks had
already been brought up. Too tired to talk much, they pulled on their
pajamas and fell into bed.

" Great food, isn't it?" Ron muttered to Harry through the hangings.
"Get off, Scabbers! He's chewing my sheets."

Harry was going to ask Ron if he'd had any of the treacle tart, but he
fell asleep almost at once.

Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because he had a very strange
dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell's turban, which kept talking to
him, telling him he must transfer to Slytherin at once, because it was
his destiny. Harry told the turban he didn't want to be in Slytherin; it
got heavier and heavier; he tried to pull it off but it tightened
painfully -- and there was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with
it -then Malfoy turned into the hook-nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh
became high and cold -- there was a burst of green light and Harry woke,
sweating and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke next day, he
didn't remember the dream at all.


CHAPTER EIGHT

THE POTIONS MASTER

There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next
day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look
at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring.
Harry wished they wouldn't, because he was trying to concentrate on
finding his way to classes.

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide,
sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different
on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to
remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you
asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors
that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It
was also very hard to remember where anything was, because it all seemed
to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit
each other, and Harry was sure the coats of armor could walk.

The ghosts didn't help, either. It was always a nasty shock when one of
them glided suddenly through a door you were trying to open. Nearly
Headless Nick was always happy to point new Gryffindors in the right
direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a
trick staircase if you met him when you were late for class. He would
drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet,
pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab
your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"

Even worse than Peeves, if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus
Filch. Harry and Ron managed to get on the wrong side of him on their
very first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a
door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds
corridor on the third floor. He wouldn't believe they were lost, was
sure they were trying to break into it on purpose, and was threatening
to lock them in the dungeons when they were rescued by Professor
Quirrell, who was passing.

Filch owned a cat called Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature
with bulging, lamp like eyes just like Filch's. She patrolled the
corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of
line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds
later. Filch knew the secret passageways of the school better than
anyone (except perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly
as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest
ambition of many to give Mrs. Norris a good kick.

And then, once you had managed to find them, there were the classes
themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out,
than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.

They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every
Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the
movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the
greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little
witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of
all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for.

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only
one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old

indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got
up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on
and on while they scribbled down names and dates, and got Emetic the
Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had
to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their
first class he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he
gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.

Professor McGonagall was again different. Harry had been quite right to
think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a
talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you
will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class
will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very
impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they
weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time.
After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match
and started trying to turn it into a needle. By the end of the lesson,
only Hermione Granger had made any difference to her match; Professor
McGonagall showed the class how it had gone all silver and pointy and
gave Hermione a rare smile.

The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense
Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of
a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said
was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be
coming back to get him one of these days. His turban, he told them, had
been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of
a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed this story.
For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell
had fought off the zombie, Quirrell went pink and started talking about
the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung
around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed
full of garlic as well, so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.

Harry was very relieved to find out that he wasn't miles behind everyone
else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, hadn't
had any idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so much to
learn that even people like Ron didn't have much of a head start.

Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. They finally managed to
find their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast without getting lost
once.

"What have we got today?" Harry asked Ron as he poured sugar on his
porridge.

"Double Potions with the Slytherins," said Ron. "Snape's Head of
Slytherin House. They say he always favors them -- we'll be able to see
if it's true."

"Wish McGonagall favored us, " said Harry. Professor McGonagall was head
of Gryffindor House, but it hadn't stopped her from giving them a huge
pile of homework the day before.

Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but
it had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a
hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast,
circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters
and packages onto their laps.

Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to
nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the
owlery with the other school owls. This morning, however, she fluttered
down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto
Harry's plate. Harry tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy
scrawl:


Dear Harry,

I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have
a cup of tea with me around three?

I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with
Hedwig.

Hagrid


Harry borrowed Ron's quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later on the
back of the note, and sent Hedwig off again.

It was lucky that Harry had tea with Hagrid to look forward to, because
the Potions lesson turned out to be the worst thing that had happened to
him so far.

At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor
Snape disliked him. By the end of the first Potions lesson, he knew he'd
been wrong. Snape didn't dislike Harry -- he hated him.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder
here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough
without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and
like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name.

"Ah, Yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new -- celebrity."

Draco Malfoy and his friends Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their
hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His
eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of Hagrid's warmth.
They were cold and empty and made you think of dark tunnels.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of
potionmaking," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but
they caught every word -- like Professor McGonagall, Snape had y caught
every word -- like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a
class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving
here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you
will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with
its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through
human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.... I can teach
you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you aren't
as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks
with raised eyebrows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat and
looked desperate to start proving that she wasn't a dunderhead.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered
root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Powdered root of what to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron, who
looked as stumped as he was; Hermione's hand had shot into the air.

"I don't know, sit," said Harry.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer.

"Tut, tut -- fame clearly isn't everything."

He ignored Hermione's hand.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me
a bezoar?"

Hermione stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without
her leaving her seat, but Harry didn't have the faintest idea what a
bezoar was. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were
shaking with laughter.

"I don't know, sit." "Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming,
eh, Potter?" Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those
cold eyes. He had looked through his books at the Dursleys', but did
Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs
and Fungi?

Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon
ceiling.

"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why
don't you try her?"

A few people laughed; Harry caught Seamus's eye, and Seamus winked.
Snape, however, was not pleased.

"Sit down," he snapped at Hermione. "For your information, Potter,
asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as
the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach
of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and
wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of
aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise,
Snape said, "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your
cheek, Potter."

Things didn't improve for the Gryffindors as the Potions lesson
continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a
simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak,
watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing
almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. He was just
telling everyone to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned
slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the
dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to melt Seamus's cauldron into a
twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor,
burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class was
standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the
potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils
sprang up all over his arms and legs.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one
wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before
taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. Then he
rounded on Harry and Ron, who had been working next to Neville.

"You -- Potter -- why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought
he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another
point you've lost for Gryffindor."

This was so unfair that Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Ron kicked
him behind their cauldron.

"Doi* push it," he muttered, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty."

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry's mind
was racing and his spirits were low. He'd lost two points for Gryffindor
in his very first week -- why did Snape hate him so much? "Cheer up,"
said Ron, "Snape's always taking points off Fred and George. Can I come
and meet Hagrid with you?"

At five to three they left the castle and made their way across the
grounds. Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the
forbidden forest. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the
front door.

When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside and
several booming barks. Then Hagrid's voice rang out, saying, "Back, Fang
-- back."

Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door
open.

"Hang on," he said. "Back, Fang."

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the collar of an enormous
black boarhound.

There was only one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the
ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner
stood a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it.

"Make yerselves at home," said Hagrid, letting go of Fang, who bounded
straight at Ron and started licking his ears. Like Hagrid, Fang was
clearly not as fierce as he looked.

"This is Ron," Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a
large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate.

"Another Weasley, eh?" said Hagrid, glancing at Ron's freckles. I spent
half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest."

The rock cakes were shapeless lumps with raisins that almost broke their
teeth, but Harry and Ron pretended to be enjoying them as they told
Hagrid all about their first -lessons. Fang rested his head on Harry's
knee and drooled all over his robes.

Harry and Ron were delighted to hear Hagrid call Fitch "that old git."

"An' as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I'd like ter introduce her to Fang
sometime. D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me
everywhere? Can't get rid of her -- Fitch puts her up to it."

Harry told Hagrid about Snape's lesson. Hagrid, like Ron, told Harry not
to worry about it, that Snape liked hardly any of the students.

"But he seemed to really hate me."

"Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should he?"

Yet Harry couldn't help thinking that Hagrid didn't quite meet his eyes
when he said that.

"How's yer brother Charlie?" Hagrid asked Ron. "I liked him a lot --
great with animals."

Harry wondered if Hagrid had changed the subject on purpose. While Ron
told Hagrid all about Charlie's work with dragons, Harry picked up a
piece of paper that was lying on the table under the tea cozy. It was a
cutting from the Daily Prophet:

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July,
widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault
that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if
you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this
afternoon.

Harry remembered Ron telling him on the train that someone had tried to
rob Gringotts, but Ron hadn't mentioned the date.

"Hagrid!" said Harry, "that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday!
It might've been happening while we were there!"

There was no doubt about it, Hagrid definitely didn't meet Harry's eyes
this time. He grunted and offered him another rock cake. Harry read the
story again. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied
earlier that same day. Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and
thirteen, if you could call it emptying, taking out that grubby little
package. Had that been what the thieves were looking for?

As Harry and Ron walked back to the castle for dinner, their pockets
weighed down with rock cakes they'd been too polite to refuse, Harry
thought that none of the lessons he'd had so far had given him as much
to think about as tea with Hagrid. Had Hagrid collected that package
just in time? Where was it now? And did Hagrid know something about
Snape that he didn't want to tell Harry?


CHAPTER NINE

THE MIDNIGHT DUEL

Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley,
but that was before he met Draco Malfoy.	Still, first-year
Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn't have to
put up with Malfoy much. Or at least, they didn't until they spotted a
notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that made them all groan.
Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday -- and Gryffindor and
Slytherin	would be learning together.

"Typical," said Harry darkly. "Just what I always wanted. To make a fool
of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else.

"You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," said Ron
reasonably. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he
is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk."

Malfay certainly did talk about flying a lot. He complained loudly about
first years never getting on the house Quidditch teams and told long,
boastful stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping
Muggles in helicopters. He wasn't the only one, though: the way Seamus
Finnigan told it, he'd spent most of his childhood zooming around the
countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell anyone who'd listen
about the time he'd almost hit a hang glider on Charlie's old broom.
Everyone from wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly. Ron
had already had a big argument with Dean Thomas, who shared their
dormitory, about soccer. Ron couldn't see what was exciting about a game
with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry had caught Ron
prodding Dean's poster of West Ham soccer team, trying to make the
players move.

Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his
grandmother had never let him near one. Privately, Harry felt she'd had
good reason, because Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of
accidents even with both feet on the ground.

Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was. This
was something you couldn't learn by heart out of a book -- not that she
hadn't tried. At breakfast on Thursday she bored them all stupid with
flying tips she'd gotten out of a library book called Quidditch Through
the Ages. Neville was hanging on to her every word, desperate for
anything that might help him hang on to his broomstick later, but
everybody else was very pleased when Hermione's lecture was interrupted
by the arrival of the mail.

Harry hadn't had a single letter since Hagrid's note, something that
Malfoy had been quick to notice, of course. Malfoy's eagle owl was
always bringing him packages of sweets from home, which he opened
gloatingly at the Slytherin table.

A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother. He
opened it excitedly and showed them a glass ball the size of a large
marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.

"It's a Remembrall!" he explained. "Gran knows I forget things -- this
tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it
tight like this and if it turns red -- oh..." His face fell, because the
Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet,

"You've forgotten something..."

Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten when Draco Malfoy,
who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall out of his
hand.

Harry and Ron jumped to their feet. They were half hoping for a reason
to fight Malfay, but Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble
quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.

"What's going on?"

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor."

Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table.

"Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind
him.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors
hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying
lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their
feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn
on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees
were swaying darkly in the distance.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying
in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley
complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to
vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and
yellow eyes like a hawk.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a
broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck
out at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the
front, "and say 'Up!"'

"UPF everyone shouted.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few
that did. Hermione Granger's had simply rolled over on the ground, and
Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell
when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a quaver in Neville's
voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the
ground.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding
off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips.
Harry and Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it
wrong for years.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said
Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come
straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three
-- two --"

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the
ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's
lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a
cork shot out of a bottle -- twelve feet -- twenty feet. Harry saw his
scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp,
slip sideways off the broom and --

WHAM -- a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass
in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and
started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

"Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy -- it's all right,
up you get.".

She turned to the rest of the class.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You
leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before
you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with
Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced
Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies,
Parvati."

"Look!" said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the
grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly. Everyone stopped talking
to watch.

Malfoy smiled nastily.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find -- how about --
up a tree?"

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick
and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level
with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it,
Potter!"

Harry grabbed his broom.

"No!" shouted Hermione Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move --
you'll get us all into trouble."

Harry ignored her. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom
and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed
through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him -and in a rush of
fierce joy he realized he'd found something he could do without being
taught -- this was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up
a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls
back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron.

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked
stunned.

"Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!" "Oh,
yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.

Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom
tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfay like a javelin. Malfoy
only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and
held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.

"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called.

The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.

"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball
high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and
then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down
-- next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball
-- wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people
watching -- he stretched out his hand -- a foot from the ground he
caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled
gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

"HARRY POTTER!"

His heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was
running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling.

"Never -- in all my time at Hogwarts --"

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses
flashed furiously, "-- how dare you -- might have broken your neck --"

"It wasn't his fault, Professor --"

"Be quiet, Miss Patil

"But Malfoy --"

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."

Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as he
left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward
the castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it. He wanted to
say something to defend himself, but there seemed to be something wrong
with his voice. Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even
looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now he'd done it. He hadn't
even lasted two weeks. He'd be packing his bags in ten minutes. What
would the Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep?

Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Professor
McGonagall didn't say a word to him. She wrenched open doors and marched
along corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. Maybe she was
taking him to Dumbledore. He thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to
stay on as gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid's assistant. His
stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron and the others becoming
wizards, while he stumped around the grounds carrying Hagrid's bag.

Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door
and poked her head inside.

"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"

Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane she was going to use on
him?

But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year boy who came out
of Flitwicles class looking confused.

"Follow me, you two," said Professor McGonagall, and they marched on up
the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry.

"In here."

Professor McGonagall pointed them into a classroom that was empty except
for Peeves, who was busy writing rude words on the blackboard.

"Out, Peeves!" she barked. Peeves threw the chalk into a bin, which
clanged loudly, and he swooped out cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed
the door behind him and turned to face the two boys.

"Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood -- I've found you a Seeker."

Wood's expression changed from puzzlement to delight.

"Are you serious, Professor?"

"Absolutely," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "The boy's a natural.
I've never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a
broomstick, Potter?"

Harry nodded silently. He didn't have a clue what was going on, but he
didn't seem to be being expelled, and some of the feeling started coming
back to his legs.

"He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive," Professor
McGonagall told Wood. "Didn't even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley
couldn't have done it."

Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true at once.

"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?" he asked excitedly.

"Wood's captain of the Gryffindor team," Professor McGonagall explained.

"He's just the build for a Seeker, too," said Wood, now walking around
Harry and staring at him. "Light -- speedy -- we'll have to get him a
decent broom, Professor -- a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven,
I'd say."

I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can't bend the
first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year.
Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn't look Severus Snape
in the face for weeks...."

Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses at Harry.

"I want to hear you're training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind
about punishing you."

Then she suddenly smiled.

"Your father would have been proud," she said. "He was an excellent
Quidditch player himself."

"You're joking."

It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron what had happened
when he'd left the grounds with Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of
steak and kidney pie halfway to his mouth, but he'd forgotten all about
it.

"Seeker?" he said. "But first years never -- you must be the youngest
house player in about a century, said Harry, shoveling pie into his
mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the excitement of the
afternoon. "Wood told me."

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at Harry.

"I start training next week," said Harry. "Only don't tell anyone, Wood
wants to keep it a secret."

Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall, spotted Harry, and
hurried over.

"Well done," said George in a low voice. "Wood told us. We're on the
team too -- Beaters."

"I tell you, we're going to win that Quidditch cup for sure this year,"
said Fred. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is
going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping
when he told us."

"Anyway, we've got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret
passageway out of the school."

"Bet it's that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found
in our first week. See you."

Fred and George had hardly disappeared when someone far less welcome
turned up: Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

"Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the
Muggles?"

"You're a lot braver now that you're back on the ground and you've got
your little friends with you," said Harry coolly. There was of course
nothing at all little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table was
full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their
knuckles and scowl.

"I'd take you on anytime on my own," said Malfoy. "Tonight, if you want.
Wizard's duel. Wands only -- no contact. What's the matter? Never heard
of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course he has," said Ron, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's
yours?"

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," he said. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy
room; that's always unlocked."

When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry looked at each other. "What is a
wizard's duel?" said Harry. "And what do you mean, you're my second?"

"Well, a second's there to take over if you die," said Ron casually,
getting started at last on his cold pie. Catching the look on Harry's
face, he added quickly, "But people only die in proper duels, you know,
with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy'll be able to do is send
sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real
damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway."

"And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?"

"Throw it away and punch him on the nose," Ron suggested. "Excuse me."

They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.

"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" said Ron.

Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.

"I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying --"

"Bet you could," Ron muttered.

"--and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night, think of the
points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be.
It's really very selfish of you."

"And it's really none of your business," said Harry.

"Good-bye," said Ron.

All the same, it wasn't what you'd call the perfect end to the day,
Harry thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Dean and Seamus
falling asleep (Neville wasn't back from the hospital wing). Ron had
spent all evening giving him advice such as "If he tries to curse you,
you'd better dodge it, because I can't remember how to block them."
There was a very good chance they were going to get caught by Filch or
Mrs. Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck, breaking another
school rule today. On the other hand, Malfoys sneering face kept looming
up out of the darkness - this was his big chance to beat Malfoy
face-to-face. He couldn't miss it.

"Half-past eleven," Ron muttered at last, "we'd better go."

They pulled on their bathrobes, picked up their wands, and crept across
the tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor
common room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, turning
all the armchairs into hunched black shadows. They had almost reached
the portrait hole when a voice spoke from the chair nearest them, "I
can't believe you're going to do this, Harry."

A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, wearing a pink bathrobe
and a frown.

"You!" said Ron furiously. "Go back to bed!"

"I almost told your brother," Hermione snapped, "Percy -- he's a
prefect, he'd put a stop to this."

Harry couldn't believe anyone could be so interfering.

"Come on," he said to Ron. He pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady
and climbed through the hole.

Hermione wasn't going to give up that easily. She followed Ron through
the portrait hole, hissing at them like an angry goose.

"Don't you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I
don't want Slytherin to win the house cup, and you'll lose all the
points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching
Spells."

"Go away." "All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said
when you're on the train home tomorrow, you're so --"

But what they were, they didn't find out. Hermione had turned to the
portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an
empty painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit and Hermione
was locked out of Gryffindor tower.

"Now what am I going to do?" she asked shrilly.

"That's your problem," said Ron. "We've got to go, we 3 re going to be
late."

They hadn't even reached the end of the corridor when Hermione caught up
with them.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

"You are not."

"D'you think I'm going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me?
If he finds all three of us I'll tell him the truth, that I was trying
to stop you, and you can back me up."

"You've got some nerve --" said Ron loudly.

"Shut up, both of you!" said Harry sharply. I heard something."

It was a sort of snuffling.

"Mrs. Norris?" breathed Ron, squinting through the dark.

It wasn't Mrs. Norris. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor,
fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer.

"Thank goodness you found me! I've been out here for hours, I couldn't
remember the new password to get in to bed."

"Keep your voice down, Neville. The password's 'Pig snout' but it won't
help you now, the Fat Lady's gone off somewhere."

"How's your arm?" said Harry.

"Fine," said Neville, showing them. "Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a
minute."

"Good - well, look, Neville, we've got to be somewhere, we'll see you
later --"

"Don't leave me!" said Neville, scrambling to his feet, "I don't want to
stay here alone, the Bloody Baron's been past twice already."

Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and
Neville.

"If either of you get us caught, I'll never rest until I've learned that
Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about, and used it on you.

Hermione opened her mouth, perhaps to tell Ron exactly how to use the
Curse of the Bogies, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned
them all forward.

They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the
high windows. At every turn Harry expected to run into Filch or Mrs.
Norris, but they were lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor
and tiptoed toward the trophy room.

Malfoy and Crabbe weren't there yet. The crystal trophy cases glimmered
where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues
winked silver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls,
keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry took
out his wand in case Malfoy leapt in and started at once. The minutes
crept by.

"He's late, maybe he's chickened out," Ron whispered.

Then a noise in the next room made them jump. Harry had only just raised
his wand when they heard someone speak -and it wasn't Malfoy.

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner."

It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry waved madly
at the other three to follow him as quickly as possible; they scurried
silently toward the door, away from Filch's voice. Neville's robes had
barely whipped round the corner when they heard Filch enter the trophy
room.

"They're in here somewhere," they heard him mutter, "probably hiding."

"This way!" Harry mouthed to the others and, petrified, they began to
creep down a long gallery full of suits of armor. They could hear Filch
getting nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak and broke
into a run -he tripped, grabbed Ron around the waist, and the pair of
them toppled right into a suit of armor.

The clanging and crashing were enough to wake the whole castle.

"RUN!" Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted down the gallery, not
looking back to see whether Filch was following -- they swung around the
doorpost and galloped down one corridor then another, Harry in the lead,
without any idea where they were or where they were going -- they ripped
through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtled
along it and came out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was
miles from the trophy room.

"I think we've lost him," Harry panted, leaning against the cold wall
and wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and
spluttering.

I -- told -you," Hermione gasped, clutching at the stitch in her chest,
"I -- told -- you."

"We've got to get back to Gryffindor tower," said Ron, "quickly as
possible."

"Malfoy tricked you," Hermione said to Harry. "You realize that, don't
you? He was never going to meet you -- Filch knew someone was going to
be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off."

Harry thought she was probably right, but he wasn't going to tell her
that.

"Let's go."

It wasn't going to be that simple. They hadn't gone more than a dozen
paces when a doorknob rattled and something came shooting out of a
classroom in front of them.

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a squeal of delight.

"Shut up, Peeves -- please -- you'll get us thrown out."

Peeves cackled.

"Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty,
naughty, you'll get caughty."

"Not if you don't give us away, Peeves, please."

"Should tell Filch, I should," said Peeves in a saintly voice, but his
eyes glittered wickedly. "It's for your own good, you know."

"Get out of the way," snapped Ron, taking a swipe at Peeves this was a
big mistake.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves bellowed, "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE
CHARMS CORRIDOR"

Ducking under Peeves, they ran for their lives, right to the end of the
corridor where they slammed into a door -- and it was locked.

"This is it!" Ron moaned, as they pushed helplessly at the door, "We're
done for! This is the end!" They could hear footsteps, Filch running as
fast as he could toward Peeves's shouts.

"Oh, move over," Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry's wand, tapped the
lock, and whispered, 'Alohomora!"

The lock clicked and the door swung open -- they piled through it, shut
it quickly, and pressed their ears against it, listening.

"Which way did they go, Peeves?" Filch was saying. "Quick, tell me."

"Say 'please."'

"Don't mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?"

"Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," said Peeves in his
annoying singsong voice.

"All right -please."

"NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say
please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" And they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing
away and Filch cursing in rage.

"He thinks this door is locked," Harry whispered. "I think we'll be okay
-- get off, Neville!" For Neville had been tugging on the sleeve of
Harry's bathrobe for the last minute. "What?"

Harry turned around -- and saw, quite clearly, what. For a moment, he
was sure he'd walked into a nightmare -- this was too much, on top of
everything that had happened so far.

They weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The
forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was
forbidden.

They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that
filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads.
Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching

and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging
in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry
knew that the only reason they weren't already dead was that their
sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting
over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant.

Harry groped for the doorknob -- between Filch and death, he'd take
Filch.

They fell backward -- Harry slammed the door shut, and they ran, they
almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look
for them somewhere else, because they didn't see him anywhere, but they
hardly cared -- all they wanted to do was put as much space as possible
between them and that monster. They didn't stop running until they
reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.

"Where on earth have you all been?" she asked, looking at their
bathrobes hanging off their shoulders and their flushed, sweaty faces.

"Never mind that -- pig snout, pig snout," panted Harry, and the
portrait swung forward. They scrambled into the common room and
collapsed, trembling, into armchairs.

It was a while before any of them said anything. Neville, indeed, looked
as if he'd never speak again.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up
in a school?" said Ron finally. "If any dog needs exercise, that one
does."

Hermione had got both her breath and her bad temper back again. "You
don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" she snapped. "Didn't you see
what it was standing on.

"The floor?" Harry suggested. "I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too
busy with its heads."

"No, not the floor. It was standing on a trapdoor. It's obviously
guarding something."

She stood up, glaring at them.

I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed --
or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

Ron stared after her, his mouth open.

"No, we don't mind," he said. "You'd think we dragged her along,
wouldn't you.

But Hermione had given Harry something else to think about as he climbed
back into bed. The dog was guarding something.... What had Hagrid said?
Gringotts was the safest place in the world for something you wanted to
hide -- except perhaps Hogwarts.

It looked as though Harry had found out where the grubby littie package
from vault seven hundred and thirteen was.


CHAPTER TEN

HALLOWEEN

Malfoy couldn't believe his eyes when he saw that Harry and Ron were
still at Hogwarts the next day, looking tired but perfectly cheerful.
Indeed, by the next morning Harry and Ron thought that meeting the
three-headed dog had been an excellent adventure, and they were quite
keen to have another one. In the meantime, Harry filled Ron in about the
package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts, and
they spent a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy
protection. "It's either really valuable or really dangerous," said Ron.
"Or both," said Harry.


But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it
was about two inches long, they didn't have much chance of guessing what
it was without further clues.

Neither Neville nor Hermione showed the slightest interest in what lay
underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All Neville cared about was never
going near the dog again.

Hermione was now refusing to speak to Harry and Ron, but she was such a
bossy know-it-all that they saw this as an added bonus. All they really
wanted now was a way of getting back at Malfoy, and to their great
delight, just such a thing arrived in the mail about a week later.

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, everyone's attention
was caught at once by a long, thin package carried by six large screech
owls. Harry was just as interested as everyone else to see what was in
this large parcel, and was amazed when the owls soared down and dropped
it right in front of him, knocking his bacon to the floor. They had
hardly fluttered out of the way when another owl dropped a letter on top
of the parcel.

Harry ripped open the letter first, which was lucky, because it said:


DO NOT OPEN THE PARCEL AT THE TABLE.

It contains your new Nimbus Two Thousand, but I don't want everybody
knowing you've got a broomstick or they'll all want one. Oliver Wood
will meet you tonight on the Quidditch field at seven o'clock for your
first training session.

Professor McGonagall

Harry had difficulty hiding his glee as he handed the note to Ron to
read.

"A Nimbus Two Thousand!" Ron moaned enviously. "I've never even touched
one."

They left the hall quickly, wanting to unwrap the broomstick in private
before their first class, but halfway across the entrance hall they
found the way upstairs barred by Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy seized the
package from Harry and felt it.

"That's a broomstick," he said, throwing it back to Harry with a mixture
of jealousy and spite on his face. "You'll be in for it this time,
Potter, first years aren't allowed them."

Ron couldn't resist it.

"It's not any old broomstick," he said, "it's a Nimbus Two Thousand.
What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" Ron
grinned at Harry. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same
league as the Nimbus."

"What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the
handle," Malfoy snapped back. "I suppose you and your brothers have to
save up twig by twig."

Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy's elbow.

"Not arguing, I hope, boys?" he squeaked.

"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Malfoy quickly.

"Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry.
"Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances,
Potter. And what model is it?"

"A Nimbus Two Thousand, sit," said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the
look of horror on Malfoy's face. "And it's really thanks to Malfoy here
that I've got it," he added.

Harry and Ron headed upstairs, smothering their laughter at Malfoy's
obvious rage and confusion. "Well, it's true," Harry chortled as they
reached the top of the marble staircase, "If he hadn't stolen Neville's
Remembrall I wouln't be on the team...."

"So I suppose you think that's a reward for breaking rules?" came an
angry voice from just behind them. Hermione was stomping up the stairs,
looking disapprovingly at the package in Harry's hand.

"I thought you weren't speaking to us?" said Harry.

"Yes, don't stop now," said Ron, "it's doing us so much good."

Hermione marched away with her nose in the air.

Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that day. It
kept wandering up to the dormitory where his new broomstick was lying
under his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch field where he'd be
learning to play that night. He bolted his dinner that evening without
noticing what he was eating, and then rushed upstairs with Ron to unwrap
the Nimbus Two Thousand at last.

"Wow," Ron sighed, as the broomstick rolled onto Harry's bedspread.

Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different brooms, thought it
looked wonderful. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long
tail of neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand written in gold
near the top.

As seven o'clock drew nearer, Harry left the castle and set off in the
dusk toward the Quidditch field. Held never been inside the stadium
before. Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the field so that
the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end
of the field were three golden poles with hoops on the end. They
reminded Harry of the little plastic sticks Muggle

children blew bubbles through, except that they were fifty feet high.

Too eager to fly again to wait for Wood, Harry mounted his broomstick
and kicked off from the ground. What a feeling -- he swooped in and out
of the goal posts and then sped up and down the field. The Nimbus Two
Thousand turned wherever he wanted at his lightest touch.

"Hey, Potter, come down!'

Oliver Wood had arrived. fie was carrying a large wooden crate under his
arm. Harry landed next to him.

"Very nice," said Wood, his eyes glinting. "I see what McGonagall
meant... you really are a natural. I'm just going to teach you the rules
this evening, then you'll be joining team practice three times a week."

He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized balls.

"Right," said Wood. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even
if it's not too easy to play. There are seven players on each side.
Three of them are called Chasers."

"Three Chasers," Harry repeated, as Wood took out a bright red ball
about the size of a soccer ball.

"This ball's called the Quaffle," said Wood. "The Chasers throw the
Quaffle to each other and try and get it through one of the hoops to
score a goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes through one of the
hoops. Follow me?"

"The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score,"
Harry recited. "So -- that's sort of like basketball on broomsticks with
six hoops, isn't it?"

"What's basketball?" said Wood curiously. "Never mind," said Harry
quickly.

"Now, there's another player on each side who's called the Keeper -I'm
Keeper for Gryffindor. I have to fly around our hoops and stop the other
team from scoring."

"Three Chasers, one Keeper," said Harry, who was determined to remember
it all. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are
they for?" He pointed at the three balls left inside the box.

"I'll show you now," said Wood. "Take this."

He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat.

"I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do," Wood said. "These two are
the Bludgers."

He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than
the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to
escape the straps holding them inside the box.

"Stand back," Wood warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the
Bludgers.

At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at
Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking
his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air -- it zoomed around
their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to
pin it to the ground.

"See?" Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate
and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around, trying to
knock players off their brooms. That's why you have two Beaters on each
team -- the Weasley twins are ours -- it's their job to protect their
side from the Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So
-- think you've got all that?"

"Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the
goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry
reeled off.

"Very good," said Wood.

"Er -- have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he
sounded offhand.

"Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse
than that. Now, the last member of the team is the

Seeker. That's you. And you don't have to worry about the Quaffle or the
Bludgers unless they crack my head open."

"Don't worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers -- I
mean, they're like a pair of human Bludgers themselves."

Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball.
Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size
of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver
wings.

"This," said Wood, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important
ball of the lot. It's very hard to catch because it's so fast and
difficult to see. It's the Seeker's job to catch it. You've got to weave
in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it
before the other team's Seeker, because whichever Seeker catches the
Snitch wins his team an extra hundred and fifty points, so they

nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of
Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages
-- I think the record is three months, they had to keep bringing on
substitutes so the players could get some sleep. "Well, that's it -- any
questions?"

Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to do all right, it was
doing it that was going to be the problem.

"We won't practice with the Snitch yet," said Wood, carefully shutting
it back inside the crate, "it's too dark, we might lose it. Let's try
you out with a few of these."

He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket and a few
minutes later, he and Harry were up in the air, Wood throwing the golf
balls as hard as he could in every direction for Harry to catch.

Harry didn't miss a single one, and Wood was delighted. After half an
hour, night had really fallen and they couldn't carry on.

"That Quidditch cup'll have our name on it this year," said Wood happily
as they trudged back up to the castle. "I wouldn't be surprised if you
turn out better than Charlie Weasley, and he could have played for
England if he hadn't gone off chasing dragons."

Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch practice
three evenings a week on top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly
believe it when he realized that he'd already been at Hogwarts two
months. The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had. His
lessons, too, were becoming more and more interesting now that they had
mastered the basics.

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin
wafting through the corridors. Even better, Professor Flitwick announced
in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly,
something they had all been dying to try since they'd seen him make
Neville's toad zoom around the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the
class into pairs to practice. Harry's partner was Seamus Finnigan (which
was a relief, because Neville had been trying to catch his eye). Ron,
however, was to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell
whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this. She hadn't spoken to
either of them since the day Harry's broomstick had arrived.

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing!"
squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as
usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic
words properly is very important, too -- never forget Wizard Baruffio,
who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a
buffalo on his chest."

It was very difficult. Harry and Seamus swished and flicked, but the
feather they were supposed to be sending skyward just lay on the
desktop. Seamus got so impatient that he prodded it with his wand and
set fire to it -- Harry had to put it out with his hat.

Ron, at the next table, wasn't having much more luck.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he shouted, waving his long arms like a windmill.

"You're saying it wrong," Harry heard Hermione snap. "It's Wing-gar-dium
Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."


"You do it, then, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her gown, flicked her wand, and said,
"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their
heads.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here,
Miss Granger's done it!"

Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of the class. "It's no wonder no
one can stand her," he said to Harry as they pushed their way into the
crowded corridor, "she's a nightmare, honestly. "

Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione.
Harry caught a glimpse of her face -- and was startled to see that she
was in tears.

"I think she heard you."

"So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "She must've noticed
she's got no friends."

Hermione didn't turn up for the next class and wasn't seen all
afternoon. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast,
Harry and Ron overheard Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that
Hermione was crying in the girls' bathroom and wanted to be left alone.
Ron looked still more awkward at this, but a moment later they had
entered the Great Hall, where the Halloween decorations put Hermione out
of their minds.

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a
thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the
candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the
golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Harry was just helping himself to a baked potato when Professor Quirrell
came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face.
Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped
against the table, and gasped, "Troll -- in the dungeons -- thought you
ought to know."

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from
the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories
immediately!"

Percy was in his element.

"Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if
you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years
coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!"

"How could a troll get in?" Harry asked as they climbed the stairs.

"Don't ask me, they're supposed to be really stupid," said Ron. "Maybe
Peeves let it in for a Halloween joke."

They passed different groups of people hurrying in different directions.
As they jostled their way through a crowd of confused Hufflepuffs, Harry
suddenly grabbed Ron's arm.

"I've just thought -- Hermione."

"What about her?"

"She doesn't know about the troll."

Ron bit his lip.

"Oh, all right," he snapped. "But Percy'd better not see us."

Ducking down, they joined the Hufflepuffs going the other way, slipped
down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off toward the girls'
bathroom. They had just turned the corner when they heard quick
footsteps behind them.

"Percy!" hissed Ron, pulling Harry behind a large stone griffin.

Peering around it, however, they saw not Percy but Snape. He crossed the
corridor and disappeared from view.

"What's he doing?" Harry whispered. "Why isn't he down in the dungeons
with the rest of the teachers?"

"Search me."

Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after Snape's
fading footsteps.

"He's heading for the third floor," Harry said, but Ron held up his
hand.

"Can you smell something?"

Harry sniffed and a foul stench reached his nostrils, a mixture of old
socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean.

And then they heard it -- a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of
gigantic feet. Ron pointed -- at the end of a passage to the left,
something huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and
watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite
gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head
perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks
with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was
holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its
arms were so long.

The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its
long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.

"The keys in the lock," Harry muttered. "We could lock it in."

"Good idea," said Ron nervously.

They edged toward the open door, mouths dry, praying the troll wasn't
about to come out of it. With one great leap, Harry managed to grab the
key, slam the door, and lock it.

'Yes!"

Flushed with their victory, they started to run back up the passage, but
as they reached the corner they heard something that made their hearts
stop -- a high, petrified scream -- and it was coming from the chamber
they'd just chained up.

"Oh, no," said Ron, pale as the Bloody Baron.

"It's the girls' bathroom!" Harry gasped.

"Hermione!" they said together.

It was the last thing they wanted to do, but what choice did they have?
Wheeling around, they sprinted back to the door and turned the key,
fumbling in their panic. Harry pulled the door open and they ran inside.

Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if
she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the
sinks off the walls as it went.

"Confuse it!" Harry said desperately to Ron, and, seizing a tap, he
threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around, blinking
stupidly, to see what had made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw
Harry. It hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club as it
went.

"Oy, pea-brain!" yelled Ron from the other side of the chamber, and he
threw a metal pipe at it. The troll didn't even seem to notice the pipe
hitting its shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again, turning
its ugly snout toward Ron instead, giving Harry time to run around it.

"Come on, run, run!" Harry yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her toward
the door, but she couldn't move, she was still flat against the wall,
her mouth open with terror.

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll berserk. It
roared again and started toward Ron, who was nearest and had no way to
escape.

Harry then did something that was both very brave and very stupid: He
took a great running jump and managed to fasten his arms around the
troll's neck from behind. The troll couldn't feel Harry hanging there,
but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit of wood up its
nose, and Harry's wand had still been in his hand when he'd jumped -- it
had gone straight up one of the troll's nostrils.

Howling with pain, the troll twisted and flailed its club, with Harry
clinging on for dear life; any second, the troll was going to rip him
off or catch him a terrible blow with the club.

Hermione had sunk to the floor in fright; Ron pulled out his own wand --
not knowing what he was going to do he heard himself cry the first spell
that came into his head: "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The club flew suddenly out of the troll's hand, rose high, high up into
the air, turned slowly over -- and dropped, with a sickening crack, onto
its owner's head. The troll swayed on the spot and then fell flat on its
face, with a thud that made the whole room tremble.

Harry got to his feet. He was shaking and out of breath. Ron was
standing there with his wand still raised, staring at what he had done.

It was Hermione who spoke first.

"Is it -- dead?"

I don't think so," said Harry, I think it's just been knocked out."

He bent down and pulled his wand out of the troll's nose. It was covered
in what looked like lumpy gray glue.

"Urgh -- troll boogers."

He wiped it on the troll's trousers.

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps made the three of them look up.
They hadn't realized what a racket they had been making, but of course,
someone downstairs must have heard the crashes and the troll's roars. A
moment later, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room,
closely followed by Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell
took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly
down on a toilet, clutching his heart.

Snape bent over the troll. Professor McGonagall was looking at Ron and
Harry. Harry had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were white.
Hopes of winning fifty points for Gryffindor faded quickly from Harry's
mind.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with
cold fury in her voice. Harry looked at Ron, who was still standing with
his wand in the air. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in
your dormitory?"

Snape gave Harry a swift, piercing look. Harry looked at the floor. He
wished Ron would put his wand down.

Then a small voice came out of the shadows.

"Please, Professor McGonagall -- they were looking for me."

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione had managed to get to her feet at last.

I went looking for the troll because I -- I thought I could deal with it
on my own -- you know, because I've read all about them."

Ron dropped his wand. Hermione Granger, telling a downright lie to a
teacher? "If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Harry stuck his wand
up its nose and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have
time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they
arrived."

Harry and Ron tried to look as though this story wasn't new to them.

"Well -- in that case..." said Professor McGonagall, staring at the
three of them, "Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of
tackling a mountain troll on your own?"

Hermione hung her head. Harry was speechless. Hermione was the last
person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, pretending
she had, to get them out of trouble. It was as if Snape had started
handing out sweets.

"Miss Granger, five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this," said
Professor McGonagall. "I'm very disappointed in you. If you're not hurt
at all, you'd better get off to Gryffindor tower. Students are finishing
the feast in their houses."

Hermione left.

Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron.

"Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have
taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five
points. Professor Dumbledore will be informed of this. You may go."

They hurried out of the chamber and didn't speak at all until they had
climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from the smell of the
troll, quite apart from anything else.

"We should have gotten more than ten points," Ron grumbled.

"Five, you mean, once she's taken off Hermione's."

"Good of her to get us out of trouble like that," Ron admitted. "Mind
you, we did save her."

"She might not have needed saving if we hadn't locked the thing in with
her," Harry reminded him.

They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Pig snout," they said and entered.

The common room was packed and noisy. Everyone was eating the food that
had been sent up. Hermione, however, stood alone by the door, waiting
for them. There was a very embarrassed pause. Then, none of them looking
at each other, they all said "Thanks," and hurried off to get plates.

But from that moment on, Hermione Granger became their friend. There are
some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and
knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.


CHAPTER ELEVEN

QUIDDITCH

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains
around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every
morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the
upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled
up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous
beaverskin boots.

The Quidditch season had begun. On Saturday, Harry would be playing in
his first match after weeks of training: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. If
Gryffindor won, they would move up into second place in the house
championship.

Hardly anyone had seen Harry play because Wood had decided that, as
their secret weapon, Harry should be kept, well, secret. But the news
that he was playing Seeker had leaked out somehow, and Harry didn't know
which was worse -- people telling him he'd be brilliant or people
telling him they'd be running around underneath him holding a mattress.

It was really lucky that Harry now had Hermlone as a friend. He didn't
know how he'd have gotten through all his homework without her, what
with all the last-minute Quidditch practice Wood was making them do. She
had also tent him Quidditch Through the Ages, which turned out to be a
very interesting read.

Harry learned that there were seven hundred ways of committing a
Quidditch foul and that all of them had happened during a World Cup
match in 1473; that Seekers were usually the smallest and fastest
players, and that most serious Quidditch accidents seemed to happen to
them; that although people rarely died playing Quidditch, referees had
been known to vanish and turn up months later in the Sahara Desert.

Hermione had become a bit more relaxed about breaking rules since Harry
and Ron had saved her from the mountain troll, and she was much nicer
for it. The day before Harry's first Quidditch match the three of them
were out in the freezing courtyard during break, and she had conjured
them up a bright blue fire that could be carried around in a jam jar.
They were standing with their backs to it, getting warm, when Snape
crossed the yard. Harry noticed at once that Snape was limping. Harry,
Ron, and Hermione moved closer together to block the fire from view;
they were sure it wouldn't be allowed. Unfortunately, something about
their guilty faces caught Snape's eye. He limped over. He hadn't seen
the fire, but he seemed to be looking for a reason to tell them off
anyway.

"What's that you've got there, Potter?"

It was Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry showed him.

"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape.
"Give it to me. Five points from Gryffindor."

"He's just made that rule up," Harry muttered angrily as Snape limped
away. "Wonder what's wrong with his leg?"

"Dunno, but I hope it's really hurting him," said Ron bitterly.

The Gryffindor common room was very noisy that evening. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione sat together next to a window. Hermione was checking Harry and
Ron's Charms homework for them. She would never let them copy ("How will
you learn?"), but by asking her to read it through, they got the right
answers anyway.

Harry felt restless. He wanted Quidditch Through the Ages back, to take
his mind off his nerves about tomorrow. Why should he be afraid of
Snape? Getting up, he told Ron and Hermione he was going to ask Snape if
he could have it.

"Better you than me," they said together, but Harry had an idea that
Snape wouldn't refuse if there were other teachers listening.

He made his way down to the staffroom and knocked. There was no answer.
He knocked again. Nothing.

Perhaps Snape had left the book in there? It was worth a try. He pushed
the door ajar and peered inside -- and a horrible scene met his eyes.

Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above
his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing
Snape bandages.

"Blasted thing*," Snape was saying. "How are you supposed to keep your
eyes on all three heads at once?"

Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but --

"POTTER!"

Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to
hide his leg. Harry gulped.

"I just wondered if I could have my book back."

"GET OUT! OUT!"

Harry left, before Snape could take any more points from Gryffindor. He
sprinted back upstairs.

"Did you get it?" Ron asked as Harry joined them. "What's the matter?"

In a low whisper, Harry told them what he'd seen.

"You know what this means?" he finished breathlessly. "He tried to get
past that three-headed dog at Halloween! That's where he was going when
we saw him -- he's after whatever it's guarding! And Id bet my
broomstick he let that troll in, to make a diversion!"

Hermione's eyes were wide.

"No -- he wouldn't, she said. "I know he's not very nice, but he
wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."

"Honestly, Hermione, you think all teachers are saints or something,"
snapped Ron. "I'm with Harry. I wouldn't put anything past Snape. But
what's he after? What's that dog guarding?"

Harry went to bed with his head buzzing with the same question. Neville
was snoring loudly, but Harry couldn't sleep. He tried to empty his mind
-- he needed to sleep, he had to, he had his first Quidditch match in a
few hours -- but the expression on Snape's face when Harry had seen his
leg wasn't easy to forget.

The next morning dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of
the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheer ful chatter of
everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match.

"You've got to eat some breakfast."

"I don't want anything."

"Just a bit of toast," wheedled Hermione.

"I'm not hungry."

Harry felt terrible. In an hour's time he'd be walking onto the field.

"Harry, you need your strength," said Seamus Finnigan. "Seekers are
always the ones who get clobbered by the other team."

"Thanks, Seamus," said Harry, watching Seamus pile ketchup on his
sausages.

By eleven o'clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around
the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be
raised high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going
on sometimes.

Ron and Hermione joined Neville, Seamus, and Dean the West Ham fan up in
the top row. As a surprise for Harry, they had painted a large banner on
one of the sheets Scabbers had ruined. It said Potter for President, and
Dean, who was good at drawing, had done a large Gryffindor lion
underneath. Then Hermione had performed a tricky little charm so that
the paint flashed different colors.

Meanwhile, in the locker room, Harry and the rest of the team were
changing into their scarlet Quidditch robes (Slytherin would be playing
in green).

Wood cleared his throat for silence.

"Okay, men," he said.

"And women," said Chaser Angelina Johnson.

"And women," Wood agreed. "This is it."

"The big one," said Fred Weasley.

"The one we've all been waiting for," said George.

"We know Oliver's speech by heart," Fred told Harry, "we were on the
team last year."

"Shut up, you two," said Wood. "This is the best team Gryffindor's had
in years. We're going to win. I know it."

He glared at them all as if to say, "Or else."

"Right. It's time. Good luck, all of you."

Harry followed Fred and George out of the locker room and, hoping his
knees weren't going to give way, walked onto the field to loud cheers.

Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting
for the two teams, her broom in her hand.

"Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you," she said, once they were all
gathered around her. Harry noticed that she seemed to be speaking
particularly to the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, a sixth year. Harry
thought Flint looked as if he had some troll blood in him. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw the fluttering banner high above, flashing
Potter for President over the crowd. His heart skipped. He felt braver.

"Mount your brooms, please."

Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off. "And the
Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor -- what
an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too --"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."

The Weasley twins' friend, Lee Jordan, was doing the commentary for the
match, closely watched by Professor McGonagall.

"And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet,
a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve -- back to
Johnson and -- no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin
Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes -- Flint flying
like an eagle up there -- he's going to sc- no, stopped by an excellent
move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle --
that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint,
off up the field and -- OUCH -- that must have hurt, hit in the back of
the head by a Bludger -- Quaffle taken by the Slytherins -- that's
Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a
second Bludger -- sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell
which -- nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in
possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes -- she's
really flying -- dodges a speeding Bludger -- the goal posts are ahead
-- come on, now, Angelina -- Keeper Bletchley dives -- misses --
GRYFFINDORS SCORE!"

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and moans from the
Slytherins.

"Budge up there, move along."

"Hagrid!"

Ron and Hermione squeezed together to give Hagrid enough space to join
them.

"Bin watchin' from me hut," said Hagrid, patting a large pair of
binoculars around his neck, "But it isn't the same as bein' in the
crowd. No sign of the Snitch yet, eh?"

"Nope," said Ron. "Harry hasn't had much to do yet."

"Kept outta trouble, though, that's somethin'," said Hagrid, raising his
binoculars and peering skyward at the speck that was Harry.

Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about for
some sign of the Snitch. This was part of his and Wood's game plan.

"Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the Snitch," Wood had
said. "We don't want you attacked before you have to be."

When Angelina had scored, Harry had done a couple of loop-the-loops to
let off his feelings. Now he was back to staring around for the Snitch.
Once he caught sight of a flash of gold, but it was just a reflection
from one of the Weasleys' wristwatches, and once a Bludger decided to
come pelting his way, more like a cannonball than anything, but Harry
dodged it and Fred Weasley came chasing after it.

"All right there, Harry?" he had time to yell, as he beat the Bludger
furiously toward Marcus Flint.

"Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan was saying, "Chaser Pucey ducks
two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the --
wait a moment -- was that the Snitch?"

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too
busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his
left ear.

Harry saw it. In a great rush of excitement he dived downward after the
streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs had seen it, too. Neck
and neck they hurtled toward the Snitch -all the Chasers seemed to have
forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as they hung in midair to
watch.

Harry was faster than Higgs -- he could see the little round ball, wings
fluttering, darting up ahead - - he put on an extra spurt of speed --

WHAM! A roar of rage echoed from the Gryffindors below -- Marcus Flint
had blocked Harry on purpose, and Harry's broom spun off course, Harry
holding on for dear life.

"Foul!" screamed the Gryffindors.

Madam Hooch spoke angrily to Flint and then ordered a free shot at the
goal posts for Gryffindor. But in all the confusion, of course, the
Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again.

Down in the stands, Dean Thomas was yelling, "Send him off, ref! Red
card!"

"What are you talking about, Dean?" said Ron.

"Red card!" said Dean furiously. "In soccer you get shown the red card
and you're out of the game!"

"But this isn't soccer, Dean," Ron reminded him.

Hagrid, however, was on Dean's side.

"They oughta change the rules. Flint coulda knocked Harry outta the
air."

Lee Jordan was finding it difficult not to take sides.

"So -- after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating

"Jordan!" growled Professor McGonagall.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul

'Jordan, I'm warning you --"

"All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which
could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by
Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play, Gryffindor
still in possession."

It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously
past his head, that it happened. His broom gave a sudden, frightening
lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped
the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. He'd never felt
anything like that.

It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him
off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their
riders off. Harry tried to turn back toward the Gryffindor goal- posts
-- he had half a mind to ask Wood to call time-out -- and then he
realized that his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn't
turn it. He couldn't direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the
air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that
almost unseated him.

Lee was still commentating.

"Slytherin in possession -- Flint with the Quaffle -- passes Spinnet --
passes Bell -- hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose
-- only joking, Professor -- Slytherins score -- A no...

The Slytherins were cheering. No one seemed to have noticed that Harry's
broom was behaving strangely. It was carrying- him slowly higher, away
from the game, jerking and twitching as it went.

"Dunno what Harry thinks he's doing," Hagrid mumbled. He stared through
his binoculars. "If I didn' know better, I'd say he'd lost control of
his broom... but he can't have...."

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His
broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to
hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry's broom had given a wild
jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on
with only one hand.

"Did something happen to it when Flint blocked him?" Seamus whispered.

"Can't have," Hagrid said, his voice shaking. "Can't nothing interfere
with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic -- no kid could do that to
a Nimbus Two Thousand."

At these words, Hermione seized Hagrid's binoculars, but instead of
looking up at Harry, she started looking frantically at the crowd.

"What are you doing?" moaned Ron, gray-faced.

"I knew it," Hermione gasped, "Snape -- look."

Ron grabbed the binoculars. Snape was in the middle of the stands
opposite them. He had his eyes fixed on Harry and was muttering nonstop
under his breath.

"He's doing something -- jinxing the broom," said Hermione.

"What should we do?"

"Leave it to me."

Before Ron could say another word, Hermione had disappeared. Ron turned
the binoculars back on Harry. His broom was vibrating so hard, it was
almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on
its feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys flew up to try and pull
Harry safely onto one of their brooms, but it was no good -- every time
they got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They dropped lower
and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell.
Marcus

Flint seized the Quaffle and scored five times without anyone noticing.

"Come on, Hermione," Ron muttered desperately.

Hermione had fought her way across to the stand where Snape stood, and
was now racing along the row behind him; she didn't even stop to say
sorry as she knocked Professor Quirrell headfirst into the row in front.
Reaching Snape, she crouched down, pulled out her wand, and whispered a
few, well- chosen words. Bright blue flames shot from her wand onto the
hem of Snape's robes.

It took perhaps thirty seconds for Snape to realize that he was on fire.
A sudden yelp told her she had done her job. Scooping the fire off him
into a little jar in her pocket, she scrambled back along the row --
Snape would never know what had happened.

It was enough. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on
to his broom.

"Neville, you can look!" Ron said. Neville had been sobbing into
Hagrid's jacket for the last five minutes.

Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his
hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick -- he hit the field
on all fours -- coughed -- and something gold fell into his hand.

"I've got the Snitch!" he shouted, waving it above his head, and the
game ended in complete confusion.

"He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it," Flint was still howling
twenty minutes later, but it made no difference -- Harry hadn't broken
any rules and Lee Jordan was still happily shouting the results --
Gryffindor had won by one hundred and seventy points to sixty. Harry
heard none of this, though. He was being made a cup of strong tea back
in Hagrid's hut, with Ron and Hermione.

"It was Snape," Ron was explaining, "Hermione and I saw him. He was
cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn't take his eyes off you."

"Rubbish," said Hagrid, who hadn't heard a word of what had gone on next
to him in the stands. "Why would Snape do somethin' like that?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, wondering what to tell
him. Harry decided on the truth.

"I found out something about him," he told Hagrid. "He tried to get past
that three-headed dog on Halloween. It bit him. We think he was trying
to steal whatever it's guarding."

Hagrid dropped the teapot.

"How do you know about Fluffy?" he said.

"Fluffy?"

"Yeah -- he's mine -- bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub
las' year -- I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the

"Yes?" said Harry eagerly.

"Now, don't ask me anymore," said Hagrid gruffly. "That's top secret,
that is."

"But Snape's trying to steal it."

"Rubbish," said Hagrid again. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do
nothin' of the sort."

"So why did he just try and kill Harry?" cried Hermione.

The afternoon's events certainly seemed to have changed her mind about
Snape.

I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them!

You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking at all, I saw
him!"

"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" said Hagrid hotly. "I don' know why
Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try an' kill a student!
Now, listen to me, all three of yeh -- yer meddlin' in things that don'
concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget what
it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel
--"

"Aha!" said Harry, "so there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved,
is there?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself.


CHAPTER TWELVE

THE MIRROR OF ERISED

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find
itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the
Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that
they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban. The
few owls that managed to battle their way through the stormy sky to
deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could
fly off again.

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Gryffindor common
room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the drafty corridors had
become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms.
Worst of all were Professor Snape's classes down in the dungeons, where
their breath rose in a mist before them and they kept as close as
possible to their hot cauldrons.

"I do feel so sorry," said Draco Malfoy, one Potions class, "for all
those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're
not wanted at home."

He was looking over at Harry as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled.
Harry, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish, ignored them.
Malfoy had been even more unpleasant than usual since the Quidditch
match. Disgusted that the Slytherins had lost, he had tried to get
everyone laughing at how a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing
Harry as Seeker next. Then he'd realized that nobody found this funny,
because they were all so impressed at the way Harry had managed to stay
on his bucking broomstick. So Malfoy, jealous and angry, had gone back
to taunting Harry about having no proper family.

It was true that Harry wasn't going back to Privet Drive for Christmas.
Professor McGonagall had come around the week before, making a list of
students who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had signed up
at once. He didn't feel sorry for himself at all; this would probably be
the best Christmas he'd ever had. Ron and his brothers were staying,
too, because Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Romania to visit
Charlie.

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large
fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at
the bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind it.

"Hi, Hagrid, want any help?" Ron asked, sticking his head through the
branches.

"Nah, I'm all right, thanks, Ron."

"Would you mind moving out of the way?" came Malfoys cold drawl from
behind them. "Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley? Hoping
to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose -- that hut
of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used
to."

Ron dived at Malfoy just as Snape came up the stairs.

"WEASLEY!"

Ron let go of the front of Malfoy's robes.

"He was provoked, Professor Snape," said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy
face out from behind the tree. "Malfoy was insultin' his family."

"Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid," said
Snape silkily. "Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it
isn't more. Move along, all of you."

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the tree, scattering
needles everywhere and smirking.

"I'll get him," said Ron, grinding his teeth at Malfoy's back, "one of
these days, I'll get him --"

"I hate them both," said Harry, "Malfoy and Snape."

"Come on, cheer up, it's nearly Christmas," said Hagrid. "Tell yeh what,
come with me an' see the Great Hall, looks a treat."

So the three of them followed Hagrid and his tree off to -the Great
Hall, where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick were busy with
the Christmas decorations.

"Ah, Hagrid, the last tree -- put it in the far corner, would you?"

The hall looked spectacular. Festoons of holly and mistletoe hung all
around the walls, and no less than twelve towering Christmas trees stood
around the room, some sparkling with tiny icicles, some glittering with
hundreds of candles.

"How many days you got left until yer holidays?" Hagrid asked.

"Just one," said Hermione. "And that reminds me -Harry, Ron, we've got
half an hour before lunch, we should be in the library."

"Oh yeah, you're right," said Ron, tearing his eyes away from Professor
Flitwick, who had golden bubbles blossoming out of his wand and was
trailing them over the branches of the new tree.

"The library?" said Hagrid, following them out of the hall. "Just before
the holidays? Bit keen, aren't yeh?"

"Oh, we're not working," Harry told him brightly. "Ever since you
mentioned Nicolas Flamel we've been trying to find out who he is."

"You what?" Hagrid looked shocked. "Listen here -- I've told yeh -- drop
it. It's nothin' to you what that dog's guardin'."

"We just want to know who Nicolas Flamel is, that's all," said Hermione.

"Unless you'd like to tell us and save us the trouble?" Harry added. "We
must've been through hundreds of books already and we can't find him
anywhere -- just give us a hint -- I know I've read his name somewhere."

"I'm sayin' nothin, said Hagrid flatly.

"Just have to find out for ourselves, then," said Ron, and they left
Hagrid looking disgruntled and hurried off to the library.

They had indeed been searching books for Flamel's name ever since Hagrid
had let it slip, because how else were they going to find out what Snape
was trying to steal? The trouble was, it was very hard to know where to
begin, not knowing what Flamel might have done to get himself into a
book. He wasn't in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, or Notable
Magical Names of Our Time; he was missing, too, from Important Modern
Magical Discoveries, and A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry. And
then, of course, there was the sheer size of the library; tens of
thousands of books; thousands of shelves; hundreds of narrow rows.

Hermione took out a list of subjects and titles she had decided to
search while Ron strode off down a row of books and started pulling them
off the shelves at random. Harry wandered over to the Restricted
Section. He had been wondering for a while if Flamel wasn't somewhere in
there. Unfortunately, you needed a specially signed note from one of the
teachers to look in any of the restricted books, and he knew he'd never
get one. These were the books containing powerful Dark Magic never
taught at Hogwarts, and only read by older students studying advanced
Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"What are you looking for, boy?"

"Nothing," said Harry.

Madam Pince the librarian brandished a feather duster at him.

"You'd better get out, then. Go on -- out!"

Wishing he'd been a bit quicker at thinking up some story, Harry left
the library. He, Ron, and Hermione had already agreed they'd better not
ask Madam Pince where they could find Flamel. They were sure she'd be
able to tell them, but they couldn't risk Snape hearing what they were
up to.

Harry waited outside in the corridor to see if the other two had found
anything, but he wasn't very hopeful. They had been looking for two
weeks, after A, but as they only had odd moments between lessons it
wasn't surprising they'd found nothing. What they really needed was a
nice long search without Madam Pince breathing down their necks.

Five minutes later, Ron and Hermione joined him, shaking their heads.
They went off to lunch.

"You will keep looking while I'm away, won't you?" said Hermione. "And
send me an owl if you find anything."

"And you could ask your parents if they know who Flamel is," said Ron.
"It'd be safe to ask them."

"Very safe, as they're both dentists," said Hermione.

Once the holidays had started, Ron and Harry were having too good a time
to think much about Flamel. They had the dormitory to themselves and the
common room was far emptier than usual, so they were able to get the
good armchairs by the fire. They sat by the hour eating anything they
could spear on a toasting fork -- bread, English muffins, marshmallows
-- and plotting ways of getting Malfoy expelled, which were fun to talk
about even if they wouldn't work.

Ron also started teaching Harry wizard chess. This was exactly like
Muggle chess except that the figures were alive, which made it a lot
like directing troops in battle. Ron's set was very old and battered.
Like everything else he owned, it had once belonged to someone else in
his family -- in this case, his grandfather. However, old chessmen
weren't a drawback at all. Ron knew them so well he never had trouble
getting them to do what he wanted.

Harry played with chessmen Seamus Finnigan had lent him, and they didn't
trust him at all. He wasn't a very good player yet and they kept
shouting different bits of advice at him, which was confusing. "Don't
send me there, can't you see his knight? Send him, we can afford to lose
him." On Christmas Eve, Harry went to bed looking forward to the next
day for the food and the fun, but not expecting any presents at all.
When he woke early in the morning, however, the first thing he saw was a
small pile of packages at the foot of his bed.

"Merry Christmas," said Ron sleepily as Harry scrambled out of bed and
pulled on his bathrobe.

"You, too," said Harry. "Will you look at this? I've got some presents!"

"What did you expect, turnips?" said Ron, turning to his own pile, which
was a lot bigger than Harry's.

Harry picked up the top parcel. It was wrapped in thick brown paper and
scrawled across it was To Harry, from Hagrid. Inside was a roughly cut
wooden flute. Hagrid had obviously whittled it himself. Harry blew it --
it sounded a bit like an owl.

A second, very small parcel contained a note.

We received your message and enclose your Christmas present. From Uncle
Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Taped to the note was a fifty-pence piece.

"That's friendly," said Harry.

Ron was fascinated by the fifty pence.

"Weird!" he said, 'NMat a shape! This is money?"

"You can keep it," said Harry, laughing at how pleased Ron was. "Hagrid
and my aunt and uncle -- so who sent these?"

"I think I know who that one's from," said Ron, turning a bit pink and
pointing to a very lumpy parcel. "My mom. I told her you didn't expect
any presents and -- oh, no," he groaned, "she's made you a Weasley
sweater."

Harry had torn open the parcel to find a thick, hand-knitted sweater in
emerald green and a large box of homemade fudge.

"Every year she makes us a sweater," said Ron, unwrapping his own, "and
mine's always maroon."

"That's really nice of her," said Harry, trying the fudge, which was
very tasty.

His next present also contained candy -- a large box of Chocolate Frogs
from Hermione.

This only left one parcel. Harry picked it up and felt it. It was very
light. He unwrapped it.

Something fluid and silvery gray went slithering to the floor where it
lay in gleaming folds. Ron gasped.

"I've heard of those," he said in a hushed voice, dropping the box of
Every Flavor Beans he'd gotten from Hermione. "If that's what I think it
is -- they're really rare, and really valuable."

"What is it?"

Harry picked the shining, silvery cloth off the floor. It was strange to
the touch, like water woven into material.

"It's an invisibility cloak," said Ron, a look of awe on his face. "I'm
sure it is -- try it on."

Harry threw the cloak around his shoulders and Ron gave a yell.

"It is! Look down!"

Harry looked down at his feet, but they were gone. He dashed to the
mirror. Sure enough, his reflection looked back at him, just his head
suspended in midair, his body completely invisible. He pulled the cloak
over his head and his reflection vanished completely.

"There's a note!" said Ron suddenly. "A note fell out of it!"

Harry pulled off the cloak and seized the letter. Written in narrow,
loopy writing he had never seen before were the following words: Your
father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was
returned to you. Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.


There was no signature. Harry stared at the note. Ron was admiring the
cloak.

"I'd give anything for one of these," he said. "Anything. What's the
matter?"

"Nothing," said Harry. He felt very strange. Who had sent the cloak? Had
it really once belonged to his father?

Before he could say or think anything else, the dormitory door was flung
open and Fred and George Weasley bounded in. Harry stuffed the cloak
quickly out of sight. He didn't feel like sharing it with anyone else
yet.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Hey, look -- Harry's got a Weasley sweater, too!"

Fred and George were wearing blue sweaters, one with a large yellow F on
it, the other a G.

"Harry's is better than ours, though," said Fred, holding up Harry's
sweater. "She obviously makes more of an effort if you're not family."

"Why aren't you wearing yours, Ron?" George demanded. "Come on, get it
on, they're lovely and warm."

"I hate maroon," Ron moaned halfheartedly as he pulled it over his head.

"You haven't got a letter on yours," George observed. "I suppose she
thinks you don't forget your name. But we're not stupid -- we know we're
called Gred and Forge."

"What's all th is noise.

Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, looking disapproving. He
had clearly gotten halfway through unwrapping his presents as he, too,
carried a lumpy sweater over his arm, which

Fred seized.

"P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we're all wearing ours, even
Harry got one."

"I -- don't -- want said Percy thickly, as the twins forced the sweater
over his head, knocking his glasses askew.

"And you're not sitting with the prefects today, either," said

George. "Christmas is a time for family."

They frog-marched Percy from the room, his arms pinned to his side by
his sweater.

Harry had never in all his life had such a Christmas dinner. A hundred
fat, roast turkeys; mountains of roast and boiled potatoes; platters of
chipolatas; tureens of buttered peas, silver boats of thick, rich gravy
and cranberry sauce -- and stacks of wizard crackers every few feet
along the table. These fantastic party favors were nothing like the
feeble Muggle ones the Dursleys usually bought, with their little
plastic toys and their flimsy paper hats inside. Harry pulled a wizard
cracker with Fred and it didn't just bang, it went off with a blast like
a cannon and engulfed them all in a cloud of blue smoke, while from the
inside exploded a rear admiral's hat and several live, white mice. Up at
the High Table, Dumbledore had swapped his pointed wizard's hat for a
flowered bonnet, and was chuckling merrily at a joke Professor Flitwick
had just read him.

Flaming Christmas puddings followed the turkey. Percy nearly broke his
teeth on a silver sickle embedded in his slice. Harry watched Hagrid
getting redder and redder in the face as he called for more wine,
finally kissing Professor McGonagall on the cheek, who, to Harry's
amazement, giggled and blushed, her top hat lopsided.

When Harry finally left the table, he was laden down with a stack of
things out of the crackers, including a pack of nonexplodable, luminous
balloons, a Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit, and his own new wizard chess set.
The white mice had disappeared and Harry had a nasty feeling they were
going to end up as Mrs. Norris's Christmas dinner.

Harry and the Weasleys spent a happy afternoon having a furious snowball
fight on the grounds. Then, cold, wet, and gasping for breath, they
returned to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, where Harry broke in
his new chess set by losing spectacularly to Ron. He suspected he
wouldn't have lost so badly if Percy hadn't tried to help him so much.

After a meal of turkey sandwiches, crumpets, trifle, and Christmas cake,
everyone felt too full and sleepy to do much before bed except sit and
watch Percy chase Fred and George all over Gryffindor tower because
they'd stolen his prefect badge.

It had been Harry's best Christmas day ever. Yet something had been
nagging at the back of his mind all day. Not until he climbed into bed
was he free to think about it: the invisibility cloak and whoever had
sent it.

Ron, full of turkey and cake and with nothing mysterious to bother him,
fell asleep almost as soon as he'd drawn the curtains of his
four-poster. Harry leaned over the side of his own bed and pulled the
cloak out from under it.

His father's... this had been his father's. He let the material flow
over his hands, smoother than silk, light as air. Use it well, the note
had said.

He had to try it, now. He slipped out of bed and wrapped the cloak
around himself. Looking down at his legs, he saw only moonlight and
shadows. It was a very funny feeling.

Use it well.

Suddenly, Harry felt wide-awake. The whole of Hogwarts was open to him
in this cloak. Excitement flooded through him as he stood there in the
dark and silence. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere, and Filch
would never know.

Ron grunted in his sleep. Should Harry wake him? Something held him back
-- his father's cloak -- he felt that this time -- the first time -- he
wanted to use it alone.

He crept out of the dormitory, down the stairs, across the common room,
and climbed through the portrait hole.

"Who's there?" squawked the Fat Lady. Harry said nothing. He walked
quickly down the corridor.

Where should he go? He stopped, his heart racing, and thought. And then
it came to him. The Restricted Section in the library. He'd be able to
read as long as he liked, as long as it took to find out who Flamel was.
He set off, drawing the invisibility cloak tight around him as he
walked.

The library was pitch-black and very eerie. Harry lit a lamp to see his
way along the rows of books. The lamp looked as if it was floating along
in midair, and even though Harry could feel his arm supporting it, the
sight gave him the creeps.

The Restricted Section was right at the back of the library. Step ping
carefully over the rope that separated these books from the rest of the
library, he held up his lamp to read the titles.

They didn't tell him much. Their peeling, faded gold letters spelled
words in languages Harry couldn't understand. Some had no title at all.
One book had a dark stain on it that looked horribly like blood. The
hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled. Maybe he was imagining it,
maybe not, but he thought a faint whispering was coming from the books,
as though they knew someone was there who shouldn't be.

He had to start somewhere. Setting the lamp down carefully on the floor,
he looked along the bottom shelf for an interestinglooking book. A large
black and silver volume caught his eye. He pulled it out with
difficulty, because it was very heavy, and, balancing it on his knee,
let it fall open.

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek split the silence -- the book was
screaming! Harry snapped it shut, but the shriek went on and on, one
high, unbroken, earsplitting note. He stumbled backward and knocked over
his lamp, which went out at once. Panicking, he heard footsteps coming
down the corridor outside -- stuffing the shrieking book back on the
shelf, he ran for it. He passed Filch in the doorway; Filch's pale, wild
eyes looked straight through him, and Harry slipped under Filch's
outstretched arm and streaked off up the corridor, the book's shrieks
still ringing in his ears.

He came to a sudden halt in front of a tall suit of armor. He had been
so busy getting away from the library, he hadn't paid attention to where
he was going. Perhaps because it was dark, he didn't recognize where he
was at all. There was a suit of armor near the kitchens, he knew, but he
must be five floors above there.

"You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was
wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library Restricted
Section."

Harry felt the blood drain out of his face. Wherever he was, Filch must
know a shortcut, because his soft, greasy voice was getting nearer, and
to his horror, it was Snape who replied, "The Restricted Section? Well,
they can't be far, we'll catch them."

Harry stood rooted to the spot as Filch and Snape came around the corner
ahead. They couldn't see him, of course, but it was a narrow corridor
and if they came much nearer they'd knock right into him -- the cloak
didn't stop him from being solid.

He backed away as quietly as he could. A door stood ajar to his left. It
was his only hope. He squeezed through it, holding his breath, trying
not to move it, and to his relief he managed to get inside the room
without their noticing anything. They walked straight past, and Harry
leaned against the wall, breathing deeply, listening to their footsteps
dying away. That had been close, very close. It was a few seconds before
he noticed anything about the room he had hidden in.

It looked like an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs
were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper
basket -- but propped against the wall facing him was something that
didn't look as if it belonged there, something that looked as if someone
had just put it there to keep it out of the way.

It was a magnificent mirror, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold
frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved
around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. His panic
fading now that there was no sound of Filch and Snape, Harry moved
nearer to the mirror, wanting to look at himself but see no reflection
again. He stepped in front of it.

He had to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He
whirled around. His heart was pounding far more furiously than when the
book had screamed -- for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but
a whole crowd of people standing right behind him.

But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly back to
the mirror.

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there,
reflected behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked over his
shoulder -- but still, no one was there. Or were they all invisible,
too? Was he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this mirror's
trick was that it reflected them, invisible or not?

He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his
reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt
the air behind him. If she was really there, he'd touch her, their
reflections were so close together, but he felt only air -- she and the
others existed only in the mirror.

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes -- her
eyes are just like mine, Harry thought, edging a little closer to the
glass. Bright green -- exactly the same shape, but then he noticed that
she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin,
black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore
glasses, and his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as
Harry's did.

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching
that of his reflection.

"Mom?" he whispered. "Dad?"

They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the
faces of the other people in the mirror, and saw other pairs of green
eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as
though he had Harry's knobbly knees -- Harry was looking at his family,
for the first time in his life.

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at
them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping
to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache
inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

How long he stood there, he didn't know. The reflections did not fade
and he looked and looked until a distant noise brought him back to his
senses. He couldn't stay here, he had to find his way back to bed. He
tore his eyes away from his mother's face, whispered, "I'll come back,"
and hurried from the room.

"You could have woken me up," said Ron, crossly.

"You can come tonight, I'm going back, I want to show you the mirror.

"I'd like to see your mom and dad," Ron said eagerly.

"And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you'll be able to
show me your other brothers and everyone."

"You can see them any old time," said Ron. "Just come round my house
this summer. Anyway, maybe it only shows dead people. Shame about not
finding Flamel, though. Have some bacon or something, why aren't you
eating anything?"

Harry couldn't eat. He had seen his parents and would be seeing them
again tonight. He had almost forgotten about Flamel. It didn't seem very
important anymore. Who cared what the three headed dog was guarding?
What did it matter if Snape stole it, really?

"Are you all right?" said Ron. "You look odd."

What Harry feared most was that he might not be able to find the mirror
room again. With Ron covered in the cloak, too, they had to walk much
more slowly the next night. They tried retracing Harry's route from the
library, wandering around the dark passageways for nearly an hour.

"I'm freezing," said Ron. "Let's forget it and go back."

"No!" Harry hissed. I know it's here somewhere."

They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction,
but saw no one else. just as Ron started moaning that his feet were dead
with cold, Harry spotted the suit of armor.

"It's here -- just here -- yes!"

They pushed the door open. Harry dropped the cloak from around his
shoulders and ran to the mirror.

There they were. His mother and father beamed at the sight of him.

"See?" Harry whispered.

"I can't see anything."

"Look! Look at them all... there are loads of them...."

"I can only see you."

"Look in it properly, go on, stand where I am."

Harry stepped aside, but with Ron in front of the mirror, he couldn't
see his family anymore, just Ron in his paisley pajamas.

Ron, though, was staring transfixed at his image.

"Look at me!" he said.

"Can you see all your family standing around you?"

"No -- I'm alone -- but I'm different -- I look older -- and I'm head
boy!"

"What?"

"I am -- I'm wearing the badge like Bill used to -- and I'm holding the
house cup and the Quidditch cup -- I'm Quidditch captain, too.

Ron tore his eyes away from this splendid sight to look excitedly at
Harry.

"Do you think this mirror shows the future?"

"How can it? All my family are dead -- let me have another look --"

"You had it to yourself all last night, give me a bit more time."

"You're only holding the Quidditch cup, what's interesting about that? I
want to see my parents."

"Don't push me --"

A sudden noise outside in the corridor put an end to their discussion.
They hadn't realized how loudly they had been talking.

"Quick!"

Ron threw the cloak back over them as the luminous eyes of Mrs. Norris
came round the door. Ron and Harry stood quite still, both thinking the
same thing -- did the cloak work on cats? After what seemed an age, she
turned and left.

"This isn't safe -- she might have gone for Filch, I bet she heard us.
Come on."

And Ron pulled Harry out of the room.

The snow still hadn't melted the next morning.

"Want to play chess, Harry?" said Ron.

"No."

"Why don't we go down and visit Hagrid?"

"No... you go..."

"I know what you're thinking about, Harry, that mirror. Don't go back
tonight."

"Why not?"

"I dunno, I've just got a bad feeling about it -- and anyway, you've had
too many close shaves already. Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris are
wandering around. So what if they can't see you? What if they walk into
you? What if you knock something over?"

"You sound like Hermione."

"I'm serious, Harry, don't go."

But Harry only had one thought in his head, which was to get back in
front of the mirror, and Ron wasn't going to stop him.

That third night he found his way more quickly than before. He was
walking so fast he knew he was making more noise than was wise, but he
didn't meet anyone.

And there were his mother and father smiling at him again, and one of
his grandfathers nodding happily. Harry sank down to sit on the floor in
front of the mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying here all
night with his family. Nothing at all.

Except --

"So -- back again, Harry?"

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind
him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus
Dumbledore. Harry must have walked straight past him, so desperate to
get to the mirror he hadn't noticed him.

" -- I didn't see you, sir."

"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," said Dumbledore,
and Harry was relieved to see that he was smiling.

"So," said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with
Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of
the Mirror of Erised."

"I didn't know it was called that, Sir."

"But I expect you've realized by now what it does?"

"It -- well -- it shows me my family --"

"And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy."

"How did you know --?"

"I don't need a cloak to become invisible," said Dumbledore gently.
"Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"

Harry shook his head.

"Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the
Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it
and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"

Harry thought. Then he said slowly, "It shows us what we want...
whatever we want..."

"Yes and no," said Dumbledore quietly. "It shows us nothing more or less
than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have
never known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley,
who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing
alone, the best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us
neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by
what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is
real or even possible.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you
not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will
now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,
remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and
get off to bed?"

Harry stood up.

"Sir -- Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?"

"Obviously, you've just done so," Dumbledore smiled. "You may ask me one
more thing, however."

"What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."

Harry stared.

"One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another Christmas
has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on
giving me books."

It was only when he was back in bed that it struck Harry that Dumbledore
might not have been quite truthful. But then, he thought, as he shoved
Scabbers off his pillow, it had been quite a personal question.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

NICOLAS FLAMEL

Dumbledore had convinced Harry not to go looking for the Mirror of
Erised again, and for the rest of the Christmas holidays the
invisibility cloak stayed folded at the bottom of his trunk. Harry
wished he could forget what he'd seen in the mirror as easily, but he
couldn't. He started having nightmares. Over and over again he dreamed
about his parents disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high
voice cackled with laughter.

"You see, Dumbledore was right, that mirror could drive you mad," said
Ron, when Harry told him about these drearns.

Hermione, who came back the day before term started, took a different
view of things. She was torn between horror at the idea of Harry being
out of bed, roaming the school three nights in a row ("If Filch had
caught you!"), and disappointment that he hadn't at least found out who
Nicolas Flamel was.

They had almost given up hope of ever finding Flamel in a li- brary
book, even though Harry was still sure he'd read the name somewhere.
Once term had started, they were back to skimming through books for ten
minutes during their breaks. Harry had even less time than the other
two, because Quidditch practice had started again.

Wood was working the team harder than ever. Even the endless rain that
had replaced the snow couldn't dampen his spirits. The Weasleys
complained that Wood was becoming a fanatic, but Harry was on Wood's
side. If they won their next match, against Hufflepuff, they would
overtake Slytherin in the house championship for the first time in seven
years. Quite apart from wanting to win, Harry found that he had fewer
nightmares when he was tired out after training.

Then, during one particularly wet and muddy practice session, Wood gave
the team a bit of bad news. He'd just gotten very angry with the
Weasleys, who kept dive-bombing each other and pretending to fall off
their brooms.

"Will you stop messing around!" he yelled. "That's exactly the sort of
thing that'll lose us the match! Snape's refereeing this time, and he'll
be looking for any excuse to knock points off Gryffindor!"

George Weasley really did fall off his broom at these words.

"Snape's refereeing?" he spluttered through a mouthful of mud. "When's
he ever refereed a Quidditch match? He's not going to be fair if we
might overtake Slytherin."

The rest of the team landed next to George to complain, too.

"It's not my fault," said Wood. "We've just got to make sure we play a
clean game, so Snape hasn't got an excuse to pick on us."

Which was all very well, thought Harry, but he had another reason for
not wanting Snape near him while he was playing Quidditch....

The rest of the team hung back to talk to one another as usual at the
end of practice, but Harry headed straight back to the Gryffindor common
room, where he found Ron and Hermione playing chess. Chess was the only
thing Hermione ever lost at, something Harry and Ron thought was very
good for her.

"Don't talk to me for a moment," said Ron when Harry sat down next to
him, "I need to concen --" He caught sight of Harry's face. "What's the
matter with you? You look terrible."

Speaking quietly so that no one else would hear, Harry told the other
two about Snape's sudden, sinister desire to be a Quidditch referee.

"Don't play," said Hermione at once.

"Say you're ill," said Ron.

"Pretend to break your leg," Hermione suggested.

"Really break your leg," said Ron.

"I can't," said Harry. "There isn't a reserve Seeker. If I back out,
Gryffindor can't play at all."

At that moment Neville toppled into the common room. How he had managed
to climb through the portrait hole was anyone's guess, because his legs
had been stuck together with what they recognized at once as the
Leg-Locker Curse. He must have had to bunny hop all the way up to
Gryffindor tower.

Everyone fell over laughing except Hermione, who leapt up and performed
the countercurse. Neville's legs sprang apart and he got to his feet,
trembling. "What happened?" Hermione asked him, leading him over to sit
with Harry and Ron.

"Malfoy," said Neville shakily. "I met him outside the library. He said
he'd been looking for someone to practice that on."

"Go to Professor McGonagall!" Hermione urged Neville. "Report him!"

Neville shook his head.

"I don't want more trouble," he mumbled.

"You've got to stand up to him, Neville!" said Ron. "He's used to
walking all over people, but that's no reason to lie down in front of
him and make it easier."

"There's no need to tell me I'm not brave enough to be in Gryffindor,
Malfoy's already done that," Neville choked out.

Harry felt in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a Chocolate Frog,
the very last one from the box Hermione had given him for Christmas. He
gave it to Neville, who looked as though he might cry.

"You're worth twelve of Malfoy," Harry said. "The Sorting Hat chose you
for Gryffindor, didn't it? And where's Malfoy? In stinking Slytherin."

Neville's lips twitched in a weak smile as he unwrapped the frog.

"Thanks, Harry... I think I'll go to bed.... D'you want the card, you
collect them, don't you?"

As Neville walked away, Harry looked at the Famous Wizard card.

"Dumbledore again," he said, "He was the first one I ever-"

He gasped. He stared at the back of the card. Then he looked up at Ron
and Hermione.

"I've found him!" he whispered. "I've found Flamel! I told you I'd read
the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming here -- listen
to this: 'Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark
wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of
dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas
Flamel'!"

Hermione jumped to her feet. She hadn't looked so excited since they'd
gotten back the marks for their very first piece of homework.

"Stay there!" she said, and she sprinted up the stairs to the girls'
dormitories. Harry and Ron barely had time to exchange mystified looks
before she was dashing back, an enormous old book in her arms.

"I never thought to look in here!" she whispered excitedly. "I got this
out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading."

"Light?" said Ron, but Hermione told him to be quiet until she'd looked
something up, and started flicking frantically through the pages,
muttering to herself.

At last she found what she was looking for.

"I knew it! I knew it!"

"Are we allowed to speak yet?" said Ron grumpily. Hermione ignored him.

"Nicolas Flamel," she whispered dramatically, "is the only known maker
of the Sorcerer's Stone!"

This didn't have quite the effect she'd expected.

"The what?" said Harry and Ron.

"Oh, honestly, don't you two read? Look -- read that, there."

She pushed the book toward them, and Harry and Ron read: The ancient
study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer's Stone, a
legendary substance with astonishing powers. The stone will transform
any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which
will make the drinker immortal.

There have been many reports of the Sorcerer's Stone over the centuries,
but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel,
the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six
hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon
with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).

"See?" said Hermione, when Harry and Ron had finished. "The dog must be
guarding Flamel's Sorcerer's Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it
safe for him, because they're friends and he knew someone was after it,
that's why he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!"

"A stone that makes gold and stops you from ever dying!" said Harry. "No
wonder Snape's after it! Anyone would want it."

"And no wonder we couldn't find Flamel in that Study of Recent
Developments in Wizardry," said Ron. "He's not exactly recent if he's
six hundred and sixty-five, is he?"

The next morning in Defense Against the Dark Arts, while copying down
different ways of treating werewolf bites, Harry and Ron were still
discussing what they'd do with a Sorcerer's Stone if they had one. It
wasn't until Ron said he'd buy his own Quidditch team that Harry
remembered about Snape and the coming match.

"I'm going to play," he told Ron and Hermione. "If I don't, all the
Slytherins will think I'm just too scared to face Snape. I'll show
them... it'll really wipe the smiles off their faces if we win."

"Just as long as we're not wiping you off the field," said Hermione.

As the match drew nearer, however, Harry became more and more nervous,
whatever he told Ron and Hermione. The rest of the team wasn't too calm,
either. The idea of overtaking Slytherin in the house championship was
wonderful, no one had done it for seven years, but would they be allowed
to, with such a biased referee?

Harry didn't know whether he was imagining it or not, but he seemed to
keep running into Snape wherever he went. At times, he even wondered
whether Snape was following him, trying to catch him on his own. Potions
lessons were turning into a sort of weekly torture, Snape was so
horrible to Harry. Could Snape possibly know they'd found out about the
Sorcerer's Stone? Harry didn't see how he could -- yet he sometimes had
the horrible feeling that Snape could read minds.

Harry knew, when they wished him good luck outside the locker rooms the
next afternoon, that Ron and Hermione were wondering whether they'd ever
see him alive again. This wasn't what you'd call comforting. Harry
hardly heard a word of Wood's pep talk as he pulled on his Quidditch
robes and picked up his Nimbus Two Thousand.

Ron and Hermione, meanwhile, had found a place in the stands next to
Neville, who couldn't understand why they looked so grim and worried, or
why they had both brought their wands to the match. Little did Harry
know that Ron and Hermione had been secretly practicing the Leg-Locker
Curse. They'd gotten the idea from Malfoy using it on Neville, and were
ready to use it on Snape if he showed any sign of wanting to hurt Harry.

"Now, don't forget, it's Locomotor Mortis," Hermione muttered as Ron
slipped his wand up his sleeve.

"I know," Ron snapped. "Don't nag."

Back in the locker room, Wood had taken Harry aside.

"Don't want to pressure you, Potter, but if we ever need an early
capture of the Snitch it's now. Finish the game before Snape can favor
Hufflepuff too much."

"The whole school's out there!" said Fred Weasley, peering out of the
door. "Even -- blimey -- Dumbledore's come to watch!"

Harry's heart did a somersault.

"Dumbledore?" he said, dashing to the door to make sure. Fred was right.
There was no mistaking that silver beard.

Harry could have laughed out loud with relief He was safe. There was
simply no way that Snape would dare to try to hurt him if Dumbledore was
watching.

Perhaps that was why Snape was looking so angry as the teams marched
onto the field, something that Ron noticed, too.

"I've never seen Snape look so mean," he told Hermione. "Look -they're
off Ouch!"

Someone had poked Ron in the back of the head. It was Malfoy.

"Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there."

Malfoy grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle.

"Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone
want a bet? What about you, Weasley?"

Ron didn't answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty because
George Weasley had hit a Bludger at him. Hermione, who had all her
fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was
circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.

"You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?" said
Malfoy loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another
penalty for no reason at all. "It's people they feel sorry for. See,
there's Potter, who's got no parents, then there's the Weasleys, who've
got no money -- you should be on the team, Longbottom, you've got no
brains."

Neville went bright red but turned in his seat to face Malfoy.

"I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy," he stammered.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle howled with laughter, but Ron, still not
daring to take his eyes from the game, said, "You tell him, Neville."

"Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and
that's saying something."

Ron's nerves were already stretched to the breaking point with anxiety
about Harry.

"I'm warning you, Malfoy -- one more word

"Ron!" said Hermione suddenly, "Harry --"

"What? Where?"

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and
cheers from the crowd. Hermione stood up, her crossed fingers in her
mouth, as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.

"You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money on the
ground!" said Malfoy.

Ron snapped. Before Malfoy knew what was happening, Ron was on top of
him, wrestling him to the ground. Neville hesitated, then clambered over
the back of his seat to help.

"Come on, Harry!" Hermione screamed, leaping onto her seat to watch as
Harry sped straight at Snape -- she didn't even notice Malfoy and Ron
rolling around under her seat, or the scuffles and yelps coming from the
whirl of fists that was Neville, Crabbe, and Goyle.

Up in the air, Snape turned on his broomstick just in time to see
something scarlet shoot past him, missing him by inches -- the next
second, Harry had pulled out of the dive, his arm raised in triumph, the
Snitch clasped in his hand.

The stands erupted; it had to be a record, no one could ever remember
the Snitch being caught so quickly.

"Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game's over! Harry's won! We've won!
Gryffindor is in the lead!" shrieked Hermione, dancing up and down on
her seat and hugging Parvati Patil in the row in front.

Harry jumped off his broom, a foot from the ground. He couldn't believe
it. He'd done it -- the game was over; it had barely lasted five
minutes. As Gryffindors came spilling onto the field, he saw Snape land
nearby, white-faced and tight-lipped -- then Harry felt a hand on his
shoulder and looked up into Dumbledore's smiling face.

"Well done," said Dumbledore quietly, so that only Harry could hear.
"Nice to see you haven't been brooding about that mirror... been keeping
busy... excellent..."

Snape spat bitterly on the ground.

Harry left the locker room alone some time later, to take his Nimbus Two
Thousand back to the broomshed. He couldn't ever remember feeling
happier. He'd really done something to be proud of now -- no one could
say he was just a famous name any more. The evening air had never
smelled so sweet. He walked over the damp grass, reliving the last hour
in his head, which was a happy blur: Gryffindors running to lift him
onto their shoulders; Ron and Hermione in the distance, jumping up and
down, Ron cheering through a heavy nosebleed.

Harry had reached the shed. He leaned against the wooden door and looked
up at Hogwarts, with its windows glowing red in the setting sun.
Gryffindor in the lead. He'd done it, he'd shown Snape....

And speaking of Snape...

A hooded figure came swiftly down the front steps of the castle. Clearly
not wanting to be seen, it walked as fast as possible toward the
forbidden forest. Harry's victory faded from his mind as he watched. He
recognized the figure's prowling walk. Snape, sneaking into the forest
while everyone else was at dinner -- what was going on?

Harry jumped back on his Nimbus Two Thousand and took off. Gliding
silently over the castle he saw Snape enter the forest at a run. He
followed.

The trees were so thick he couldn't see where Snape had gone. He flew in
circles, lower and lower, brushing the top branches of trees until he
heard voices. He glided toward them and landed noiselessly in a towering
beech tree.

He climbed carefully along one of the branches, holding tight to his
broomstick, trying to see through the leaves. Below, in a shadowy
clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn't alone. Quirrell was there, too.
Harry couldn't make out the look on his face, but he was stuttering
worse than ever. Harry strained to catch what they were saying.

"... d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places,
Severus..."

"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," said Snape, his voice icy.
"Students aren't supposed to know about the Sorcerer's Stone, after
all."

Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something. Snape interrupted
him.

"Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

"B-b-but Severus, I --"

"You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell," said Snape, taking a step
toward him.

"I-I don't know what you

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He steadied
himself in time to hear Snape say, "-- your little bit of hocus-pocus.
I'm waiting."

"B-but I d-d-don't --"

"Very well," Snape cut in. "We'll have another little chat soon, when
you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties
lie."

He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing. It was
almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still as
though he was petrified.

"Harry, where have you been?" Hermione squeaked.

"We won! You won! We won!" shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. "And
I gave Malfoy a black eye, and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle
single-handed! He's still out cold but Madam Pomftey says he'll be all
right - talk about showing Slytherin! Everyone's waiting for you in the
common room, we're having a party, Fred and George stole some cakes and
stuff from the kitchens."

"Never mind that now," said Harry breathlessly. "Let's find an empty
room, you wait 'til you hear this...."

He made sure Peeves wasn't inside before shutting the door behind them,
then he told them what he'd seen and heard.

"So we were right, it is the Sorcerer's Stone, and Snape's trying to
force Quirrell to help him get it. He asked if he knew how to get past
Fluffy - and he said something about Quirrell's 'hocus pocuss-- I reckon
there are other things guarding the stone apart from Fluffy, loads of
enchantments, probably, and Quirrell would have done some anti-Dark Arts
spell that Snape needs to break through --"

"So you mean the Stone's only safe as long as Quirrell stands up to
Snape?" said Hermione in alarm.

"It'll be gone by next Tuesday," said Ron.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NORBERT THE NORWEGIAN RIDGEBACK

Quirrell, however, must have been braver than they'd thought. In the
weeks that followed he did seem to be getting paler and thinner, but it
didn't look as though he'd cracked yet.

Every time they passed the third-floor corridor, Harry, Ron, and
Hermione would press their ears to the door to check that Fluffy was
still growling inside. Snape was sweeping about in his usual bad temper,
which surely meant that the Stone was still safe. Whenever Harry passed
Quirrell these days he gave him an encouraging sort of smile, and Ron
had started telling people off for laughing at Quirrell's stutter.

Hermione, however, had more on her mind than the Sorcerer's Stone. She
had started drawing up study schedules and colorcoding all her notes.
Harry and Ron wouldn't have minded, but she kept nagging them to do the
same.

"Hermione, the exams are ages away."

"Ten weeks," Hermione snapped. "That's not ages, that's like a second to
Nicolas Flamel."

"But we're not six hundred years old," Ron reminded her. "Anyway, what
are you studying for, you already know it A."

"What am I studying for? Are you crazy? You realize we need to pass
these exams to get into the second year? They're very important, I
should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's gotten
into me...."

Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the same lines
as Hermione. They piled so much homework on them that the Easter
holidays weren't nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It was hard
to relax with Hermione next to you reciting the twelve uses of dragon's
blood or practicing wand movements. Moaning and yawning, Harry and Ron
spent most of their free time in the library with her, trying to get
through all their extra work.

"I'll never remember this," Ron burst out one afternoon, throwing down
his quill and looking longingly out of the library window. It was the
first really fine day they'd had in months. The sky was a clear,
forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in the air of summer coming.

Harry, who was looking up "Dittany" in One Thousand Magical Herbs and
Fungi, didn't look up until he heard Ron say, "Hagrid! What are you
doing in the library?"

Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back. He looked
very out of place in his moleskin overcoat.

"Jus' lookin'," he said, in a shifty voice that got their interest at
once. "An' what're you lot up ter?" He looked suddenly suspicious. "Yer
not still lookin' fer Nicolas Flamel, are yeh?" "Oh, we found out who he
is ages ago," said Ron impressively. "And we know what that dog's
guarding, it's a Sorcerer's St --"

"Shhhh!" Hagrid looked around quickly to see if anyone was listening.
"Don' go shoutin' about it, what's the matter with yeh?"

"There are a few things we wanted to ask you, as a matter of fact," said
Harry, "about what's guarding the Stone apart from Fluffy --"

"SHHHH!" said Hagrid again. "Listen - come an' see me later, I'm not
promisin' I'll tell yeh anythin', mind, but don' go rabbitin' about it
in here, students aren' s'pposed ter know. They'll think I've told yeh
--"

"See you later, then," said Harry.

Hagrid shuffled off.

"What was he hiding behind his back?" said Hermione thoughtfully.

"Do you think it had anything to do with the Stone?"

"I'm going to see what section he was in," said Ron, who'd had enough of
working. He came back a minute later with a pile of books in his arms
and slammed them down on the table.

"Dragons!" he whispered. "Hagrid was looking up stuff about dragons!
Look at these: Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland; From Egg to
Inferno, A Dragon Keeper's Guide."

"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever
met him, " said Harry.

"But it's against our laws," said Ron. "Dragon breeding was outlawed by
the Warlocks' Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It's hard to stop
Muggles from noticing us if we're keeping dragons in the back garden -
anyway, you can't tame dragons, it's dangerous. You should see the burns
Charlie's got off wild ones in Romania."

"But there aren't wild dragons in Britain?" said Harry.

"Of course there are," said Ron. "Common Welsh Green and Hebridean
Blacks. The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you.
Our kind have to keep putting spells on Muggles who've spotted them, to
make them forget."

"So what on earths Hagrid up to?" said Hermione.

When they knocked on the door of the gamekeeper's hut an hour later,
they were surprised to see that all the curtains were closed. Hagrid
called "Who is it?" before he let them in, and then shut the door
quickly behind them.

It was stifling hot inside. Even though it was such a warm day, there
was a blazing fire in the grate. Hagrid made them tea and offered them
stoat sandwiches, which they refused.

"So -- yeh wanted to ask me somethin'?"

"Yes," said Harry. There was no point beating around the bush. "We were
wondering if you could tell us what's guarding the Sorcerer's Stone
apart from Fluffy."

Hagrid frowned at him.

"0' course I cant, he said. "Number one, I don' know meself. Number two,
yeh know too much already, so I wouldn' tell yeh if I could. That
Stone's here fer a good reason. It Was almost stolen outta Gringotts - I
s'ppose yeh've worked that out an' all? Beats me how yeh even know abou'
Fluffy."

"Oh, come on, Hagrid, you might not want to tell us, but you do know,
you know everything that goes on round here," said Hermione in a warm,
flattering voice. Hagrid's beard twitched and they could tell he was
smiling. "We only wondered who had done the guarding, really." Hermione
went on. "We wondered who Dumbledore had trusted enough to help him,
apart from you."

Hagrid's chest swelled at these last words. Harry and Ron beamed at
Hermione.

"Well, I don' s'pose it could hurt ter tell yeh that... let's see... he
borrowed Fluffy from me... then some o' the teachers did enchantments...
Professor Sprout -- Professor Flitwick -- Professor McGonagall --" he
ticked them off on his fingers, "Professor Quirrell -- an' Dumbledore
himself did somethin', o' course. Hang on, I've forgotten someone. Oh
yeah, Professor Snape."

"Snape?"

"Yeah -- yer not still on abou' that, are yeh? Look, Snape helped
protect the Stone, he's not about ter steal it."

Harry knew Ron and Hermione were thinking the same as he was. If Snape
had been in on protecting the Stone, it must have been easy to find out
how the other teachers had guarded it. He probably knew everything --
except, it seemed, Quirrell's spell and how to get past Fluffy.

"You're the only one who knows how to get past Fluffy. aren't you,
Hagrid?" said Harry anxiously. "And you wouldn't tell anyone, would you?
Not even one of the teachers?"

"Not a soul knows except me an' Dumbledore," said Hagrid proudly.

"Well, that's something," Harry muttered to the others. "Hagrid, can we
have a window open? I'm boiling."

"Can't, Harry, sorry," said Hagrid. Harry noticed him glance at the
fire. Harry looked at it, too.

"Hagrid -- what's that?"

But he already knew what it was. In the very heart of the fire,
underneath the kettle, was a huge, black egg.

"Ah," said Hagrid, fiddling nervously with his beard, "That's er..."

"Where did you get it, Hagrid?" said Ron, crouching over the fire to get
a closer look at the egg. "It must've cost you a fortune."

"Won it," said Hagrid. "Las' night. I was down in the village havin' a
few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was
quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest."

"But what are you going to do with it when it's hatched?" said Hermione.

"Well, I've bin doin' some readin' , said Hagrid, pulling a large book
from under his pillow. "Got this outta the library -- Dragon Breeding
for Pleasure and Profit -- it's a bit outta date, o' course, but it's
all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause their mothers breathe on I
em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o' brandy mixed with
chicken blood every half hour. An' see here -- how ter recognize
diff'rent eggs -- what I got there's a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're
rare, them."

He looked very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn't.

"Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," she said.

But Hagrid wasn't listening. He was humming merrily as he stoked the
fire.

So now they had something else to worry about: what might happen to
Hagrid if anyone found out he was hiding an illegal dragon in his hut.
"Wonder what it's like to have a peaceful life," Ron sighed, as evening
after evening they struggled through all the extra homework they were
getting. Hermione had now started making study schedules for Harry and
Ron, too. It was driving them nuts.

Then, one breakfast time, Hedwig brought Harry another note from Hagrid.
He had written only two words: It's hatching.

Ron wanted to skip Herbology and go straight down to the hut. Hermione
wouldn't hear of it.

"Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon
hatching?"

"We've got lessons, we'll get into trouble, and that's nothing to what
Hagrid's going to be in when someone finds out what he's doing --"

"Shut up!" Harry whispered.

Malfoy was only a few feet away and he had stopped dead to listen. How
much had he heard? Harry didn't like the look on Malfoy's face at all.

Ron and Hermione argued all the way to Herbology and in the end,
Hermione agreed to run down to Hagrid's with the other two during
morning break. When the bell sounded from the castle at the end of their
lesson, the three of them dropped their trowels at once and hurried
through the grounds to the edge of the forest. Hagrid greeted them,
looking flushed and excited.

"It's nearly out." He ushered them inside.

The egg was lying on the table. There were deep cracks in it. Something
was moving inside; a funny clicking noise was coming from it.

They all drew their chairs up to the table and watched with bated
breath.

All at once there was a scraping noise and the egg split open. The baby
dragon flopped onto the table. It wasn't exactly pretty; Harry thought
it looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge
compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout with wide nostrils,
the stubs of horns and bulging, orange eyes.

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Hagrid murmured. He reached out a hand to stroke
the dragon's head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs.

"Bless him, look, he knows his mommy!" said Hagrid.

"Hagrid," said Hermione, "how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow,
exactly?"

Hagrid was about to answer when the color suddenly drained from his face
-- he leapt to his feet and ran to the window.

"What's the matter?"

"Someone was lookin' through the gap in the curtains -- it's a kid --
he's runnin' back up ter the school."

Harry bolted to the door and looked out. Even at a distance there was no
mistaking him.

Malfoy had seen the dragon.

Something about the smile lurking on Malfoy's face during the next week
made Harry, Ron, and Hermione very nervous. They spent most of their
free time in Hagrid's darkened hut, trying to reason with him.

"Just let him go," Harry urged. "Set him free."

"I can't," said Hagrid. "He's too little. He'd die."

They looked at the dragon. It had grown three times in length in just a
week. Smoke kept furling out of its nostrils. Hagrid hadn't been doing
his gamekeeping duties because the dragon was keeping him so busy. There
were empty brandy bottles and chicken feathers all over the floor.

"I've decided to call him Norbert," said Hagrid, looking at the dragon
with misty eyes. "He really knows me now, watch. Norbert! Norbert!
Where's Mommy?"

"He's lost his marbles," Ron muttered in Harry's ear.

"Hagrid," said Harry loudly, "give it two weeks and Norbert's going to
be as long as your house. Malfoy could go to Dumbledore at any moment."

Hagrid bit his lip.

"I -- I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him, I
can't."

Harry suddenly turned to Ron. Charlie, he said.

"You're losing it, too," said Ron. "I'm Ron, remember?"

"No -- Charlie -- your brother, Charlie. In Romania. Studying dragons.
We could send Norbert to him. Charlie can take care of him and then put
him back in the wild!"

"Brilliant!" said Ron. "How about it, Hagrid?"

And in the end, Hagrid agreed that they could send -an owl to Charlie to
ask him.

The following week dragged by. Wednesday night found Hermione and Harry
sitting alone in the common room, long after everyone else had gone to
bed. The clock on the wall had just

chimed midnight when the portrait hole burst open. Ron appeared out of
nowhere as he pulled off Harry's invisibility cloak. He had been down at
Hagrid's hut, helping him feed Norbert, who was now eating dead rats by
the crate.

"It bit me!" he said, showing them his hand, which was wrapped in a
bloody handkerchief. "I'm not going to be able to hold a quill for a
week. I tell you, that dragon's the most horrible animal I've ever met,
but the way Hagrid goes on about it, you'd think it was a fluffy little
bunny rabbit. When it bit me he told me off for frightening it. And when
I left, he was singing it a lullaby."

There was a tap on the dark window.

"It's Hedwig!" said Harry, hurrying to let her in. "She'll have
Charlie's answer!"

The three of them put their heads together to read the note.

Dear Ron,

How are you? Thanks for the letter -- I'd be glad to take the Norwegian
Ridgeback, but it won't be easy getting him here. I think the best thing
will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to
visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn't be seen carrying an illegal
dragon.

Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight on
Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it's still
dark.

Send me an answer as soon as possible.

Love,

Charlie

They looked at one another.

"We've got the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It shouldn't be too
difficult -- I think the cloaks big enough to cover two of us and
Norbert."

It was a mark of how bad the last week had been that the other two
agreed with him. Anything to get rid of Norbert -- and Malfoy.

There was a hitch. By the next morning, Ron's bitten hand had swollen to
twice its usual size. He didn't know whether it was safe to go to Madam
Pomfrey -- would she recognize a dragon bite? By the afternoon, though,
he had no choice. The cut had turned a nasty shade of green. It looked
as if Norbert's fangs were poisonous.

Harry and Hermione rushed up to the hospital wing at the end of the day
to find Ron in a terrible state in bed.

"It's not just my hand," he whispered, "although that feels like it's
about to fall off. Malfoy told Madam Pomfrey he wanted to borrow one of
my books so he could come and have a good laugh at me. He kept
threatening to tell her what really bit me -- I've told her it was a
dog, but I don't think she believes me -I shouldn't have hit him at the
Quidditch match, that's why he's doing this."

Harry and Hermione tried to calm Ron down.

"It'll all be over at midnight on Saturday," said Hermione, but this
didn't soothe Ron at all. On the contrary, he sat bolt upright and broke
into a sweat.

"Midnight on Saturday!" he said in a hoarse voice. "Oh no oh no -- I've
just remembered -- Charlie's letter was in that book Malfoy took, he's
going to know we're getting rid of Norbert."

Harry and Hermione didn't get a chance to answer. Madam Pomfrey came
over at that moment and made them leave, saying Ron needed sleep.

"It's too late to change the plan now," Harry told Hermione. "We haven't
got time to send Charlie another owl, and this could be our only chance
to get rid of Norbert. We'll have to risk it. And we have got the
invisibility cloak, Malfoy doesn't know about that."

They found Fang, the boarhound, sitting outside with a bandaged tail
when they went to tell Hagrid, who opened a window to talk to them.

"I won't let you in," he puffed. "Norbert's at a tricky stage -- nothin'
I can't handle."

When they told him about Charlie's letter, his eyes filled with tears,
although that might have been because Norbert had just bitten him on the
leg.

"Aargh! It's all right, he only got my boot -- jus' playin' -- he's only
a baby, after all."

The baby banged its tail on the wall, making the windows rattle. Harry
and Hermione walked back to the castle feeling Saturday couldn't come
quickly enough.

They would have felt sorry for Hagrid when the time came for him to say
good-bye to Norbert if they hadn't been so worried about what they had
to do. It was a very dark, cloudy night, and they were a bit late
arriving at Hagrid's hut because they'd had to wait for Peeves to get
out of their way in the entrance hall, where he'd been playing tennis
against the wall. Hagrid had Norbert packed and ready in a large crate.

"He's got lots o' rats an' some brandy fer the journey," said Hagrid in
a muffled voice. "An' I've packed his teddy bear in case he gets
lonely."

From inside the crate came ripping noises that sounded to Harry as
though the teddy was having his head torn off.

"Bye-bye, Norbert!" Hagrid sobbed, as Harry and Hermione covered the
crate with the invisibility cloak and stepped underneath it themselves.
"Mommy will never forget you!"

How they managed to get the crate back up to the castle, they never
knew. Midnight ticked nearer as they heaved Norbert up the marble
staircase in the entrance hall and along the dark corridors. UP another
staircase, then another -- even one of Harry's shortcuts didn't make the
work much easier.

"Nearly there!" Harry panted as they reached the corridor beneath the
tallest tower.

Then a sudden movement ahead of them made them almost drop the crate.
Forgetting that they were already invisible, they shrank into the
shadows, staring at the dark outlines of two people grappling with each
other ten feet away. A lamp flared.

Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, had Malfoy by
the ear.

"Detention!" she shouted. "And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering
around in the middle of the night, how dare you --"

"You don't understand, Professor. Harry Potter's coming -- he's got a
dragon!"

"What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on -- I shall see
Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!"

The steep spiral staircase up to the top of the tower seemed the easiest
thing in the world after that. Not until they'd stepped out into the
cold night air did they throw off the cloak, glad to be able to breathe
properly again. Hermione did a sort of jig.

"Malfoy's got detention! I could sing!"

"Don't," Harry advised her.

Chuckling about Malfoy, they waited, Norbert thrashing about in his
crate. About ten minutes later, four broomsticks came swooping down out
of the darkness.

Charlie's friends were a cheery lot. They showed Harry and Hermione the
harness they'd rigged up, so they could suspend Norbert between them.
They all helped buckle Norbert safely into it and then Harry and
Hermione shook hands with the others and thanked them very much.

At last, Norbert was going... going... gone.

They slipped back down the spiral staircase, their hearts as light as
their hands, now that Norbert was off them. No more dragon -- Malfoy in
detention -- what could spoil their happiness?

The answer to that was waiting at the foot of the stairs. As they
stepped into the corridor, Filch's face loomed suddenly out of the
darkness.

"Well, well, well," he whispered, "we are in trouble."

They'd left the invisibility cloak on top of the tower.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE FORIBIDDEN FOREST

Things couldn't have been worse.

Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall's study on the first floor,
where they sat and waited without saying a word to each other. Hermione
was trembling. Excuses, alibis, and wild cover- up stories chased each
other around Harry's brain, each more feeble than the last. He couldn't
see how they were going to get out of trouble this time. They were
cornered. How could they have been so stupid as to forget the cloak?
There was no reason on earth that Professor McGonagall would accept for
their being out of bed and creeping around the school in the dead of
night, let alone being up the tallest astronomy tower, which was
out-of-bounds except for classes. Add Norbert and the invisibility
cloak, and they might as well be packing their bags already.

Had Harry thought that things couldn't have been worse? He was wrong.
When Professor McGonagall appeared, she was leading Neville.

"Harry!" Neville burst Out, the moment he saw the other two. "I was
trying to find you to warn you, I heard Malfoy saying he was going to
catch you, he said you had a drag --"

Harry shook his head violently to shut Neville up, but Professor
McGonagall had seen. She looked more likely to breathe fire than Norbert
as she towered over the three of them.

"I would never have believed it of any of you. Mr. Filch says you were
up in the astronomy tower. It's one o'clock in the morning. Explain
yourselves."

It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to answer a teacher's
question. She was staring at her slippers, as still as a statue.

"I think I've got a good idea of what's been going on," said Professor
McGonagall. "It doesn't take a genius to work it out. You fed Draco
Malfoy some cock-and-bull story about a dragon, trying to get him out of
bed and into trouble. I've already caught him. I suppose you think it's
funny that Longbottom here heard the story and believed it, too?"

Harry caught Neville's eye and tried to tell him without words that this
wasn't true, because Neville was looking stunned and hurt. Poor,
blundering Neville -- Harry knew what it must have cost him to try and
find them in the dark, to warn them.

"I'm disgusted," said Professor McGonagall. "Four students out of bed in
one night! I've never heard of such a thing before! You, Miss Granger, I
thought you had more sense. As for you, Mr. Potter, I thought Gryffindor
meant more to you than this. All three of you will receive detentions --
yes, you too, Mr. Longbottom, nothing gives you the right to walk around
school at night, especially these days, it's very dangerous -- and fifty
points will be taken from Gryffindor."

"Fifty?" Harry gasped -- they would lose the lead, the lead he'd won in
the last Quidditch match.

"Fifty points each," said Professor McGonagall, breathing heavily
through her long, pointed nose.

"Professor -- please

"You can't --"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Potter. Now get back to bed, all
of you. I've never been more ashamed of Gryffindor students."

A hundred and fifty points lost. That put Gryffindor in last place. In
one night, they'd ruined any chance Gryffindor had had for the house
cup. Harry felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. How
could they ever make up for this?

Harry didn't sleep all night. He could hear Neville sobbing into his
pillow for what seemed like hours. Harry couldn't think of anything to
say to comfort him. He knew Neville, like himself, was dreading the
dawn. What would happen when the rest of Gryffindor found out what
they'd done?

At first, Gryffindors passing the giant hourglasses that recorded the
house points the next day thought there'd been a mistake. How could they
suddenly have a hundred and fifty points fewer than yesterday? And then
the story started to spread: Harry Potter, the famous Harry Potter,
their hero of two Quidditch matches, had lo st them all those points,
him and a couple of other stupid first years.

From being one of the most popular and admired people at the school,
Harry was suddenly the most hated. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs
turned on him, because everyone had been longing to see Slytherin lose
the house cup. Everywhere Harry went, people pointed and didn't trouble
to lower their voices as they insulted him. Slytherins, on the other
hand, clapped as he walked past them, whistling and cheering, "Thanks
Potter, we owe you one!"

Only Ron stood by him.

"They'll all forget this in a few weeks. Fred and George have lost loads
of points in all the time they've been here, and people still like
them."

"They've never lost a hundred and fifty points in one go, though, have
they?" said Harry miserably.

"Well -- no," Ron admitted.

It was a bit late to repair the damage, but Harry swore to himself not
to meddle in things that weren't his business from now on. He'd had it
with sneaking around and spying. He felt so ashamed of himself that he
went to Wood and offered to resign from the Quidditch team.

"Resign?" Wood thundered. "What good'll that do? How are we going to get
any points back if we can't win at Quidditch?"

But even Quidditch had lost its fun. The rest of the team wouldn't speak
to Harry during practice, and if they had to speak about him, they
called him "the Seeker."

Hermione and Neville were suffering, too. They didn't have as bad a time
as Harry, because they weren't as well-known, but nobody would speak to
them, either. Hermione had stopped drawing attention to herself in
class, keeping her head down and working in silence.

Harry was almost glad that the exams weren't far away. All the studying
he had to do kept his mind off his misery. He, Ron, and Hermione kept to
themselves, working late into the night, trying to remember the
ingredients in complicated potions, learn charms and spells by heart,
memorize the dates of magical discoveries and goblin rebellions....

Then, about a week before the exams were due to start, Harry's new
resolution not to interfere in anything that didn't concern him was put
to an unexpected test. Walking back from the library on his own one
afternoon, he heard somebody whimpering from a classroom up ahead. As he
drew closer, he heard Quirrell's voice.

"No -- no -- not again, please --"

It sounded as though someone was threatening him. Harry moved closer.

"All right -- all right --" he heard Quirrell sob.

Next second, Quirrell came hurrying out of the classroom straightening
his turban. He was pale and looked as though he was about to cry. He
strode out of sight; Harry didn't think Quirrell had even noticed him.
He waited until Quirrell's footsteps had disappeared, then peered into
the classroom. It was empty, but a door stood ajar at the other end.
Harry was halfway toward it before he remembered what he'd promised
himself about not meddling.

All the same, he'd have gambled twelve Sorcerer's Stones that Snape had
just left the room, and from what Harry had just heard, Snape would be
walking with a new spring in his step -- Quirrell seemed to have given
in at last.

Harry went back to the library, where Hermione was testing Ron on
Astronomy. Harry told them what he'd heard.

"Snape's done it, then!" said Ron. "If Quirrell's told him how to break
his Anti-Dark Force spell --"

"There's still Fluffy, though," said Hermione.

"Maybe Snape's found out how to get past him without asking Hagrid,"
said Ron, looking up at the thousands of books surrounding them. "I bet
there's a book somewhere in here telling you how to get past a giant
three-headed dog. So what do we do, Harry?"

The light of adventure was kindling again in Ron's eyes, but Hermione
answered before Harry could.

"Go to Dumbledore. That's what we should have done ages ago. If we try
anything ourselves we'll be thrown out for sure."

"But we've got no proof!" said Harry. "Quirrell's too scared to back us
up. Snape's only got to say he doesn't know how the troll got in at
Halloween and that he was nowhere near the third floor -- who do you
think they'll believe, him or us? It's not exactly a secret we hate him,
Dumbledore'll think we made it up to get him sacked. Filch wouldn't help
us if his life depended on it, he's too friendly with Snape, and the
more students get thrown out, the better, he'll think. And don't forget,
we're not supposed to know about the Stone or Fluffy. That'll take a lot
of explaining."

Hermione looked convinced, but Ron didn't.

"If we just do a bit of poking around --"

"No," said Harry flatly, "we've done enough poking around."

He pulled a map of Jupiter toward him and started to learn the names of
its moons.

The following morning, notes were delivered to Harry, Hermione, and
Neville at the breakfast table. They were all the same:

Your detention will take place at eleven o'clock tonight. Meet Mr. Filch
in the entrance hall.

Professor McGonagall Harry had forgotten they still had detentions to do
in the furor over the points they'd lost. He half expected Hermione to
complain that this was a whole night of studying lost, but she didn't
say a word. Like Harry, she felt they deserved what they'd got.

At eleven o'clock that night, they said good-bye to Ron in the common
room and went down to the entrance hall with Neville. Filch was already
there -- and so was Malfoy. Harry had also forgotten that Malfoy had
gotten a detention, too.

"Follow me," said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside.

I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you,
eh?" he said, leering at them. "Oh yes... hard work and pain are the
best teachers if you ask me.... It's just a pity they let the old
punishments die out... hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a
few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well oiled in
case they're ever needed.... Right, off we go, and don't think of
running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do."

They marched off across the dark grounds. Neville kept sniffing. Harry
wondered what their punishment was going to be. It must be something
really horrible, or Filch wouldn't be sounding so delighted.

The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it kept throwing them
into darkness. Ahead, Harry could see the lighted windows of Hagrid's
hut. Then they heard a distant shout.

"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."

Harry's heart rose; if they were going to be working with Hagrid it
wouldn't be so bad. His relief must have showed in his -face, because
Filch said, "I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that
oaf? Well, think again, boy -- it's into the forest you're going and I'm
much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece."

At this, Neville let out a little moan, and Malfoy stopped dead in his
tracks.

"The forest?" he repeated, and he didn't sound quite as cool as usual.
"We can't go in there at night -- there's all sorts of things in there
-- werewolves, I heard."

Neville clutched the sleeve of Harry's robe and made a choking noise.

"That's your problem, isn't it?" said Filch, his voice cracking with
glee. "Should've thought of them werewolves before you got in trouble,
shouldn't you?"

Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark, Fang at his heel. He
was carrying his large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows hung over his
shoulder.

"Abou' time," he said. "I bin waitin' fer half an hour already. All
right, Harry, Hermione?"

"I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid," said Filch coldly,
they're here to be punished, after all."

"That's why yer late, is it?" said Hagrid, frowning at Filch. "Bin
lecturin' them, eh? 'Snot your place ter do that. Yeh've done yer bit,
I'll take over from here."

"I'll be back at dawn," said Filch, "for what's left of them," he added
nastily, and he turned and started back toward the castle, his lamp
bobbing away in the darkness.

Malfoy now turned to Hagrid.

"I'm not going in that forest, he said, and Harry was pleased to hear
the note of panic in his voice.

"Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts," said Hagrid fiercely.
"Yeh've done wrong an' now yehve got ter pay fer it."

"But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do. I thought we'd
be copying lines or something, if my father knew I was doing this, he'd

tell yer that's how it is at Hogwarts," Hagrid growled. "Copyin' lines!
What good's that ter anyone? Yeh'll do summat useful or Yeh'll get out.
If yeh think yer father'd rather you were expelled, then get back off
ter the castle an' pack. Go on"'

Malfoy didn't move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but then dropped his
gaze.

"Right then," said Hagrid, "now, listen carefully, 'cause it's dangerous
what we're gonna do tonight, an' I don' want no one takin' risks. Follow
me over here a moment."

He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his lamp up high, he
pointed down a narrow, winding earth track that disappeared into the
thick black trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked into
the forest.

"Look there," said Hagrid, "see that stuff shinin' on the ground?
Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood. There's a unicorn in there bin hurt
badly by summat. This is the second time in a week. I found one dead
last Wednesday. We're gonna try an' find the poor thing. We might have
ter put it out of its misery."

"And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?" said Malfoy,
unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

"There's nothin' that lives in the forest that'll hurt yeh if yer with
me or Fang," said Hagrid. "An' keep ter the path. Right, now, we're
gonna split inter two parties an' follow the trail in diff'rent
directions. There's blood all over the place, it must've bin staggerin'
around since last night at least."

"I want Fang," said Malfoy quickly, looking at Fang's long teeth.

"All right, but I warn yeh, he's a coward," said Hagrid. " So me, Harry,
an' Hermione'll go one way an' Draco, Neville, an' Fang'll go the other.
Now, if any of us finds the unicorn, we'll send up green sparks, right?
Get yer wands out an' practice now -- that's it -- an' if anyone gets in
trouble, send up red sparks, an' we'll all come an' find yeh -- so, be
careful -- let's go."

The forest was black and silent. A little way into it they reached a
fork in the earth path, and Harry, Hermione, and Hagrid took the left
path while Malfoy, Neville, and Fang took the right.

They walked in silence, their eyes on the ground. Every now and then a
ray of moonlight through the branches above lit a spot of silver-blue
blood on the fallen leaves.

Harry saw that Hagrid looked very worried.

"Could a werewolf be killing the unicorns?" Harry asked.

"Not fast enough," said Hagrid. "It's not easy ter catch a unicorn,
they're powerful magic creatures. I never knew one ter be hurt before."

They walked past a mossy tree stump. Harry could hear running water;
there must be a stream somewhere close by. There were still spots of
unicorn blood here and there along the winding path.

"You all right, Hermione?" Hagrid whispered. "Don' worry, it can't've
gone far if it's this badly hurt, an' then we'll be able ter -- GET
BEHIND THAT TREE!"

Hagrid seized Harry and Hermione and hoisted them off the path behind a
towering oak. He pulled out an arrow and fitted it into his crossbow,
raising it, ready to fire. The three of them listened. Something was
slithering over dead leaves nearby: it sounded like a cloak trailing
along the ground. Hagrid was squinting up the dark path, but after a few
seconds, the sound faded away.

"I knew it, " he murmured. "There's summat in here that shouldn' be."

"A werewolf?" Harry suggested.

"That wasn' no werewolf an' it wasn' no unicorn, neither," said Hagrid
grimly. "Right, follow me, but careful, now."

They walked more slowly, ears straining for the faintest sound.
Suddenly, in a clearing ahead, something definitely moved.

"Who's there?" Hagrid called. "Show yerself -- I'm armed!"

And into the clearing came -- was it a man, or a horse? To the waist, a
man, with red hair and beard, but below that was a horse's gleaming
chestnut body with a long, reddish tail. Harry and Hermione's jaws
dropped.

"Oh, it's you, Ronan," said Hagrid in relief. "How are yeh?"

He walked forward and shook the centaur's hand.

"Good evening to you, Hagrid," said Ronan. He had a deep, sorrowful
voice. "Were you going to shoot me?"

"Can't be too careful, Ronan," said Hagrid, patting his crossbow.
"There's summat bad loose in this forest. This is Harry Potter an'
Hermione Granger, by the way. Students up at the school. An' this is
Ronan, you two. He's a centaur.))

"We'd noticed," said Hermione faintly.

"Good evening," said Ronan. "Students, are you? And do you learn much,
up at the school?"

"Erm --"

"A bit," said Hermione timidly.

"A bit. Well, that's something." Ronan sighed. He flung back his head
and stared at the sky. "Mars is bright tonight."

"Yeah," said Hagrid, glancing up, too. "Listen, I'm glad we've run inter
yeh, Ronan, 'cause there's a unicorn bin hurt -- you seen anythin'?"

Ronan didn't answer immediately. He stared unblinkingly upward, then
sighed again.

"Always the innocent are the first victims," he said. "So it has been
for ages past, so it is now."

"Yeah," said Hagrid, "but have yeh seen anythin', Ronan? Anythin'
unusual?"

"Mars is bright tonight," Ronan repeated, while Hagrid watched him
impatiently. "Unusually bright."

"Yeah, but I was meanin' anythin' unusual a bit nearer home, said
Hagrid. "So yeh haven't noticed anythin' strange?"

Yet again, Ronan took a while to answer. At last, he said, "The forest
hides many secrets."

A movement in the trees behind Ronan made Hagrid raise his bow again,
but it was only a second centaur, black-haired and -bodied and
wilder-looking than Ronan.

"Hullo, Bane," said Hagrid. "All right?"

"Good evening, Hagrid, I hope you are well?"

"Well enough. Look, I've jus' bin askin' Ronan, you seen anythin' odd in
here lately? There's a unicorn bin injured -- would yeh know anythin'
about it?"

Bane walked over to stand next to Ronan. He looked skyward. "Mars is
bright tonight," he said simply.

"We've heard," said Hagrid grumpily. "Well, if either of you do see
anythin', let me know, won't yeh? We'll be off, then."

Harry and Hermione followed him out of the clearing, staring over their
shoulders at Ronan and Bane until the trees blocked their view.

"Never," said Hagrid irritably, "try an' get a straight answer out of a
centaur. Ruddy stargazers. Not interested in anythin' closer'n the
moon."

"Are there many of them in here?" asked Hermione.

"Oh, a fair few... Keep themselves to themselves mostly, but they're
good enough about turnin' up if ever I want a word. They're deep, mind,
centaurs... they know things... jus' don' let on much."

"D'you think that was a centaur we heard earlier?" said Harry.

"Did that sound like hooves to you? Nah, if yeh ask me, that was what's
bin killin' the unicorns -- never heard anythin' like it before."

They walked on through the dense, dark trees. Harry kept looking
nervously over his shoulder. He had the nasty feeling they were being
watched. He was very glad they had Hagrid and his crossbow with them.
They had just passed a bend in the path when Hermione grabbed Hagrid's
arm.

"Hagrid! Look! Red sparks, the others are in trouble!"

"You two wait here!" Hagrid shouted. "Stay on the path, I'll come back
for yeh!"

They heard him crashing away through the undergrowth and stood looking
at each other, very scared, until they couldn't hear anything but the
rustling of leaves around them.

"You don't think they've been hurt, do you?" whispered Hermione.

"I don't care if Malfoy has, but if something's got Neville... it's our
fault he's here in the first place."

The minutes dragged by. Their ears seemed sharper than usual. Harry's
seemed to be picking up every sigh of the wind, every cracking twig.
What was going on? Where were the others?

At last, a great crunching noise announced Hagrid's return. Malfoy,
Neville, and Fang were with him. Hagrid was fuming. Malfoy, it seemed,
had sneaked up behind Neville and grabbed him as a joke. Neville had
panicked and sent up the sparks.

"We'll be lucky ter catch anythin' now, with the racket you two were
makin'. Right, we're changin' groups -- Neville, you stay with me an'
Hermione, Harry, you go with Fang an' this idiot. I'm sorry," Hagrid
added in a whisper to Harry, "but he'll have a harder time frightenin'
you, an' we've gotta get this done."

So Harry set off into the heart of the forest with Malfoy and Fang. They
walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until
the path became almost impossible to follow because the trees were so
thick. Harry thought the blood seemed to be getting thicker. There were
splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been
thrashing around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing ahead,
through the tangled branches of an ancient oak.

"Look --" he murmured, holding out his arm to stop Malfoy.

Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer.

It was the unicorn all right, and it was dead. Harry had never seen
anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at
odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on
the dark leaves.

Harry had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound made him
freeze where he stood. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered....
Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the
ground like some stalking beast. Harry, Malfoy, and Fang stood
transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head
over the wound in the animal's side, and began to drink its blood.

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Malfoy let out a terrible scream and bolted -- so did Fang. The hooded
figure raised its head and looked right at Harry -- unicorn blood was
dribbling down its front. It got to its feet and came swiftly toward
Harry -- he couldn't move for fear.

Then a pain like he'd never felt before pierced his head; it was as
though his scar were on fire. Half blinded, he staggered backward. He
heard hooves behind him, galloping, and something jumped clean over
Harry, charging at the figure.

The pain in Harry's head was so bad he fell to his knees. It took a
minute or two to pass. When he looked up, the figure had gone. A centaur
was standing over him, not Ronan or Bane; this one looked younger; he
had white-blond hair and a palomino body.

"Are you all right?" said the centaur, pulling Harry to his feet.

"Yes -- thank you -- what was that?"

The centaur didn't answer. He had astonishingly blue eyes, like pale
sapphires. He looked carefully at Harry, his eyes lingering on the scar
that stood out, livid, on Harry's forehead.

"You are the Potter boy," he said. "You had better get back to Hagrid.
The forest is not safe at this time -- especially for you. Can you ride?
It will be quicker this way.

"My name is Firenze," he added, as he lowered himself on to his front
legs so that Harry could clamber onto his back.

There was suddenly a sound of more galloping from the other side of the
clearing. Ronan and Bane came bursting through the trees, their flanks
heaving and sweaty.

"Firenze!" Bane thundered. "What are you doing? You have a human on your
back! Have you no shame? Are you a common mule?"

"Do you realize who this is?" said Firenze. "This is the Potter boy. The
quicker he leaves this forest, the better."

"What have you been telling him?" growled Bane. "Remember, Firenze, we
are sworn not to set ourselves against the heavens. Have we not read
what is to come in the movements of the planets?"

Ronan pawed the ground nervously. "I'm sure Firenze thought he was
acting for the best, " he said in his gloomy voice.

Bane kicked his back legs in anger.

"For the best! What is that to do with us? Centaurs are concerned with
what has been foretold! It is not our business to run around like
donkeys after stray humans in our forest!"

Firenze suddenly reared on to his hind legs in anger, so that Harry had
to grab his shoulders to stay on.

"Do you not see that unicorn?" Firenze bellowed at Bane. "Do you not
understand why it was killed? Or have the planets not let you in on that
secret? I set myself against what is lurking in this forest, Bane, yes,
with humans alongside me if I must."

And Firenze whisked around; with Harry clutching on as best he could,
they plunged off into the trees, leaving Ronan and Bane behind them.

Harry didn't have a clue what was going on.

"Why's Bane so angry?" he asked. "What was that thing you saved me from,
anyway?"

Firenze slowed to a walk, warned Harry to keep his head bowed in case of
low-hanging branches, but did not answer Harry's question. They made
their way through the trees in silence for so long that Harry thought
Firenze didn't want to talk to him anymore. They were passing through a
particularly dense patch of trees, however, when Firenze suddenly
stopped.

"Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used -for?"

"No," said Harry, startled by the odd question. "We've only used the
horn and tail hair in Potions."

"That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn," said
Firenze. "Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain,
would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive,
even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have
slain something pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have
but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your
lips."

Harry stared at the back of Firenze's head, which was dappled silver in
the moonlight.

"But who'd be that desperate?" he wondered aloud. "If you're going to be
cursed forever, deaths better, isn't it?"

"It is," Firenze agreed, "unless all you need is to stay alive long
enough to drink something else -- something that will bring you back to
full strength and power -- something that will mean you can never die.
Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the school at this very
moment?"

"The Sorcerer's Stone! Of course -- the Elixir of Life! But I don't
understand who --"

"Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power,
who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?"

It was as though an iron fist had clenched suddenly around Harry's
heart. Over the rustling of the trees, he seemed to hear once more what
Hagrid had told him on the night they had met: "Some say he died.
Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to
die."

"Do you mean," Harry croaked, "that was Vol-"

"Harry! Harry, are you all right?"

Hermione was running toward them down the path, Hagrid puffing along
behind her.

"I'm fine," said Harry, hardly knowing what he was saying. "The
unicorn's dead, Hagrid, it's in that clearing back there."

"This is where I leave you," Firenze murmured as Hagrid hurried off to
examine the unicorn. "You are safe now."

Harry slid off his back.

"Good luck, Harry Potter," said Firenze. "The planets have been read
wrongly before now, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of those
times."

He turned and cantered back into the depths of the forest, leaving Harry
shivering behind him.

Ron had fallen asleep in the dark common room, waiting for them to
return. He shouted something about Quidditch fouls when Harry roughly
shook him awake. In a matter of seconds, though, he was wide-eyed as
Harry began to tell him and Hermione what had happened in the forest.

Harry couldn't sit down. He paced up and down in front of the fire. He
was still shaking.

"Snape wants the stone for Voldemort... and Voldemort's waiting in the
forest... and all this time we thought Snape just wanted to get
rich...."

"Stop saying the name!" said Ron in a terrified whisper, as if he
thought Voldemort could hear them.

Harry wasn't listening.

"Firenze saved me, but he shouldn't have done so.... Bane was furious...
he was talking about interfering with what the planets say is going to
happen.... They must show that Voldemort's coming back.... Bane thinks
Firenze should have let Voldemort kill me.... I suppose that's written
in the stars as well."

"Will you stop saying the name!" Ron hissed.

"So all I've got to wait for now is Snape to steal the Stone," Harry
went on feverishly, "then Voldemort will be able to come and finish me
off... Well, I suppose Bane'll be happy."

Hermione looked very frightened, but she had a word of comfort.

"Harry, everyone says Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was ever
afraid of With Dumbledore around, You-Know-Who won't touch you. Anyway,
who says the centaurs are right? It sounds like fortune-telling to me,
and Professor McGonagall says that's a very imprecise branch of magic."

The sky had turned light before they stopped talking. They went to bed
exhausted, their throats sore. But the night's surprises weren't over.

When Harry pulled back his sheets, he found his invisibility cloak
folded neatly underneath them. There was a note pinned to it:

Just in case.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THROUGH THE TRAPDOOR

In years to come, Harry would never quite remember how he had managed to
get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to come bursting
through the door at any moment. Yet the days crept by, and there could
be no doubt that Fluffy was still alive and well behind the locked door.

It was sweltering hot, especially in the large classroom where they did
their written papers. They had been given special, new quills for the
exams, which had been bewitched with an AntiCheating spell.

They had practical exams as well. Professor Flitwick called them one by
one into his class to see if they could make a pineapple tapdance across
a desk. Professor McGonagall watched them turn a mouse into a snuffbox
-- points were given for how pretty the snuffbox was, but taken away if
it had whiskers. Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their necks
while they tried to remember how to make a Forgetfulness potion.

Harry did the best he could, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in his
forehead, which had been bothering him ever since his trip into the
forest. Neville thought Harry had a bad case of exam nerves because
Harry couldn't sleep, but the truth was that Harry kept being woken by
his old nightmare, except that it was now worse than ever because there
was a hooded figure dripping blood in it.

Maybe it was because they hadn't seen what Harry had seen in the forest,
or because they didn't have scars burning on their foreheads, but Ron
and Hermione didn't seem as worried about the Stone as Harry. The idea
of Voldemort certainly scared them, but he didn't keep visiting them in
dreams, and they were so busy with their studying they didn't have much
time to fret about what Snape or anyone else might be up to.

Their very last exam was History of Magic. One hour of answering
questions about batty old wizards who'd invented selfstirring cauldrons
and they'd be free, free for a whole wonderful week until their exam
results came out. When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put
down their quills and roll up their parchment, Harry couldn't help
cheering with the rest.

"That was far easier than I thought it would be," said Hermione as they
joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. "I needn't have
learned about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of
Elfric the Eager."

Hermione always liked to go through their exam papers afterward, but Ron
said this made him feel ill, so they wandered down to the lake and
flopped under a tree. The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were tickling the
tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows. "No
more studying," Ron sighed happily, stretching out on the grass. "You
could look more cheerful, Harry, we've got a week before we find out how
badly we've done, there's no need to worry yet."

Harry was rubbing his forehead.

"I wish I knew what this means!" he burst out angrily. "My scar keeps
hurting -- it's happened before, but never as often as this."

"Go to Madam Pomfrey," Hermione suggested.

"I'm not ill," said Harry. "I think it's a warning... it means danger's
coming...."

Ron couldn't get worked up, it was too hot.

"Harry, relax, Hermione's right, the Stone's safe as long as
Dumbledore's around. Anyway, we've never had any proof Snape found out
how to get past Fluffy. He nearly had his leg ripped off once, he's not
going to try it again in a hurry. And Neville will play Quidditch for
England before Hagrid lets Dumbledore down."

Harry nodded, but he couldn't shake off a lurking feeling that there was
something he'd forgotten to do, something important. When he tried to
explain this, Hermione said, "That's just the exams. I woke up last
night and was halfway through my Transfiguration notes before I
remembered we'd done that one."

Harry was quite sure the unsettled feeling didn't have anything to do
with work, though. He watched an owl flutter toward the school across
the bright blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only
one who ever sent him letters. Hagrid would never betray Dumbledore.
Hagrid would never tell anyone how to get past Fluffy... never... but --

Harry suddenly jumped to his feet.

"Where're you going?" said Ron sleepily.

"I've just thought of something," said Harry. He had turned white.
"We've got to go and see Hagrid, now."

"Why?" panted Hermione, hurrying to keep up.

"Don't you think it's a bit odd," said Harry, scrambling up the grassy
slope, "that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a dragon, and
a stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in his pocket? How
many people wander around with dragon eggs if it's against wizard law?
Lucky they found Hagrid, don't you think? Why didn't I see it before?"

"What are you talking about?" said Ron, but Harry, sprinting across the
grounds toward the forest, didn't answer.

Hagrid was sitting in an armchair outside his house; his trousers and
sleeves were rolled up, and he was shelling peas into a large bowl.

"Hullo," he said, smiling. "Finished yer exams? Got time fer a drink?"

"Yes, please," said Ron, but Harry cut him off.

"No, we're in a hurry. Hagrid, I've got to ask you something. You know
that night you won Norbert? What did the stranger you were playing cards
with look like?"

"Dunno," said Hagrid casually, "he wouldn' take his cloak off."

He saw the three of them look stunned and raised his eyebrows.

"It's not that unusual, yeh get a lot o' funny folk in the Hog's Head --
that's the pub down in the village. Mighta bin a dragon dealer, mightn'
he? I never saw his face, he kept his hood up."

Harry sank down next to the bowl of peas. "What did you talk to him
about, Hagrid? Did you mention Hogwarts at all?"

"Mighta come up," said Hagrid, frowning as he tried to remember.
"Yeah... he asked what I did, an' I told him I was gamekeeper here....
He asked a bit about the sorta creatures I took after... so I told
him... an' I said what I'd always really wanted was a dragon... an'
then... I can' remember too well, 'cause he kept buyin' me drinks....
Let's see... yeah, then he said he had the dragon egg an' we could play
cards fer it if I wanted... but he had ter be sure I could handle it, he
didn' want it ter go ter any old home.... So I told him, after Fluffy, a
dragon would be easy..."

"And did he -- did he seem interested in Fluffy?" Harry asked, try ing
to keep his voice calm.

"Well -- yeah -- how many three-headed dogs d'yeh meet, even around
Hogwarts? So I told him, Fluffy's a piece o' cake if yeh know how to
calm him down, jus' play him a bit o' music an' he'll go straight off
ter sleep --"

Hagrid suddenly looked horrified.

"I shouldn'ta told yeh that!" he blurted out. "Forget I said it! Hey --
where're yeh goin'?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn't speak to each other at all until they
came to a halt in the entrance hall, which seemed very cold and gloomy
after the grounds.

"We've got to go to Dumbledore," said Harry. "Hagrid told that stranger
how to get past Fluffy, and it was either Snape or Voldemort under that
cloak -- it must've been easy, once he'd got Hagrid drunk. I just hope
Dumbledore believes us. Firenze might back us up if Bane doesn't stop
him. Where's Dumbledore's office?"

They looked around, as if hoping to see a sign pointing them in the
right direction. They had never been told where Dumbledore lived, nor
did they know anyone who had been sent to see him.

"We'll just have to --" Harry began, but a voice suddenly rang across
the hall.

"What are you three doing inside?"

It was Professor McGonagall, carrying a large pile of books.

"We want to see Professor Dumbledore," said Hermione, rather bravely,
Harry and Ron thought.

"See Professor Dumbledore?" Professor McGonagall repeated, as though
this was a very fishy thing to want to do. "Why?"

Harry swallowed -- now what?

"It's sort of secret," he said, but he wished at once he hadn't, because
Professor McGonagall's nostrils flared.

"Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago," she said coldly. "He
received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and flew off for
London at once."

"He's gone?" said Harry frantically. "Now?"

"Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard, Potter, he has many
demands on his time --

"But this is important."

"Something you have to say is more important than the Ministry of Magic,
Potter.

"Look," said Harry, throwing caution to the winds, "Professor -- it's
about the Sorcerer's tone --"

Whatever Professor McGonagall had expected, it wasn't that. The books
she was carrying tumbled out of her arms, but she didn't pick them up.
"How do you know --?" she spluttered.

"Professor, I think -- I know -- that Sn- that someone's going to try
and steal the Stone. I've got to talk to Professor Dumbledore."

She eyed him with a mixture of shock and suspicion.

"Professor Dumbledore will be back tomorrow," she said finally. I don't
know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured, no one can
possibly steal it, it's too well protected."

"But Professor --"

"Potter, I know what I'm talking about," she said shortly. She bent down
and gathered up the fallen books. I suggest you all go back outside and
enjoy the sunshine."

But they didn't.

"It's tonight," said Harry, once he was sure Professor McGonagall was
out of earshot. "Snape's going through the trapdoor tonight. He's found
out everything he needs, and now he's got Dumbledore out of the way. He
sent that note, I bet the Ministry of Magic will get a real shock when
Dumbledore turns up."

"But what can we --"

Hermione gasped. Harry and Ron wheeled round.

Snape was standing there.

"Good afternoon," he said smoothly.

They stared at him.

"You shouldn't be inside on a day like this," he said, with an odd,
twisted smile.

"We were --" Harry began, without any idea what he was going to say.

"You want to be more careful," said Snape. "Hanging around

like this, people will think you're up to something. And Gryffindor
really can't afford to lose any more points, can it?"

Harry flushed. They turned to go outside, but Snape called them back.

"Be warned, Potter -- any more nighttime wanderings and I will
personally make sure you are expelled. Good day to you."

He strode off in the direction of the staffroom.

Out on the stone steps, Harry turned to the others.

"Right, here's what we've got to do," he whispered urgently. "One of us
has got to keep an eye on Snape -- wait outside the staff room and
follow him if he leaves it. Hermione, you'd better do that."

"Why me?"

"It's obvious," said Ron. "You can pretend to be waiting for Professor
Flitwick, you know." He put on a high voice, "'Oh Professor Flitwick,
I'm so worried, I think I got question fourteen b wrong....'"

"Oh, shut up," said Hermione, but she agreed to go and watch out for
Snape.

"And we'd better stay outside the third-floor corridor," Harry told Ron.
"Come on."

But that part of the plan didn't work. No sooner had they reached the
door separating Fluffy from the rest of the school than Professor
McGonagall turned up again and this time, she lost her temper.

"I suppose you think you're harder to get past than a pack of
enchantments!" she stormed. "Enough of this nonsense! If I hear you 've
come anywhere near here again, I'll take another fifty points from
Gryffindor! Yes, Weasley, from my own house!" Harry and Ron went back to
the common room, Harry had just said, "At least Hermione's on Snape's
tail," when the portrait of the Fat Lady swung open and Hermione came
in.

"I'm sorry, Harry!" she wailed. "Snape came out and asked me what I was
doing, so I said I was waiting for Flitwick, and Snape went to get him,
and I've only just got away, I don't know where Snape went."

"Well, that's it then, isn't it?" Harry said.

The other two stared at him. He was pale and his eyes were glittering.

"I'm going out of here tonight and I'm going to try and get to the Stone
first."

"You're mad!" said Ron.

"You can't!" said Hermione. "After what McGonagall and Snape have said?
You'll be expelled!"

"SO WHAP" Harry shouted. "Don't you understand? If Snape gets hold of
the Stone, Voldemort's coming back! Haven't you heard what it was like
when he was trying to take over? There won't be any Hogwarts to get
expelled from! He'll flatten it, or turn it into a school for the Dark
Arts! Losing points doesn't matter anymore, can't you see? D'you think
he'll leave you and your families alone if Gryffindor wins the house
cup? If I get caught before I can get to the Stone, well, I'll have to
go back to the Dursleys and wait for Voldemort to find me there, it's
only dying a bit later than I would have, because I'm never going over
to the Dark Side! I'm going through that trapdoor tonight and nothing
you two say is going to stop me! Voldemort killed my parents, remember?"

He glared at them.

"You're right Harry," said Hermione in a small voice.

"I'll use the invisibility cloak," said Harry. "It's just lucky I got it
back."

"But will it cover all three of us?" said Ron.

"All -- all three of us?"

"Oh, come off it, you don't think we'd let you go alone?"

"Of course not," said Hermione briskly. "How do you think you'd get to
the Stone without us? I'd better go and took through my books, there
might be something useful..."

"But if we get caught, you two will be expelled, too."

"Not if I can help it," said Hermione grimly. "Flitwick told me in
secret that I got a hundred and twelve percent on his exam. They're not
throwing me out after that."

After dinner the three of them sat nervously apart in the common room.
Nobody bothered them; none of the Gryffindors had anything to say to
Harry any more, after all. This was the first night he hadn't been upset
by it. Hermione was skimming through all her notes, hoping to come
across one of the enchantments they were about to try to break. Harry
and Ron didn't talk much. Both of them were thinking about what they
were about to do.

Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed.

"Better get the cloak," Ron muttered, as Lee Jordan finally left,
stretching and yawning. Harry ran upstairs to their dark dormitory. He
putted out the cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had
given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on Fluffy -- he didn't
feel much like singing.

He ran back down to the common room.

"We'd better put the cloak on here, and make sure it covers all three of
us -- if Filch spots one of our feet wandering along on its own --"

"What are you doing?" said a voice from the corner of the room. Neville
appeared from behind an armchair, clutching Trevor the toad, who looked
as though he'd been making another bid for freedom.

"Nothing, Neville, nothing," said Harry, hurriedly putting the cloak
behind his back.

Neville stared at their guilty faces.

"You're going out again," he said.

"No, no, no," said Hermione. "No, we're not. Why don't you go to bed,
Neville?"

Harry looked at the grandfather clock by the door. They couldn't afford
to waste any more time, Snape might even now be playing Fluffy to sleep.

"You can't go out," said Neville, "you'll be caught again. Gryffindor
will be in even more trouble."

"You don't understand," said Harry, "this is important."

But Neville was clearly steeling himself to do something desperate.

I won't let you do it," he said, hurrying to stand in front of the
portrait hole. "I'll -- I'll fight you!"

"Neville, "Ron exploded, "get away from that hole and don't be an idiot
--"

"Don't you call me an idiot!" said Neville. I don't think you should be
breaking any more rules! And you were the one who told me to stand up to
people!"

"Yes, but not to us," said Ron in exasperation. "Neville, you don't know
what you're doing."

He took a step forward and Neville dropped Trevor the toad, who leapt
out of sight.

"Go on then, try and hit me!" said Neville, raising his fists. "I'm
ready!"

Harry turned to Hermione.

"Do something," he said desperately.

Hermione stepped forward.

"Neville," she said, "I'm really, really sorry about this."

She raised her wand.

"Petrificus Totalus!" she cried, pointing it at Neville.

Neville's arms snapped to his sides. His legs sprang together. His whole
body rigid, he swayed where he stood and then fell flat on his face,
stiff as a board.

Hermione ran to turn him over. Neville's jaws were jammed together so he
couldn't speak. Only his eyes were moving, looking at them in horror.

"What've you done to him?" Harry whispered.

"It's the full Body-Bind," said Hermione miserably. "Oh, Neville, I'm so
sorry."

"We had to, Neville, no time to explain," said Harry.

"You'll understand later, Neville," said Ron as they stepped over him
and pulled on the invisibility cloak.

But leaving Neville lying motionless on the floor didn't feel like a
very good omen. In their nervous state, every statue's shadow looked
like Filch, every distant breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping
down on them. At the foot of the first set of stairs, they spotted Mrs.
Norris skulking near the top.

"Oh, let's kick her, just this once," Ron whispered in Harry's ear, but
Harry shook his head. As they climbed carefully around her, Mrs. Norris
turned her lamplike eyes on them, but didn't do anything.

They didn't meet anyone else until they reached the staircase up to the
third floor. Peeves was bobbing halfway up, loosening the carpet so that
people would trip.

"Who's there?" he said suddenly as they climbed toward him. He narrowed
his wicked black eyes. "Know you're there, even if I can't see you. Are
you ghoulie or ghostie or wee student beastie?"

He rose up in the air and floated there, squinting at them.

"Should call Filch, I should, if something's a-creeping around unseen."

Harry had a sudden idea.

"Peeves," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "the Bloody Baron has his own
reasons for being invisible."

Peeves almost fell out of the air in shock. He caught himself in time
and hovered about a foot off the stairs.

"So sorry, your bloodiness, Mr. Baron, Sir," he said greasily. "My
mistake, my mistake -- I didn't see you -- of course I didn't, you're
invisible -- forgive old Peevsie his little joke, sir."

"I have business here, Peeves," croaked Harry. "Stay away from this
place tonight."

"I will, sir, I most certainly will," said Peeves, rising up in the air
again. "Hope your business goes well, Baron, I'll not bother you."

And he scooted off

"Brilliant, Harry!" whispered Ron.

A few seconds later, they were there, outside the third-floor corridor
-- and the door was already ajar.

"Well, there you are," Harry said quietly, "Snape's already got past
Fluffy."

Seeing the open door somehow seemed to impress upon all three of them
what was facing them. Underneath the cloak, Harry turned to the other
two.

"If you want to go back, I won't blame you," he said. "You can take the
cloak, I won't need it now."

"Don't be stupid," said Ron.

"We're coming," said Hermione.

Harry pushed the door open.

As the door creaked, low, rumbling growls met their ears. All three of
the dog's noses sniffed madly in their direction, even though it
couldn't see them.

"What's that at its feet?" Hermione whispered.

"Looks like a harp," said Ron. "Snape must have left it there."

"It must wake up the moment you stop playing," said Harry. "Well, here
goes..."

He put Hagrid's flute to his lips and blew. It wasn't really a tune, but
from the first note the beast's eyes began to droop. Harry hardly drew
breath. Slowly, the dog's growls ceased -- it tottered on its paws and
fell to its knees, then it slumped to the ground, fast asleep.

"Keep playing," Ron warned Harry as they slipped out of the cloak and
crept toward the trapdoor. They could feel the dog's hot, smelly breath
as they approached the giant heads. "I think we'll be able to pull the
door open," said Ron, peering over the dog's back. "Want to go first,
Hermione?"

"No, I don't!"

"All right." Ron gritted his teeth and stepped carefully over the dog's
legs. He bent and pulled the ring of the trapdoor, which swung up and
open.

"What can you see?" Hermione said anxiously.

"Nothing -- just black -- there's no way of climbing down, we'll just
have to drop."

Harry, who was still playing the flute, waved at Ron to get his
attention and pointed at himself.

"You want to go first? Are you sure?" said Ron. "I don't know how deep
this thing goes. Give the flute to Hermione so she can keep him asleep."

Harry handed the flute over. In the few seconds' silence, the dog
growled and twitched, but the moment Hermione began to play, it fell
back into its deep sleep.

Harry climbed over it and looked down through the trapdoor. There was no
sign of the bottom.

He lowered himself through the hole until he was hanging on by his
fingertips. Then he looked up at Ron and said, "If anything happens to
me, don't follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to
Dumbledore, right?"

"Right," said Ron.

"See you in a minute, I hope...

And Harry let go. Cold, damp air rushed past him as he fell down, down,
down and -- FLUMP. With a funny, muffled sort of thump he landed on
something soft. He sat up and felt around, his eyes not used to the
gloom. It felt as though he was sitting on some sort of plant.

"It's okay!" he called up to the light the size of a postage stamp,
which was the open trapdoor, "it's a soft landing, you can jump!"

Ron followed right away. He landed, sprawled next to Harry.

"What's this stuff?" were his first words.

"Dunno, some sort of plant thing. I suppose it's here to break the fall.
Come on, Hermione!"

The distant music stopped. There was a loud bark from the dog, but
Hermione had already jumped. She landed on Harry's other side.

"We must be miles under the school , she said.

"Lucky this plant thing's here, really," said Ron.

"Lucky!" shrieked Hermione. "Look at you both!"

She leapt up and struggled toward a damp wall. She had to struggle
because the moment she had landed, the plant had started to twist
snakelike tendrils around her ankles. As for Harry and Ron, their legs
had already been bound tightly in long creepers without their noticing.

Hermione had managed to free herself before the plant got a firm grip on
her. Now she watched in horror as the two boys fought to pull the plant
off them, but the more they strained against it, the tighter and faster
the plant wound around them.

"Stop moving!" Hermione ordered them. "I know what this is -- it's
Devil's Snare!"

"Oh, I'm so glad we know what it's called, that's a great help," snarled
Ron, leaning back, trying to stop the plant from curling around his
neck. "Shut up, I'm trying to remember how to kill it!" said Hermione.

"Well, hurry up, I can't breathe!" Harry gasped, wrestling with it as it
curled around his chest.

"Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare... what did Professor Sprout say? -- it
likes the dark and the damp

"So light a fire!" Harry choked.

"Yes -- of course -- but there's no wood!" Hermione cried, wringing her
hands.

"HAVE YOU GONE MAD?" Ron bellowed. "ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?"

"Oh, right!" said Hermione, and she whipped out her wand, waved it,
muttered something, and sent a jet of the same bluebell flames she had
used on Snape at the plant. In a matter of seconds, the two boys felt it
loosening its grip as it cringed away from the light and warmth.
Wriggling and flailing, it unraveled itself from their bodies, and they
were able to pull free.

"Lucky you pay attention in Herbology, Hermione," said Harry as he
joined her by the wall, wiping sweat off his face.

"Yeah," said Ron, "and lucky Harry doesn't lose his head in a crisis --
'there's no wood,' honestly."

"This way," said Harry, pointing down a stone passageway, which was the
only way forward.

All they could hear apart from their footsteps was the gentle drip of
water trickling down the walls. The passageway sloped downward, and
Harry was reminded of Gringotts. With an unpleasant jolt of the heart,
he remembered the dragons said to be guarding vaults in the wizards'
bank. If they met a dragon, a fully-grown dragon -- Norbert had been bad
enough...

"Can you hear something?" Ron whispered.

Harry listened. A soft rustling and clinking seemed to be coming from up
ahead.

"Do you think it's a ghost?"

"I don't know... sounds like wings to me."

"There's light ahead -- I can see something moving."

They reached the end of the passageway and saw before them a brilliantly
lit chamber, its ceiling arching high above them. It was full of small,
jewel-bright birds, fluttering and tumbling all around the room. On the
opposite side of the chamber was a heavy wooden door.

"Do you think they'll attack us if we cross the room?" said Ron.

"Probably," said Harry. "They don't look very vicious, but I suppose if
they all swooped down at once... well, there's no other choice... I'll
run."

He took a deep breath, covered his face with his arms, and sprinted
across the room. He expected to feel sharp beaks and claws tearing at
him any second, but nothing happened. He reached the door untouched. He
pulled the handle, but it was locked.

The other two followed him. They tugged and heaved at the door, but it
wouldn't budge, not even when Hermione tried her Alohomora charm.

"Now what?" said Ron.

"These birds... they can't be here just for decoration," said Hermione.

They watched the birds soaring overhead, glittering -- glittering?

"They're not birds!" Harry said suddenly. "They're keys! Winged keys --
look carefully. So that must mean..." he looked around the chamber while
the other two squinted up at the flock of keys. "... yes -- look!
Broomsticks! We've got to catch the key to the door!"

"But there are hundreds of them!"

Ron examined the lock on the door.

"We're looking for a big, old-fashioned one -- probably silver, like the
handle."

They each seized a broomstick and kicked off into the air, soaring into
the midst of the cloud of keys. They grabbed and snatched, but the
bewitched keys darted and dived so quickly it was almost impossible to
catch one.

Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest Seeker in a century. He
had a knack for spotting things other people didn't. After a minute's
weaving about through the whirl of rainbow feathers, he noticed a large
silver key that had a bent wing, as if it had already been caught and
stuffed roughly into the keyhole.

"That one!" he called to the others. "That big one -- there -- no, there
-- with bright blue wings -- the feathers are all crumpled on one side."

Ron went speeding in the direction that Harry was pointing, crashed into
the ceiling, and nearly fell off his broom.

"We've got to close in on it!" Harry called, not taking his eyes off the
key with the damaged wing. "Ron, you come at it from above -- Hermione,
stay below and stop it from going down and I'll try and catch it. Right,
NOW!"

Ron dived, Hermione rocketed upward, the key dodged them both, and Harry
streaked after it; it sped toward the wall, Harry leaned forward and
with a nasty, crunching noise, pinned it against the stone with one
hand. Ron and Hermione's cheers echoed around the high chamber.

They landed quickly, and Harry ran to the door, the key struggling in
his hand. He rammed it into the lock and turned -- it worked. The moment
the lock had clicked open, the key took flight again, looking very
battered now that it had been caught twice.

"Ready?" Harry asked the other two, his hand on the door handle. They
nodded. He pulled the door open.

The next chamber was so dark they couldn't see anything at all. But as
they stepped into it, light suddenly flooded the room to reveal an
astonishing sight.

They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, behind the black
chessmen, which were all taller than they were and carved from what
looked like black stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were the
white pieces. Harry, Ron and Hermione shivered slightly -- the towering
white chessmen had no faces.

"Now what do we do?" Harry whispered.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" said Ron. "We've got to play our way across
the room."

Behind the white pieces they could see another door.

"How?" said Hermione nervously.

"I think," said Ron, "we're going to have to be chessmen."

He walked up to a black knight and put his hand out to touch the
knight's horse. At once, the stone sprang to life. The horse pawed the
ground and the knight turned his helmeted head to look down at Ron.

"Do we -- er -- have to join you to get across?" The black knight
nodded. Ron turned to the other two.

"This needs thinking about 	he said. I suppose we've got to take the
place of three of the black pieces...."

Harry and Hermione stayed quiet, watching Ron think. Finally he said,
"Now, don't be offended or anything, but neither of you are that good at
chess --"

"We're not offended," said Harry quickly. "Just tell us what to do."

"Well, Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione, YOU 90
next to him instead of that castle."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to be a knight," said Ron.

The chessmen seemed to have been listening, because at these words a
knight, a bishop, and a castle turned their backs on the white pieces
and walked off the board, leaving three empty squares that Harry, Ron,
and Hermione took.

"White always plays first in chess," said Ron, peering across the board.
"Yes... look..."

A white pawn had moved forward two squares.

Ron started to direct the black pieces. They moved silently wherever he
sent them. Harry's knees were trembling. What if they lost?

"Harry -- move diagonally four squares to the right."

Their first real shock came when their other knight was taken. The white
queen smashed him to the floor and dragged him off the board, where he
lay quite still, facedown.

"Had to let that happen," said Ron, looking shaken. "Leaves you free to
take that bishop, Hermione, go on."

Every time one of their men was lost, the white pieces showed no mercy.
Soon there was a huddle of limp black players slumped along the wall.
Twice, Ron only just noticed in time that Harry and Hermione were in
danger. He himself darted around the board, taking almost as many white
pieces as they had lost black ones.

"We're nearly there," he muttered suddenly. "Let me think let me
think..."

The white queen turned her blank face toward him.

"Yes..." said Ron softly, "It's the only way... I've got to be taken."

"NOF Harry and Hermione shouted.

"That's chess!" snapped Ron. "You've got to make some sacrifices! I take
one step forward and she'll take me -- that leaves you free to checkmate
the king, Harry!"

"But --"

"Do you want to stop Snape or not?"

"Ron --"

"Look, if you don't hurry up, he'll already have the Stone!"

There was no alternative.

"Ready?" Ron called, his face pale but determined. "Here I go - now,
don't hang around once you've won."

He stepped forward, and the white queen pounced. She struck Ron hard
across the head with her stone arm, and he crashed to the floor -
Hermione screamed but stayed on her square - the white queen dragged Ron
to one side. He looked as if he'd been knocked out.

Shaking, Harry moved three spaces to the left.

The white king took off his crown and threw it at Harry's feet. They had
won. The chessmen parted and bowed, leaving the door ahead clear. With
one last desperate look back at Ron, Harry and Hermione charged through
the door and up the next passageway.

"What if he's --?"

"He'll be all right," said Harry, trying to convince himself. "What do
you reckon's next?"

"We've had Sprout's, that was the Devil's Snare; Flitwick must've put
charms on the keys; McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to make them
alive; that leaves Quirrell's spell, and Snape's."

They had reached another door.

"All right?" Harry whispered.

"Go on."

Harry pushed it open.

A disgusting smell filled their nostrils, making both of them pull their
robes up over their noses. Eyes watering, they saw, flat on the floor in
front of them, a troll even larger than the one they had tackled, out
cold with a bloody lump on its head.

"I'm glad we didn't have to fight that one," Harry whispered as they
stepped carefully over one of its massive legs. "Come on, I can't
breathe."

He pulled open the next door, both of them hardly daring to look at what
came next - but there was nothing very frightening in here, just a table
with seven differently shaped bottles standing on it in a line.

"Snape's," said Harry. "What do we have to do?"

They stepped over the threshold, and immediately a fire sprang up behind
them in the doorway. It wasn't ordinary fire either; it was purple. At
the same instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onward.
They were trapped.

"Look!" Hermione seized a roll of paper lying next to the bottles. Harry
looked over her shoulder to read it:

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;

Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

Hermione let out a great sigh and Harry, amazed, saw that she was
smiling, the very last thing he felt like doing.

"Brilliant," said Hermione. "This isn't magic -- it's logic -- a puzzle.
A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be
stuck in here forever."

"But so will we, won't we?" "Of course not," said Hermione. "Everything
we need is here on this paper. Seven bottles: three are poison; two are
wine; one will get us safely through the black fire, and one will get us
back through the purple."

"But how do we know which to drink?"

"Give me a minute."

Hermione read the paper several times. Then she walked up and down the
line of bottles, muttering to herself and pointing at them. At last, she
clapped her hands.

"Got it," she said. "The smallest bottle will get us through the black
fire -- toward the Stone."

Harry looked at the tiny bottle.

"There's only enough there for one of us," he said. "That's hardly one
swallow."

They looked at each other.

"Which one will get you back through the purple flames?"

Hermione pointed at a rounded bottle at the right end of the line.

"You drink that," said Harry. "No, listen, get back and get Ron. Grab
brooms from the flying- key room, they'll get you out of the trapdoor
and past Fluffy -- go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to
Dumbledore, we need him. I might be able to hold Snape off for a while,
but I'm no match for him, really."

"But Harry -- what if You-Know-Who's with him?"

"Well -- I was lucky once, wasn't I?" said Harry, pointing at his scar.
"I might get lucky again."

Hermione's lip trembled, and she suddenly dashed at Harry and threw her
arms around him.

"Hermione!"

"Harry -- you're a great wizard, you know."

"I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of
him.

"Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important
things -- friendship and bravery and -- oh Harry -- be careful!"

"You drink first," said Harry. "You are sure which is which, aren't
you?"

"Positive," said Hermione. She took a long drink from the round bottle
at the end, and shuddered.

"It's not poison?" said Harry anxiously.

"No -- but it's like ice."

"Quick, go, before it wears off."

"Good luck -- take care."

"GO!"

Hermione turned and walked straight through the purple fire.

Harry took a deep breath and picked up the smallest bottle. He turned to
face the black flames.

"Here I come," he said, and he drained the little bottle in one gulp.

It was indeed as though ice was flooding his body. He put the bottle
down and walked forward; he braced himself, saw the black flames licking
his body, but couldn't feel them -- for a moment he could see nothing
but dark fire -- then he was on the other side, in the last chamber.

There was already someone there -- but it wasn't Snape. It wasn't even
Voldemort.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE MAN WITH TWO FACES

It was Quirrell.

"You!" gasped Harry.

Quirrell smiled. His face wasn't twitching at all.

"Me," he said calmly. "I wondered whether I'd be meeting you here,
Potter."

"But I thought -- Snape --"

"Severus?" Quirrell laughed, and it wasn't his usual quivering treble,
either, but cold and sharp. "Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn't
he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat. Next to
him, who would suspect p-p-poor, st-stuttering P-Professor Quirrell?"

Harry couldn't take it in. This couldn't be true, it couldn't.

"But Snape tried to kill me!"

"No, no, no. I tried to kill you. Your friend Miss Granger accidentally
knocked me over as she rushed to set fire to Snape at that Quidditch
match. She broke my eye contact with you. Another few seconds and I'd
have got you off that broom. I'd have managed it before then if Snape
hadn't been muttering a countercurse, trying to save you."

"Snape was trying to save me?"

"Of course," said Quirrell coolly. "\Why do you think he wanted to
referee your next match? He was trying to make sure I didn't do it
again. Funny, really... he needn't have bothered. I couldn't do anything
with Dumbledore watching. All the other teachers thought Snape was
trying to stop Gryffindor from winning, he did make himself unpopular...
and what a waste of time, when after all that, I'm going to kill you
tonight."

Quirrell snapped his fingers. Ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped
themselves tightly around Harry.

"You're too nosy to live, Potter. Scurrying around the school on
Halloween like that, for all I knew you'd seen me coming to look at what
was guarding the Stone."

"You let the troll in?"

"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls -- you must have seen what
I did to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while
everyone else was running around looking for it, Snape, who already
suspected me, went straight to the third floor to head me off -- and not
only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that three-headed dog
didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly.

"Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.

It was only then that Harry realized what was standing behind Quirrell.
It was the Mirror of Erised.

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured,
tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with
something like this... but he's in London... I'll be far away by the
time he gets back...."

All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him
from concentrating on the mirror.

"I saw you and Snape in the forest --" he blurted out.

"Yes," said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at the
back. "He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got.
He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me - as though he could,
when I had Lord Voldemort on my side...."

Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into
it.

"I see the Stone... I'm presenting it to my master... but where is it?"

Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn't give. He
had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to the mirror.

"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much."

"Oh, he does," said Quirrell casually, "heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts
with your father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never
wanted you dead."

"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing -- I thought Snape was
threatening you...."

For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell's face.

"Sometimes," he said, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions
-- he is a great wizard and I am weak --"

"You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped.

"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I
traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of
ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong
I was. There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too
weak to seek it.... Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I
have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me."
Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I
failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He
punished me... decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me...."

Quirrell's voice trailed away. Harry was remembering his trip to Diagon
Alley -how could he have been so stupid? He'd seen Quirrell there that
very day, shaken hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.

Quirrell cursed under his breath.

"I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break
it?"

Harry's mind was racing.

What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he
thought, is to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the
mirror, I should see myseff finding it -- which means I'll see where
it's hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realizing what I'm up
to?

He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without
Quirrell noticing, but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he
tripped and fell over. Quirrell ignored him. He was still talking to
himself. "What does this mirror do? How does it work? Help me, Master!"

And to Harry's horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come
from Quirrell himself

"Use the boy... Use the boy..."

Quirrell rounded on Harry.

"Yes -- Potter -- come here."

He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry
got slowly to his feet.

"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you
see."

Harry walked toward him.

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I
see, that's all.

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that
seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in
front of the mirror, and opened them again.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment
later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and
pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its
pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his
real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly -- he'd gotten the Stone.

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry screwed up his courage.

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've
won the house cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell cursed again.

"Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the
Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?

But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though
Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.

"He lies... He lies..."

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did
you just see?"

The high voice spoke again.

"Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough... for this...."

Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't
move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to
unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's
head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the
spot.

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there
should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most
terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red
eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter..." it whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor ... I
have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always
been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds.... Unicorn
blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell
drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life,
I will be able to create a body of my own.... Now... why don't you give
me that Stone in your pocket?"

So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's legs. He
stumbled backward.

"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join
me... or you'll meet the same end as your parents.... They died begging
me for mercy..."

"LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.

Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see
him. The evil face was now smiling.

"How touching..." it hissed. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your
parents were brave.... I killed your father first; and he put up a
courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying
to protect you.... Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have
died in vain."

"NEVER!"

Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed "SEIZE HIM!"
and the next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. At
once, a needle-sharp pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as
though it was about to split in two; he yelled, struggling with all his
might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let go of him. The pain in his head
lessened -- he looked around wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and
saw him hunched in pain, looking at his fingers -- they were blistering
before his eyes.

"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged,
knocking Harry clean off his feet' landing on top of him, both hands
around Harry's neck -- Harry's scar was almost blinding him with pain,
yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.

"Master, I cannot hold him -- my hands -- my hands!"

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go
of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms -- Harry could see
they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by
instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face --

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew:
Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible
pain -- his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough
pain to stop him from doing a curse.

Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as
tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off -- the
pain in Harry's head was building -- he couldn't see -- he could only
hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM!
KILL HIM!" and other voices, maybe in Harry's own head, crying, "Harry!
Harry!"

He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and
fell into blackness, down ... down... down...

Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to
catch it, but his arms were too heavy.

He blinked. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How
strange.

He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view
above him.

"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry stared at him. Then he
remembered: "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir,
quick --"

"Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times," said
Dumbledore. "Quirrell does not have the Stone."

"Then who does? Sir, I --"

"Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out.

Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized he must be in the
hospital wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next
to him was a table piled high with what looked like half the candy shop.

"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, beaming. "What
happened down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a
complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your
friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to
send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam
Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated
it."

"How long have I been in here?"

"Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved
you have come round, they have been extremely worried."

"But sit, the Stone

I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor
Quirrell did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to
prevent that, although you were doing very well on your own, I must say.

"You got there? You got Hermione's owl?"

"We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London than it
became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just
left. I arrived just in time to pull Quirrell off you."

"It was you."

"I feared I might be too late."

"You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer --"

"Not the Stone, boy, you -- the effort involved nearly killed you. For
one terrible moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has
been destroyed."

"Destroyed?" said Harry blankly. "But your friend -- Nicolas Flamel --"

"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted.
"You did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had
a little chat, and agreed it's all for the best."

"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"

"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then,
yes, they will die."

Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry's face.

"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas
and Perenelle, it really is like going to bed after a very, very long
day. After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great
adventure. You know, the Stone was really not such a wonderful thing. As
much money and life as you could want! The two things most human beings
would choose above all -- the trouble is, humans do have a knack of
choosing precisely those things that are worst for them." Harry lay
there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed a little and smiled at the
ceiling.

"Sir?" said Harry. "I've been thinking... sir -- even if the Stone's
gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know- Who --"

"Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear
of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

"Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort's going to try other ways of coming back,
isn't he? I mean, he hasn't gone, has he?"

"No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking
for another body to share... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed.
He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers
as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his
return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to
fight what seems a losing battle next time -- and if he is delayed
again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made his head hurt. Then
he said, "Sir, there are some other things I'd like to know, if you can
tell me... things I want to know the truth about...."

"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing,
and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall
answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which
case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."

"Well... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried
to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the
first place?"

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.

"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not
now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry.
When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are
ready, you will know."

And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.

"But why couldn't Quirrell touch me?"

"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot
understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your
mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign... to
have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone,
will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell,
full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort,
could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person
marked by something so good."

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the windowsill,
which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the sheet. When he had found
his voice again, Harry said, "And the invisibility cloak - do you know
who sent it to me?"

"Ah - your father happened to leave it in my possession, and I thought
you might like it." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Useful things... your
father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food
when he was here."

"And there's something else..."

"Fire away."

"Quirrell said Snape --"

"Professor Snape, Harry." "Yes, him -- Quirrell said he hates me because
he hated my father. Is that true?"

"Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr.
Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive."

"What?"

"He saved his life."

"What?"

"Yes..." said Dumbledore dreamily. "Funny, the way people's minds work,
isn't it? Professor Snape couldn't bear being in your father's debt....
I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt
that would make him and your father even. Then he could go back to
hating your father's memory in peace...."

Harry tried to understand this but it made his head pound, so he
stopped.

"And sir, there's one more thing..."

"Just the one?"

"How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?"

"Ah, now, I'm glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant
ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something. You see, only
one who wanted to find the Stone -- find it, but not use it -- would be
able to get it, otherwise they'd just see themselves making gold or
drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes.... Now,
enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bettie
Bott's Every Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come
across a vomitflavored one, and since then I'm afraid I've rather lost
my liking for them -- but I think I'll be safe with a nice toffee, don't
you?"

He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he
choked and said, "Alas! Ear wax!"

Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict.

"Just five minutes," Harry pleaded.

"Absolutely not."

"You let Professor Dumbledore in..."

"Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need
rest."

"I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on, Madam
Pomfrey..."

"Oh, very well," she said. "But five minutes only."

And she let Ron and Hermione in.

"Harry!"

Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but Harry was
glad she held herself in as his head was still very sore.

"Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to -- Dumbledore was so worried
--"

"The whole school's talking about it," said Ron. "What really happened?"

It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more
strange and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told them everything:
Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were a
very good audience; they gasped in all the right places, and when Harry
told them what was under Quirrell's turban, Hermione screamed out loud.

"So the Stone's gone?" said Ron finally. "Flamel's just going to die?"

"That's what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that -- what was it? -- 'to
the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.

"I always said he was off his rocker," said Ron, looking quite impressed
at how crazy his hero was.

"So what happened to you two?" said Harry.

"Well, I got back all right," said Hermione. "I brought Ron round --
that took a while -- and we were dashing up to the owlery to contact
Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall -- he already knew -- he
just said, 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?' and hurtled off to the
third floor."

"D'you think he meant you to do it?" said Ron. "Sending you your
father's cloak and everything?"

"Well, " Hermione exploded, "if he did -- I mean to say that's terrible
-- you could have been killed."

"No, it isn't," said Harry thoughtfully. "He's a funny man, Dumbledore.
I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or
less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty
good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just
taught us enough to help. I don't think it was an accident he let me
find out how the mirror worked. It's almost like he thought I had the
right to face Voldemort if I could...."

"Yeah, Dumbledore's off his rocker, all right," said Ron proudly.
"Listen, you've got to be up for the end-of-year feast tomorrow. The
points are all in and Slytherin won, of course -- you missed the last
Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by Ravenclaw without you -- but
the food'll be good."

At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.

"You've had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT" she said firmly.

After a good night's sleep, Harry felt nearly back to normal.

I want to go to the feast," he told Madam Pomfrey as she straightened
his many candy boxes. I can, can't I?"

"Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go," she said
stiffily, as though in her opinion Professor Dumbledore didn't realize
how risky feasts could be. "And you have another visitor."

"Oh, good," said Harry. "Who is it?"

Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual when he was
indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be allowed. He sat down next to Harry,
took one look at him, and burst into tears.

"It's -- all -- my -- ruddy -- fault!" he sobbed, his face in his hands.
I told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told him! It was the only
thing he didn't know, an' I told him! Yeh could've died! All fer a
dragon egg! I'll never drink again! I should be chucked out an' made ter
live as a Muggle!"

"Hagrid!" said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking with grief and
remorse, great tears leaking down into his beard. "Hagrid, he'd have
found out somehow, this is Voldemort we're talking about, he'd have
found out even if you hadn't told him."

"Yeh could've died!" sobbed Hagrid. "An' don' say the name!"

"VOLDEMORT!" Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so shocked, he stopped
crying. "I've met him and I'm calling him by his name. Please cheer up,
Hagrid, we saved the Stone, it's gone, he can't use it. Have a Chocolate
Frog, I've got loads...."

Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, "That reminds
me. I've got yeh a present."

"It's not a stoat sandwich, is it?" said Harry anxiously, and at last
Hagrid gave a weak chuckle. "Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off
yesterday ter fix it. 'Course, he shoulda sacked me instead -- anyway,
got yeh this..."

It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it
curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him
from every page were his mother and father.

"Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin' fer
photos... knew yeh didn' have any... d'yeh like it?"

Harry couldn't speak, but Hagrid understood.

Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. He
had been held up by Madam Pomfrey's fussing about, insisting on giving
him one last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It was decked
out in the Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate Slytherin's
winning the house cup for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner
showing the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the High Table.

When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody started
talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione
at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that people were
standing up to look at him.

Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble died away.

"Another year gone!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "And I must trouble you
with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our
delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a
little fuller than they were... you have the whole summer ahead to get
them nice and empty before next year starts....

"Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the
points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and
twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two;
Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred
and seventy- two."

A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table.
Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It was a
sickening sight.

"Yes, Yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore. "However, recent
events must be taken into account."

The room went very still. The Slytherins' smiles faded a little.

"Ahem," said Dumbledore. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out.
Let me see. Yes...

"First -- to Mr. Ronald Weasley..."

Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn.

"...for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I
award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Gryffindor cheers nearly raised the bewitched ceiling; the stars
overhead seemed to quiver. Percy could be heard telling the other
prefects, "My brother, you know! My youngest brother! Got past
McGonagall's giant chess set!"

At last there was silence again.

"Second -- to Miss Hermione Granger... for the use of cool logic in the
face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points."

Hermione buried her face in her arms; Harry strongly suspected she had
burst into tears. Gryffindors up and down the table were beside
themselves -- they were a hundred points up. "Third -- to Mr. Harry
Potter..." said Dumbledore. The room went deadly quiet for pure nerve
and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points."

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves
hoarse knew that Gryffindor now had four hundred and seventy-two points
-- exactly the same as Slytherin. They had tied for the house cup -- if
only Dumbledore had given Harry just one more point.

Dumbledore raised his hand. The room gradually fell silent.

"There are all kinds of courage," said Dumbledore, smiling. "It takes a
great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to
stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville
Longbottom."

Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought some
sort of explosion had taken place, so loud was the noise that erupted
from the Gryffindor table. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood up to yell and
cheer as Neville, white with shock, disappeared under a pile of people
hugging him. He had never won so much as a point for Gryffindor before.
Harry, still cheering, nudged Ron in the ribs and pointed at Malfoy, who
couldn't have looked more stunned and horrified if he'd just had the
Body-Bind Curse put on him.

"Which means, Dumbledore called over the storm of applause, for even
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were celebrating the downfall of Slytherin, "we
need a little change of decoration."

He clapped his hands. In an instant, the green hangings became scarlet
and the silver became gold; the huge Slytherin serpent vanished and a
towering Gryffindor lion took its place. Snape was shaking Professor
McGonagall's hand, with a horrible, forced smile. He caught Harry's eye
and Harry knew at once that Snape's feelings toward him hadn't changed
one jot. This didn't worry Harry. It seemed as though life would be back
to normal next year, or as normal as it ever was at Hogwarts.

It was the best evening of Harry's life, better than winning at
Quidditch, or Christmas, or knocking out mountain trolls... he would
never, ever forget tonight.

Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results were still to come, but
come they did. To their great surprise, both he and Ron passed with good
marks; Hermione, of course, had the best grades of the first years. Even
Neville scraped through, his good Herbology mark making up for his
abysmal Potions one. They had hoped that Goyle, who was almost as stupid
as he was mean, might be thrown out, but he had passed, too. It was a
shame, but as Ron said, you couldn't have everything in life.

And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their trunks were packed,
Neville's toad was found lurking in a corner of the toilets; notes were
handed out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the
holidays ("I always hope they'll forget to give us these," said Fred
Weasley sadly); Hagrid was there to take them down to the fleet of boats
that sailed across the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express;
talking and laughing as the countryside became greener and tidier;
eating Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans as they sped past Muggle towns;
pulling off their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; pulling
into platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross Station.

It took quite a while for them all to get off the platform. A wizened
old guard was up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gate
in twos and threes so they didn't attract attention by all bursting out
of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.

"You must come and stay this summer," said Ron, "both of you -- I'll
send you an owl."

"Thanks," said Harry, "I'll need something to look forward to." People
jostled them as they moved forward toward the gateway back to the Muggle
world. Some of them called:

"Bye, Harry!"

"See you, Potter!"

"Still famous," said Ron, grinning at him.

"Not where I'm going, I promise you," said Harry.

He, Ron, and Hermione passed through the gateway together. "There he is,
Mom, there he is, look!"

It was Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, but she wasn't pointing at
Ron.

"Harry Potter!" she squealed. "Look, Mom! I can see

"Be quiet, Ginny, and it's rude to point."

Mrs. Weasley smiled down at them.

"Busy year?" she said.

"Very," said Harry. "Thanks for the fudge and the sweater, Mrs.
Weasley."

"Oh, it was nothing, dear."

"Ready, are you?"

It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking
furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station
full of ordinary people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley,
looking terrified at the very sight of Harry.

"You must be Harry's family!" said Mrs. Weasley.

"In a manner of speaking," said Uncle Vernon. "Hurry up, boy, we haven't
got all day." He walked away.

Harry hung back for a last word with Ron and Hermione.

"See you over the summer, then."

"Hope you have -- er -- a good holiday," said Hermione, looking
uncertainly after Uncle Vernon, shocked that anyone could be so
unpleasant.

"Oh, I will," said Harry, and they were surprised at the grin that was
spreading over his face. "They don't know we're not allowed to use magic
at home. I'm going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer...."

THE END


HARRY POTTER AND THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS
by J. K. Rowling

(this is BOOK 2 in the Harry Potter series)

Original Scanned/OCR: Friday, April 07, 2000
v1.0
(edit where needed, change version number by 0.1)


C H A P T E RR		O N E

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 mustache. "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 Dursleys' son, Dudley.

1



"I want more bacon."

"There's more in the frying pan, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia,
turning misty eyes on her massive son. "We must build 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 Potter 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 to how
Harry felt.

He missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant
stomachache. He missed the castle, with its secret passageways and
ghosts, his classes (though perhaps not Snape, the Potions master), the
mail 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 next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, 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-line
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 magical 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 from 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 mustache; Aunt Petunia
was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blond, 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 the Dursleys' doorstep eleven years
before.

At the age of one year old, 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 that 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 real 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, Un
cle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He'd been talk
ing of nothing else for two weeks. 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 an 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 Ma
sons 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 around to drills. With any
luck, I'll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten.
be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time to
morrow.
Harry couldn't feel too excited about this. He didn't think the
Dursleys would like him any better in Majorca than they did on
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. It 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 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. Underage wizards weren't
allowed to use magic outside of 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 from 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 archenemy,
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 toward 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 backward 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 toward 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 cream, Harry
cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, 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 flower beds, 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 loin 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 jack
ets. He had only just reached the upstairs landing when the door
bell 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.

C H-H A P T E RR		T W o

I

DOBBY'S WARNING

arry managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing. The little
creature 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 morning.

As they stared at each other, Harry heard Dudley's voice from the hall.

"May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its
long, thin nose touched the carpet. Harry noticed that it was wearing
what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

"Er - hello," said Harry nervously.

"Harry Potter!" said the creature in a high-pitched voice Harry was
sure would carry down the stairs. "So long has Dobby wanted to meet
you, sir ... Such an honor it is . . . ."



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

"Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf," said the creature.

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

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

"Not that I'm not pleased to meet you," said Harry quickly, "but, er,
is there any particular reason you're here?"

"Oh, yes, sir," said Dobby earnestly. "Dobby has come to tell you,
sir ... it is difficult, sir ... Dobby wonders where to begin . . . ."

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

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

"S-sit down!" he wailed. "Never ... never ever. . . "

Harry thought he heard the voices downstairs falter.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I didn't mean to offend you or anything -"

"Offend Dobby!" choked the elf. "Dobby has never been asked to sit
down by a wizard - like an equal-"

Harry, trying to say "Shh!" and look comforting at the same time,
ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking
like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself,
and sat with his great eyes fixed on Harry in an expression of watery
adoration.

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

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

"Don't - what are you doing?" Harry hissed, springing up and pulling
Dobby back onto the bed - Hedwig had woken up with a
particularly loud screech and was beating 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 almost spoke ill of his family, sir . . . ."

"Your family?"

"The wizard family Dobby serves, sir... DOBBY'S is a houseelf -
bound to serve one house and one family forever . .....

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

Dobby shuddered.

"Oh, no, sir, no ... Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously
for coming to see you, 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 house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set
Dobby free ... Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir . . . ."

Harry stared.

"And I thought I had it bad staying here for another four weeks,"

he said. "This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can't anyone
help you? Can't I?"

Almost at once, Harry wished he hadn't spoken. Dobby dissolved again
into wails of gratitude.

"Please," Harry whispered frantically, "please be quiet. If the Dursleys
hear anything, if they know you're here -"

"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby ... Dobby has heard of your
greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew . .....

Harry, who was feeling distinctly hot in the face, said, "Whatever
you've heard about my greatness is a load of rubbish. I'm not even top
of my year at Hogwarts; that's Hermione, she -"

But he stopped quickly, because thinking about Hermione was painful.

"I-Tarry Potter is humble and modest," said Dobby reverently, his orb-
like eyes aglow. "Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-
Must-Not-Be-Named -"

"Voldemort?" said Harry.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, "Ah, speak not
the name, sir! Speak not the name!"

"Sorry" said Harry quickly. "I know lots of people don't like it. My
friend Ron -"

He stopped again. Thinking about Ron was painful, too.

Dobby leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as headlights.

'Dobby heard tell," he said hoarsely, "that Harry Potter met the Dark
Lord for a second time just weeks ago ... that Harry Potter escaped
Yet again. "

Harry nodded and Dobby's eyes suddenly shone with tears.

,Ah, sir," he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby

pillowcase he was wearing. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has
braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect
Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in
the oven door later... Harry Potter must notgo back to Hogwarts."

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks
from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon's voice.

"W-what?" Harry stammered. "But I've got to go back - term starts
on September first. It's all that's keeping me going. You don't know
what it's like here. I don't belong here. I belong in your world - at
Hogwarts."

"No, no, no," squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears
flapped. "Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great,
too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be
in mortal danger."

"Why?" said Harry in surprise.

"There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things
happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,"
whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. "Dobby has known it
for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too
important, sir!"

"What terrible things?" said Harry at once. "Who's plotting them?"

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head
frantically against the wall.

"All right!" cried Harry, grabbing the elf's arm to stop him. "You can't
tell me. I understand. But why are you warning me?" A sudden,
unpleasant thought struck him. "Hang on - this hasn't got anything to
do with Vol- - sorry - with You-Know-Who, has it?

You could just shake or nod," he added hastily as Dobby's head
tilted worryingly close to the wall again.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head.

"Not -not He- Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir ='

But Dobby's eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give
Harry a hint. Harry, however, was completely lost.

"He hasn't got a brother, has he?"

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

"Well then, I can't think who else would have a chance of making
horrible things happen at Hogwarts," said Harry. "I mean, there's
Dumbledore, for one thing - you know who Dumbledore is, don't
you?"

Dobby bowed his head.

"Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever
had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore's powers
rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his
strength. But, sir" - Dobby's voice dropped to an urgent whisper -
"there are powers Dumbledore doesn't ... powers no decent wizard.
. ."

And before Harry could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed,
seized Harry's desk lamp, and started beating himself around the
head with earsplitting yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later Harry, heart
thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling,
"Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!"

"Quick! In the closet!" hissed Harry, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the
door, and flinging himself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

"What - the - devil - are - you - doing?" said Uncle Vernon through
gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry's. "You've just ruined the
punch line of my Japanese golfer joke .... One more sound and you'll
wish you'd never been born, boy!"

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

"See what it's like here?" he said. "See why I've got to go back to
Hogwarts? It's the only place I've got -well, I think I've got friends. "

"Friends who don't even write to Harry Potter?" said Dobby slyly.

"I expect they've just been - wait a minute," said Harry, frowning.
"How do you know my friends haven't been writing to me?"

Dobby shuffled his feet.

"Harry Potter mustn't be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best -
"

"Have you been stopping my letters?"

"Dobby has them here, sir," said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of Harry's
reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the
pillowcase he was wearing. Harry could make out Hermione's neat
writing, Ron's untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though
it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at Harry.

"Harry Potter mustn't be angry... Dobby hoped ... if Harry Potter
thought his friends had forgotten him ... Harry Potter might not want to
go back to school, sir . .....

Harry wasn't listening. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby
jumped out of reach.

"Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word

that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must
not face! Say you won't go back, sir!"

"No," said Harry angrily. "Give me my friends' letters!"

"Then Harry Potter leaves Dobby no choice," said the elf sadly.

Before Harry could move, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door,
pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs.

Mouth dry, stomach lurching, Harry sprang after him, trying not to
make a sound. He jumped the last six steps, landing catlike on the
hall carpet, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room he
heard Uncle Vernon saying, ". . . tell Petunia that very funny story
about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She's been dying to
hear. . . "

Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear.

Aunt Petunia's masterpiece of a pudding, the mountain of cream and
sugared violets, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of a
cupboard in the corner crouched Dobby.

"No," croaked Harry. "Please ... they'll kill me ......

"Harry Potter must say he's not going back to school -"

"Dobby ... please ...

"Say it, sir -"

"I can't -"

Dobby gave him a tragic look.

"Then Dobby must do it, sir, for Harry Potter's own good."

The pudding fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Cream
splattered the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack
like a whip, Dobby vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Vernon

burst into the kitchen to find Harry, rigid with shock, covered from head
to foot in Aunt Petunias pudding.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Vernon would manage to gloss the
whole thing over. ("Just our nephew - very disturbed

	meeting strangers upsets him, so we kept him upstairs 	) He

shooed the shocked Masons back into the dining room, promised
Harry he would flay him to within an inch of his life when the Ma
sons had left, and handed him a mop. Aunt Petunia dug some ice
cream out of the freezer and Harry, still shaking, started scrubbing
the kitchen clean.

Uncle Vernon might still have been able to make his deal - if it hadn't
been for the owl.

Aunt Petunia was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when
a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a
letter on Mrs. Mason's head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason
screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about
lunatics. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Dursleys that his
wife was mortally afraid of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask
whether this was their idea of a joke.

Harry stood in the kitchen, clutching the mop for support, as Uncle
Vernon advanced on him, a demonic glint in his tiny eyes.

"Read it!" he hissed evilly, brandishing the letter the owl had delivered.
"Go on - read it!"

Harry took it. It did not contain birthday greetings.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your
place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine.

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells
outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to
expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of
Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).

We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that
risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is
a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation
of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy.

Enjoy your holidays! Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

"You didn't tell us you weren't allowed to use magic outside school,"
said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. "For got to
mention it .... Slipped your mind, I daresay .....

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth
bared. "Well, I've got news for you, boy . ... I'm locking you up ....
You're never going back to that school ... never ... and if you try and
magic yourself out - they'll expel you!"

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry back upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning,



he paid a man to fit bars on Harry's window. He himself fitted a cat-
flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be
pushed inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the
bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was locked in his room
around the clock.

Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no sign of relenting, and
Harry couldn't see any way out of his situation. He lay on his bed
watching the sun sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered
miserably what was going to happen to him.

What was the good of magicking himself out of his room if Hogwarts
would expel him for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an
all-time low. Now that the Dursleys knew they weren't going to wake
up as fruit bats, he had lost his only weapon. Dobby might have saved
Harry from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things were
going, he'd probably starve to death anyway.

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunias hand appeared, pushing a bowl
of canned soup into the room. Harry, whose insides were aching with
hunger, jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but
he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he crossed the room to Hedwig's
cage and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into
her empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave him a look of
deep disgust.

"It's no good turning your beak up at it - that's all we've got," said
Harry grimly.

He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay
back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than he had been
before the soup.

Supposing he was still alive in another four weeks, what would happen
if he didn't turn up at Hogwarts? Would someone be sent to see why
he hadn't come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let
him go?

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, mind
spinning over the same unanswerable questions, Harry fell into an
uneasy sleep.

He dreamed that he was on show in a zoo, with a card reading
UNDERAGE WIZARD attached to his cage. People goggled through the bars
at him as he lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw
Dobby's face in the crowd and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby
called, "Harry Potter is safe there, sir!" and vanished. Then the
Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at
him.

"Stop it," Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in his sore head.
"Leave me alone ... cut it out ... I'm trying to sleep . . . ."

He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the
window. And someone was goggling through the bars at him: a freckle-
faced, red-haired, long-nosed someone.

Ron Weasley was outside Harry's window.

H-H A P T E RR T 11-H RR E E

THE BURROW

Ron.l" breathed Harry, creeping to the window and pushing it up so
they could talk through the bars. "Ron, how did you - What the -?"

Harry's mouth fell open as the full impact of what he was seeing hit
him. Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car,
which was parked in midair Grinning at Harry from the front seats
were Fred and George, Ron's elder twin brothers.

"All right, Harry?" asked George.

"What's been going on?" said Ron. "Why haven't you been answering
my letters? I've asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad
came home and said you'd got an official warning for using magic in
front of Muggles -"

"It wasn't me - and how did he know?"

"He works for the Ministry," said Ron. "You know we're not supposed
to do spells outside school -"



"You should talk," said Harry, staring at the floating car.

"Oh, this doesn't count," said Ron. "We're only borrowing this. It's
Dad's, we didn't enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles
you live with -"

"I told you, I didn't - but it'll take too long to explain now look, can you
tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked me up and won't
let me come back, and obviously I can't magic myself out, because the
Ministry'Il think that's the second spell I've done in three days, so -"

"Stop gibbering," said Ron. "We've come to take you home with us."

"But you can't magic me out either -"

"We don't need to," said Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat
and grinning. "You forget who I've got with me."

"Tie that around the bars," said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to
Harry.

"If the Dursleys wake up, I'm dead," said Harry as he tied the rope
tightly around a bar and Fred revved up the car.

"Don't worry," said Fred, "and stand back."

Harry moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to
have realized how important this was and kept still and silent. The car
revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the
bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up in
the air. Harry ran back to the window to see the bars dangling a few
feet above the ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car.
Harry listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Dursleys'
bedroom.

When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed
as close as possible to Harry's window.

"Get in," Ron said.

"But all my Hogwarts stuff - my wand - my broomstick -"

"Where is it?"

"Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can't get out of this
room -"

"No problem," said George from the front passenger seat. "Out of
the way, Harry."

Fred and George climbed catlike through the window into Harry's
room. You had to hand it to them, thought Harry, as George took an
ordinary hairpin from his pocket and started to pick the lock.

"A lot of wizards think it's a waste of time, knowing this sort of
Muggle trick," said Fred, "but we feel they're skills worth learning,
even if they are a bit slow."

There was a small click and the door swung open.

"So - we'll get your trunk - you grab anything you need from your
room and hand it out to Ron," whispered George.

"Watch out for the bottom stair - it creaks," Harry whispered back
as the twins disappeared onto the dark landing.

Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things and passing them
out of the window to Ron. Then he went to help Fred and George
heave his trunk up the stairs. Harry heard Uncle Vernon cough.

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the trunk
through Harry's room to the open window. Fred climbed back into
the car to pull with Ron, and Harry and George pushed from the
bedroom side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window.

Uncle Vernon coughed again.

"A bit more," panted Fred, who was pulling from inside the car.
"One good push -"

Harry and George threw their shoulders against the trunk and it slid
out of the window into the back seat of the car.

"Okay, let's go," George whispered.

But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud
screech from behind him, followed immediately by the thunder of
Uncle Vernon's voice.

"THAT RUDDY OWL!"

"I've forgotten Hedwig!"

Harry tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on - he
snatched up Hedwig's cage, dashed to the window, and passed it
out to Ron. He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when
Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door and it crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then
he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing
him by the ankle.

Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry's arms and pulled as hard as
they could.

"Petunia!" roared Uncle Vernon. "He's getting away! HE'S
GETTING AWAY!"

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry's leg slid out of
Uncle Vernon's grasp - Harry was in the car - he'd slammed the
door shut

"Put your foot down, Fred!" yelled Ron, and the car shot suddenly
toward the moon.

Harry couldn't believe it - he was free. He rolled down the

window, the night air whipping his hair, and looked back at the
shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and
Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry's window.

"See you next summer!" Harry yelled.

The Weasleys roared with laughter and Harry settled back in his seat,
grinning from ear to ear.

"Let Hedwig out," he told Ron. "She can fly behind us. She hasn't had
a chance to stretch her wings for ages."

George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment later, Hedwig soared
joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.

"So - what's the story, Harry?" said Ron impatiently. "What's been
happening?"

Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he'd given Harry and
the fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence
when he had finished.

"Very fishy," said Fred finally.

"Definitely dodgy" agreed George. "So he wouldn't even tell you who's
supposed to be plotting all this stuff?"

"I don't think he could," said Harry. "I told you, every time he got close
to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall."

He saw Fred and George look at each other.

"What, you think he was lying to me?" said Harry.

"Well," said Fred, "put it this way - house-elves have got powerful
magic of their own, but they can't usually use it without their master's
permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you com

ing back to Hogwarts. Someone's idea of a joke. Can you think of
anyone at school with a grudge against you?"

"Yes," said Harry and Ron together, instantly.

"Draco Malfoy," Harry explained. "He hates me."

"Draco Malfoy?" said George, turning around. "Not Lucius Malfoy's
son?"

"Must be, it's not a very common name, is it?" said Harry.

Y.

"I've heard Dad talking about him," said George. "He was a big
supporter of You-Know-Who."

"And when You-Know-Who disappeared," said Fred, craning
around to look at Harry, "Lucius Malfoy came back saying he'd never
meant any of it. Load of dung - Dad reckons he was right in You-
Know-Who's inner circle."

Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy's family before, and they
didn't surprise him at all. Malfoy made Dudley Dursley look

	like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy.
	"I don't know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf 	said
	Harry.

"Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they'll
be rich," said Fred.

"Yeah, Mum's always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,"
said George. "But all we've got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and
gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors
and castles and places like that; you wouldn't catch one in our house .
. . ."

Harry was silent. Judging by the fact that Draco Malfoy usually had
the best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold; he

could just see Malfoy strutting around a large manor house. Sending
the family servant to stop Harry from going back to Hogwarts also
sounded exactly like the sort of thing Malfoy would do. Had Harry
been stupid to take Dobby seriously?

"I'm glad we came to get you, anyway," said Ron. "I was getting
really worried when you didn't answer any of my letters. I thought it
was Errol's fault at first

-"

"Who's Errol?"

"Our owl. He's ancient. It wouldn't be the first time he'd collapsed
on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes -"

"Who?"

"The owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made prefect,"
said Fred from the front.

"But Percy wouldn't lend him to me," said Ron. "Said he needed
him."

"Percy's been acting very oddly this summer," said George,
frowning. "And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a
load of time shut up in his room .... I mean, there's only so many
times you can polish a prefect badge .... You're driving too far west,
Fred," he added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Fred
twiddled the steering wheel.

"So, does your dad know you've got the car?" said Harry, guessing
the answer.

"Er, no," said Ron, "he had to work tonight. Hopefully we'll be able
to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it."

"What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?"

"He works in the most boring department," said Ron. "The Misuse
of Muggle Artifacts Office."

"The what?"

"It's all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you
know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like,
last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques
shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve
her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare - Dad was working overtime
for weeks."

"What happened?"

"The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place
and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped
to his nose. Dad was going frantic - it's only him and an old warlock
called Perkins in the office -and they had to do Memory Charms and
all sorts of stuff to cover it up -"

"But your dad - this car -"

Fred laughed. "Yeah, Dad's crazy about everything to do with
Muggles; our shed's full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells
on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he'd
have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad."

"That's the main road," said George, peering down through the
windshield. "We'll be there in ten minutes .... Just as well, it's getting
light . . . ."

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east.

Fred brought the car lower, and Harry saw a dark patchwork of
fields and clumps of trees.

"We're a little way outside the village," said George. "Ottery St.
Catchpole."

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun
was now gleaming through the trees.

"Touchdown!" said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground.
They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and
Harry looked out for the first time at Ron's house.

It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra
rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high
and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by magic (which,
Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were
perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground
near the entrance read, THE BuRRow. Around the front door lay a jumble
of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens
were pecking their way around the yard.

"It's not much," said Ron.

"It's wonderful," said Harry happily, thinking of Privet Drive.

They got out of the car.

"Now, we'll go upstairs really quietly," said Fred, "and wait for Mum to
call us for breakfast Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going,
`Mum, look who turned up in the night!' and she'll be all pleased to see
Harry and no one need ever know we flew the car."

"Right," said Ron. "Come on, Harry, I sleep at the - at the top

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The
other three wheeled around.

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and
for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much
she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

"Ah, "said Fred.

"Oh, dear," said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips,
staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered
apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket.

"So, "she said.

"Morning, Mum," said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty,
winning voice.

"Have you any idea how worried I've been?" said Mrs. Weasley in a
deadly whisper.

"Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to -"

All three of Mrs. Weasley's sons were taller than she was, but they
cowered as her rage broke over them.

"Beds empty! No note! Cargone - could have crashed - out of my

mind with worry - did you care? - never, as long as I've lived -
you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this
from Bill or Charlie or Percy -"

"Perfect Percy," muttered Fred.

"YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY'S
BOOK!" yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred's chest. "You
could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your
father his job -"

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself
hoarse before she turned on Harry, who backed away.

"I'm very pleased to see you, Harry, dear," she said. "Come in and
have some breakfast."

She turned and walked back into the house and Harry, after a nervous
glance at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a

scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harry sat down
on the edge of his seat, looking around. He had never been in a wizard
house before.

The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers
at all. Written around the edge were things like Time to make tea, Time
to feed the chickens, and You're late. Books were stacked three deep on
the mantelpiece, books with titles like Charm Your Own Cheese,
Enchantment in Baking, and One Minute Feasts - It's Magic! And unless
Harry's ears were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just
announced that coming up was "Witching Hour, with the popular
singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck."

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little
haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages
into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like "don't
know what you were thinking of," and "never would have believed it."

"I don't blame you, dear," she assured Harry, tipping eight or nine
sausages onto his plate. "Arthur and I have been worried about you,
too. Just last night we were saying we'd come and get you ourselves if
you hadn't written back to Ron by Friday. But really," (she was now
adding three fried eggs to his plate) "flying an illegal car halfway
across the country - anyone could have seen you -"

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to
clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

"It was cloudy, Mum!" said Fred.

"You keep your mouth closed while you're eating!" Mrs. Weasley
snapped.

"They were starving him, Mum!" said George.

"And you!" said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a slightly softened
expression that she started cutting Harry bread and buttering it for
him.

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small,
redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen,
gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

"Ginny," said Ron in an undertone to Harry. "My sister. She's been
talking about you all summer."

"Yeah, she'll be wanting your autograph, Harry," Fred said with a grin,
but he caught his mother's eye and bent his face over his plate without
another word. Nothing more was said until all four plates were clean,
which took a surprisingly short time.

"Blimey, I'm tired," yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last.
"I think I'll go to bed and -"

"You will not," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "It's your own fault you've
been up all night. You're going to de-gnome the garden for me; they're
getting completely out of hand again -"

"Oh, Mum -"

"And you two," she said, glaring at Ron and Fred. "You can go up to
bed, dear," she added to Harry. "You didn't ask them to fly that
wretched car -"

But Harry, who felt wide awake, said quickly, "I'll help Ron. I've
never seen a de-gnoming -"

"That's very sweet of you, dear, but it's dull work," said Mrs. Weasley.
"Now, let's see what Lockhart's got to say on the subject -"

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece.
George groaned.

"Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden -"

Harry looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley's book. Written across it
in fancy gold letters were the words Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to
Household Pests. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-
IOI)king wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always
in the wizarding world, the photograph was moving; the wizard, who
Harry supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at
them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.

"Oh, he is marvelous," she said. "He knows his household pests, all
right, it's a wonderful book . . . ."

"Mum fancies him," said Fred, in a very audible whisper.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Fred," said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather
pink. "All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go
and get on with it, and woe betide you if there's a single gnome in that
garden when I come out to inspect it."

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with Harry
behind them. The garden was large, and in Harry's eyes, exactlY
what a garden should be. The Dursleys wouldn't have liked it - there
were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting but there were
gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Harry had never seen spilling
from every flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.

"Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know," Harry told Ron

they crossed the lawn.

"Yeah, I've seen those things they think are gnomes," said Ron, bent
double with his head in a peony bush, "like fat little Santa Clauses with
fishing rods . . . ."

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and
Ron straightened up. "This is a gnome," he said grimly.

"Gerroff me! Gerroff me!" squealed the gnome.

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery
looking, with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held
it at arm's length as it kicked out at him with its horny little feet; he
grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

"This is what you have to do," he said. He raised the gnome above his
head ("Gerroff me!") and started to swing it in great circles like a
lasso. Seeing the shocked look on Harry's face, Ron added, "It doesn't
hurt them - you've just got to make them really dizzy so they can't find
their way back to the gnomeholes."

He let go of the gnome's ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and
landed with a thud in the field over the hedge.

"Pitiful," said Fred. "I bet I can get mine beyond that stump."

Harry learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. He decided
just to drop the first one he caught over the hedge, but the gnome,
sensing weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Harry's finger and he
had a hard job shaking it off - until

"Wow, Harry - that must've been fifty feet ......

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

"See, they're not too bright," said George, seizing five or six gnomes at
once. "The moment they know the de-gnoming's going on they storm
up to have a look. You'd think they'd have learned by now just to stay
put."

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a
straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

"They'll be back," said Ron as they watched the gnomes disappear into
the hedge on the other side of the field. "They love it here .... Dad's
too soft with them; he thinks they're funny . . . ."

Just then, the front door slammed.

"He's back!" said George. "Dad's home!"

They hurried through the garden and back into the house.

Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and
his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he
had was as red as any of his children's. He was wearing long green
robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

"What a night," he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat
down around him. "Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher
tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned ......

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

"Find anything, Dad?" said Fred eagerly.

"All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle," yawned
Mr. Weasley. "There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn't my
department, though. Mortlake was taken away for questioning about
some extremely odd ferrets, but that's the Committee on Experimental
Charms, thank goodness ......

"Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?" said George.

"Just Muggle-baiting," sighed Mr. Weasley. "Sell them a key that
keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it
.... Of course, it's very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle
would admit their key keeps shrinking - they'll insist they just keep
losing it. Bless them, they'll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if
it's staring them in the face .... But the things our lot have taken to
enchanting, you wouldn't believe -"

"LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?"

Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr.
Weasley's eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.

"C-cars, Molly, dear?"

"Yes, Arthur, cars," said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. "Imagine a
wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do
with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was
enchanting it to make it fly."

Mr. Weasley blinked.

"Well, dear, I think you'll find that he would be quite within the law to
do that, even if - er - he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his
wife the truth .... There's a loophole in the law, you'll find .... As long
as he wasn't intending to fly the car, the fact that the car could fly
wouldn't -"

"Arthur Weasley, you made sure there was a loophole when you
wrote that law!" shouted Mrs. Weasley. "Just so you could carry on
tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your
information, Harry arrived this morning in the car you weren't
intending to fly!"

"Harry?" said Mr. Weasley blankly. "Harry who?"

He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.

"Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron's told us
so much about -"

"Your sons flew that car to Harry's house and back last night."

shouted Mrs. Weasley. "What have you got to say about that, eh?"

"Did you really?" said Mr. Weasley eagerly. "Did it go all right? I - I
mean," he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley's eyes, "that -
that was very wrong, boys - very wrong indeed ......

"Let's leave them to it," Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley
swelled like a bullfrog. "Come on, I'll show you my bedroom."

They slipped out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an
uneven staircase, which wound its way, zigzagging up

through the house. On the third landing, a door stood ajar. Harry just
caught sight of a pair of bright brown eyes staring at him before it
closed with a snap.

"Ginny," said Ron. "You don't know how weird it is for her to be this
shy. She never shuts up normally -"

They climbed two more flights until they reached a door with peeling
paint and a small plaque on it, saying RONALD'S ROOM.

Harry stepped in, his head almost touching the sloping ceiling, and
blinked. It was like walking into a furnace: Nearly everything in Ron's
room seemed to be a violent shade of orange: the bedspread, the
walls, even the ceiling. Then Harry realized that Ron had covered
nearly every inch of the shabby wallpaper with posters of the same
seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange robes, carrying
broomsticks, and waving energetically.

"Your Quidditch team?" said Harry.

"The Chudley Cannons," said Ron, pointing at the orange bedspread,
which was emblazoned with two giant black C's and a speeding
cannonball. "Ninth in the league."

Ron's school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a
pile of comics that all seemed to feature The Adventures of Martin
Miggs, the Mad Muggle. Ron's magic wand was lying on top of a fish
tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray rat,
Scabbers, who was snoozing in a patch of sun.

Harry stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor
and looked out of the tiny window. In the field far below he could see
a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Weasleys'
hedge. Then he turned to look at Ron, who was watching him almost
nervously, as though waiting for his opinion.

"It's a bit small," said Ron quickly. "Not like that room you had
with the Muggles. And I'm right underneath the ghoul in the attic;
he's always banging on the pipes and groaning ......
But Harry, grinning widely, said, "This is the best house I've ever
been in."
Ron's ears went pink. .

C H4 A P T E R		V O U R

AT F L 0 V RR 11 $ H
AND BLOTTS

ife at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet
Drive. The Dursleys liked everything neat and ordered; the Weasleys'
house burst with the strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the
first time he looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it
shouted, "Tuck your shirt in, scruffy!" The ghoul in the attic howled
and dropped pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, and
small explosions from Fred and George's bedroom were considered
perfectly normal. What Harry found most unusual about life at Ron's,
however, wasn't the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the
fact that everybody there seemed to like him.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of his socks and tried to force him
to eat fourth helpings at every meal. Mr. Weasley liked Harry to sit
next to him at the dinner table so that he could bombard him with
questions about life with Muggles, asking him to explain how things
like plugs and the postal service worked.

42



"Fascinating." he would say as Harry talked him through using a
telephone. "Ingenious, really, how many ways Muggles have found of
getting along without magic."

Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after he
had arrived at the Burrow. He and Ron went down to breakfast to find
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen table.
The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally knocked her porridge
bowl to the floor with a loud clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to
knocking things over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under
the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her face glowing like
the setting sun. Pretending he hadn't noticed this, Harry sat down and
took the toast Mrs. Weasley offered him.

"Letters from school," said Mr. Weasley, passing Harry and Ron
identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink.
"Dumbledore already knows you're here, Harry - doesn't miss a trick,
that man. You two've got them, too," he added, as Fred and George
ambled in, still in their pajamas.

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters.
Harry's told him to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King's
Cross station on September first. There was also a list of the new
books he'd need for the coming year.

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2

by Miranda Goshawk

Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart

4 ",3

Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart
Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart
Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Harry's.

"You've been told to get all Lockhart's books, too!" he said. "The new
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan - bet it's a
witch."

At this point, Fred caught his mother's eye and quickly busied himself
with the marmalade.

"That lot won't come cheap," said George, with a quick look at his
parents. "Lockhart's books are really expensive ......

"Well, we'll manage," said Mrs. Weasley, but she looked worried. "I
expect we'll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny's things secondhand."

"Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?" Harry asked Ginny.

She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair, and put her
elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Harry,
because just then Ron's elder brother Percy walked in. He was
already dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his sweater
vest.

"Morning, all," said Percy briskly. "Lovely day."

He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost
immediately, pulling from underneath him a moulting, gray feather
duster - at least, that was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that
it was breathing.

* 44

"Errol!" said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a
letter from under its wing. "Finally - he's got Hermione's answer. I
wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the
Dursleys."

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to
stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron lay him on
the draining board instead, muttering, "Pathetic." Then he ripped
open Hermione's letter and read it out loud:

"`Dear Ron, and Harry if you're there,

	"`I hope everything went all right and that Harry is okay and that
you didn't do anything illegal to get him out, Ron, because that would
get Harry into trouble, too. I've been really worried and if Harry is all
right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be bet
ter if you used a different owl because I think another delivery might
finish your one off.

"'I'm very busy with schoolwork, of course'- How can she be?" said Ron
in horror. "We're on vacation! - 'and we're going to London next
Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don't we meet in Diago n Alley?

"`Let me know what's happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.
"'

"Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,"
said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. "What're you all up to
today?"

Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a
small paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that
blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could
practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn't fly too high.

* 4$

They couldn't use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to
explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead
they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding
Harry's Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom;
Ron's old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies.

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over
their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but
he had said he was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so
far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.

"Wish I knew what he was up to," said Fred, frowning. "He's not
himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve
O.WL.s and he hardly gloated at all."

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," George explained, seeing Harry's
puzzled look. "Bill got twelve, too. If we're not careful, we'll have
another Head Boy in the family. I don't think I could stand the shame."

Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie,
had already left Hogwarts. Harry had never met either of them, but
knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt
working for the wizard's bank, Gringotts.

"Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this
year," said George after a while. "Five sets of Lockhart books! And
Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything ......

Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground
vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that his parents had
left him. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that he had
money; you couldn't use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts

46

in Muggle shops. He had never mentioned his Gringotts bank account
to the Dursleys; he didn't think their horror of anything connected with
magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.

Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a
quick half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats
and Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and
peered inside.

"We're running low, Arthur," she sighed. "We'll have to buy some
more today... Ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!"

And she offered him the flowerpot.

Harry stared at them all watching him.

"W-what am I supposed to do?" he stammered.

"He's never traveled by Floo powder," said Ron suddenly. "Sorry,
Harry, I forgot."

"Never?" said Mr. Weasley. "But how did you get to Diagon Alley to
buy your school things last year?"

"I went on the Underground -"

"Really?" said Mr. Weasley eagerly. "Were there escapators? How
exactly -"

"Not now, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley. "Floo powder's a lot quicker,
dear, but goodness me, if you've never used it before -"

"He'll be all right, Mum," said Fred. "Harry, watch us first."

He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up
to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames.

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred,
who stepped right into it, shouted, "Diagon Alley!" and vanished.

* 41

"You must speak clearly, dear," Mrs. Weasley told Harry as George
dipped his hand into the flowerpot. "And be sure to get out at the right
grate ......

"The right what?" said Harry nervously as the fire roared and whipped
George out of sight, too.

"Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know,
but as long as you've spoken clearly -"

"He'll be fine, Molly, don't fuss," said Mr. Weasley, helping himself to
Floo powder, too.

"But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain to his aunt and
uncle?"

"They wouldn't mind," Harry reassured her. "Dudley would think it
was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don't worry about that -"

"Well ... all right ... you go after Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley. "Now,
when you get into the fire, say where you're going

"And keep your elbows tucked in," Ron advised.

"And your eyes shut," said Mrs. Weasley. "The soot -"

"Don't fidget," said Ron. "Or you might well fall out of the wrong
fireplace -"

"But don't panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and
George."

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder
and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered
the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a
warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot
of hot ash.

"D-Dia-gon Alley," he coughed.

48

It felt as though he was being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed
to be spinning very fast - the roaring in his ears was deafening -he
tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him
feel sick - something hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in
tightly, still spinning and spinning - now it felt as though cold hands
were slapping his face - squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred
stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond - his
bacon sandwiches were churning inside him - he closed his eyes again
wishing it would stop, and then

He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his glasses
snap.

Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding
his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was -,cite alone, but where he
was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the
stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard's shop - but
nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained
pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down
from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter,
and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the
dark, narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shop window
was definitely not Diagon Alley.

The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it
had hit the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently toward the
door, but before he'd got halfway toward it, two people appeared on
the other side of the glass - and one of them was the

49

very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in
soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy.

Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to his
left; he shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack
to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into
the shop.

The man who followed could only be Draco's father. He had the same
pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed
the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the
counter before turning to his son and saying, "Touch nothing, Draco."

Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, "I thought you were
going to buy me a present."

"I said I would buy you a racing broom," said his father, drumming his
fingers on the counter.

"What's the good of that if I'm not on the House team?" said Malfoy,
looking sulky and bad-tempered. "Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two
Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could
play for Gryffindor. He's not even that good, it's just because he's
famous ... famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead . . . ."

Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

". . . everyone thinks he's so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and
his broomstick -"

"You have told me this at least a dozen times already," said Mr.
Malfoy, with a quelling look at his son. "And I would remind you that it
is not - prudent - to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when
most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord
disappear - ah, Mr. Borgin."

50

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his
greasy hair back from his face.

"Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again," said Mr. Borgin in a
voice as oily as his hair. "Delighted - and young Master Malfoy, too -
charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today,
and very reasonably priced -"

"I'm not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling," said Mr. Malfoy.

"Selling?" The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin's face.

"You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more
raids," said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside
pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. "I have a few - ah -
items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call
......

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the
list.

"The Ministry wouldn't presume to trouble you, sir, surely?"

Mr. Malfoy's lip curled.

"I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a
certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There
are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act - no doubt that flea-
bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it

Harry felt a hot surge of anger.

"- and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear -"

"I understand, sir, of course," said Mr. Borgin. "Let me see. . ."

"Can I have that?" interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on
its cushion.

51

"Ah, the Hand of Glory!" said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy's
list and scurrying over to Draco. "Insert a candle and it gives light only
to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine
taste, sir."

"I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer,
Borgin," said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, "No
offense, sir, no offense meant -"

"Though if his grades don't pick up," said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still,
"that may indeed be all he is fit for -"

"It's not my fault," retorted Draco. "The teachers all have favorites,
that Hermione Granger -"

"I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family
beat you in every exam," snapped Mr. Malfoy.

"Ha!" said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both
abashed and angry.

"It's the same all over," said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. "Wizard
blood is counting for less everywhere -"

"Not with me," said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.

"No, sir, nor with me, sir," said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow.

"In that case, perhaps we can return to my list," said Mr. Malfoy
shortly. "I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important
business elsewhere today -"

They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew
nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale.
Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman's rope and to read,
smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals,
Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed - Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle
Owners to Date.

* 52

Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He
walked forward - he stretched out his hand for the handle

"Done," said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. "Come, Draco -"

Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away.

"Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I'll expect you at the manor tomorrow
to pick up the goods."

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.

"Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you
haven't sold me half of what's hidden in your manor ......

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry
waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could,
slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop
door.

Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared around. He had
emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of
shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he'd just left, Borgin and
Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window
display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large cage was
alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were
watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other.
Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his glasses on straight and
hoping against hope he'd be able to find a way out of here.

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous
candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn't help, as Harry
had never heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn't spoken
clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes



back in the Weasleys' fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to
do.

"Not lost are you, my dear?" said a voice in his ear, making him jump.

An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked
horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing
mossy teeth. Harry backed away.

"I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I'm just -"

"HARRY! What d'yeh think yer doin' down there?"

Harry's heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of fingernails cascaded
down over her feet and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the
Hogwarts gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes
flashing over his great bristling beard.

"Hagrid!" Harry croaked in relief. "I was lost - Floo powder -"

Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away
from the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks
followed them all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright
sunlight. Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the
distance - Gringotts Bank. Hagrid had steered him right into Diagon
Alley.

"Yer a mess!" said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off Harry so
forcefully he nearly knocked him into a barrel of dragon dung outside
an apothecary. "Skulkin' around Knockturn Alley, I dunno dodgy place,
Harry - don' want no one ter see yeh down there -"

"I realized that," said Harry, ducking as Hagrid made to brush him off
again. "I told you, I was lost - what were you doing down there,
anyway?"

* 54

"I was lookin' fer a Flesh-Eatin' Slug Repellent," growled Hagrid.
"They're ruinin' the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?"

"I'm staying with the Weasleys but we got separated," Harry explained.
"I've got to go and find them . . . ."

They set off together down the street.

"How come yeh never wrote back ter me?" said Hagrid as Harry
jogged alongside him (he had to take three steps to every stride of
Hagrid's enormous boots). Harry explained all about Dobby and the
Dursleys.

"Lousy Muggles," growled Hagrid. "If I'd've known -"

"Harry! Harry! Over here!"

Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the
white flight of steps to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her
bushy brown hair flying behind her.

"What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid - Oh, it's wonderful to
see you two again - Are you coming into Gringotts, Harry?"

"As soon as I've found the Weasleys," said Harry.

"Yeh won't have long ter wait," Hagrid said with a grin.

Harry and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street
were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley panted. "We hoped you'd only gone one

	grate too far . 	He mopped his glistening bald patch. "Molly's

frantic - she's coming now -"

"Where did you come out?" Ron asked.

"Knockturn Alley," said Hagrid grimly.

"Excellent." said Fred and George together.

"We've never been allowed in," said Ron enviously.

*55*

"I should ruddy well think not," growled Hagrid.
Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swing
ing wildly in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other.
"Oh, Harry - oh, my dear - you could have been any
where -"
Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush out of her
bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid hadn't managed to
beat away. Mr. Weasley took Harry's glasses, gave them a tap of his
wand, and returned them, good as new.
"Well, gotta be off," said Hagrid, who was having his hand
wrung by Mrs. Weasley ("Knockturn Alley! If you hadn't found
him, Hagrid!"). "See yer at Hogwarts!" And he strode away, head
and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.
"Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?" Harry asked Ron and
Hermione as they climbed the Gringotts steps. "Malfoy and his fa
ther."
"Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?" said Mr. Weasley sharply
behind them.
"No, he was selling ='
"So he's worried," said Mr. Weasley with grim satisfaction. "Oh,
I'd love to get Lucius Malfoy for something ......
"You be careful, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley sharply as they were
bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. "That family's trou
ble. Don't go biting off more than you can chew -"
"So you don't think I'm a match for Lucius Malfoy?" said Mr.
Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted almost at once by the
sight of Hermione's parents, who were standing nervously at the
counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for
Hermione to introduce them.

,5 s

"But you're Muggles!" said Mr. Weasley delightedly. "We must have a drink!
What's that you've got there? Oh, you're changing Muggle money. Molly,
look!" He pointed excitedly at the tenpound notes in Mr. Granger's hand.

"Meet you back here," Ron said to Hermione as the Weasleys and Harry
were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin.

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped
along miniature train tracks through the bank's underground tunnels.
Harry enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys' vault, but felt
dreadful, far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened.
There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon.
Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into
her bag. Harry felt even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to
block the contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a
leather bag.

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered
vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their
friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were going to
a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers
off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.

"We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,"
said Mrs. Weasley, setting off with Ginny. "And not one step down
Knockturn Alley!" she shouted at the twins' retreating backs.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the winding, cobbled street.
The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully

*57*

in Harry's pocket was clamoring to be spent, so he bought three
large strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they slurped
happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating
shop windows. Ron gazed longingly at a full set of Chudley Can
non robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until
Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door.
In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George,
and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous
Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of bro
ken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion
stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small and deeply
boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power.
`A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers, " Ron read
aloud off the back cover. "That sounds fascinating . . . ."

"Go away," Percy snapped.
"'Course, he's very ambitious, Percy, he's got it all planned
out .... He wants to be Minister of Magic. . . " Ron told Harry
and Hermione in an undertone as they left Percy to it.
An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by
no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they
approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling out
side the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed

by a large banner stretched across the upper windows:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12:30 P.m. to 4:30 P.m.

"We can actually meet him!" Hermione squealed. "I mean, he's
written almost the whole booklist!"

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs.
Weasley's age. A harrassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying,
"Calmly, please, ladies .... Don't push, there ... mind the books, now . .
. . "

	Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long line wound
right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing
his books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells,
Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys
were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger.

"Oh, there you are, good," said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless
and kept patting her hair. "We'll be able to see him in a minute ......

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded
by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly
white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of
forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard's
hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs
with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with
every blinding flash.

"Out of the way, there," he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better
shot. "This is for the Daily Prophet -"

"Big deal," said Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had
stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron

*59*


and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively
shouted, "It can't be Harry Potter?"

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized
Harry's arm, and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause.
Harry's face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who
was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.

"Nice big smile, Harry," said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth.
"Together, you and I are worth the front page."

When he finally let go of Harry's hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers.
He tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm
around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said loudly, waving for quiet. "What an
extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little
announcement I've been sitting on for some time!

"When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only
wanted to buy my autobiography -which I shall be happy to present him
now, free of charge-" The crowd applauded again. "He had no idea,"
Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to
the end of his nose, "that he would shortly be getting much, much more
than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting
the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and
pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of
Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft
and Wizardry!"

The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found himself being

60

presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering
slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the
limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to
her new cauldron.

"You have these," Harry mumbled to her, tipping the books into the
cauldron. "I'll buy my own -"

"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" said a voice Harry had no
trouble recognizing. He straightened up and found himself face-to-face
with Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer.

"Famous Harry Potter," said Malfoy. "Can't even go into a bookshop
without making the front page."

"Leave him alone, he didn't want all that!" said Ginny. It was the first
time she had spoken in front of Harry. She was glaring at Malfoy.

"Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!" drawled Malfoy. Ginny went
scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching
stacks of Lockhart's books.

"Oh, it's you," said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something
unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry
here, eh?"

"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," retorted
Malfoy. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for
all those."

Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into the cauldron,
too, and started toward Malfoy, but Harry and Hermione grabbed the
back of his jacket.

"Ron!" said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George.
"What are you doing? It's too crowded in here, let's go outside."

61

"Well, well, well - Arthur Weasley."

It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco's shoulder,
sneering in just the same way.

"Lucius," said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

"Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," said Mr. Malfoy. "All those raids
... I hope they're paying you overtime?"

He reached into Ginny's cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy
Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner's Guide
to Transfiguration.

"Obviously not," Mr. Malfoy said. "Dear me, what's the use of being a
disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.

"We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard,
Malfoy," he said.

"Clearly," said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs.
Granger, who were watching apprehensively. "The company you
keep, Weasley ... and I thought your family could sink no lower ='

There was a thud of metal as Ginny's cauldron went flying; Mr.
Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward
into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down
on all their heads; there was a yell of, "Get him, Dad!" from Fred or
George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, "No, Arthur, no!"; the crowd
stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; "Gentlemen,
please - please!" cried the assistant, and then, louder than all

"Break it up, there, gents, break it up -"

62

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had
pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr.
Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. He was still
holding Ginny's old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes
glittering with malice.

"Here, girl - take your book - it's the best your father can give you -" Pulling
himself out of Hagrid's grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

"Yeh should've ignored him, Arthur," said Hagrid, almost lifting Mr. Weasley
off his feet as he straightened his robes. "Rotten ter the core, the whole family,
everyone knows that - no Malfoy's worth listenin' ter - bad blood, that's what it
is - come on now - let's get outta here."

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them leaving, but he barely
came up to Hagrid's waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the
street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with
fury.

"A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in public . . . what
Gilderoy Lockhart must've thought -"

"He was pleased," said Fred. "Didn't you hear him as we were leaving? He was
asking that bloke from the Daily Prophet if he'd be able to work the fight into
his report - said it was all publicity -"

But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky
Cauldron, where Harry, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be
traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good-bye to the
Grangers, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side;
Mr. Weasley started to ask

63

them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs.
Weasley's face.

Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket before
helping himself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn't his favorite way to
travel.

C H-H A P T E RR		F I v E

THE	WHOMPING
	WILLOW

he end of the summer vacation came too quickly for Harry's liking.
He was looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but his month
at the Burrow had been the happiest of his life. It was difficult not to
feel jealous of Ron when he thought of the Dursleys and the sort of
welcome he could expect next time he turned up on Privet Drive.

On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a sumptuous dinner
that included all of Harry's favorite things, ending with a
mouthwatering treacle pudding. Fred and George rounded off the
evening with a display of Filibuster fireworks; they fiIled the kitchen
with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to wall for at least
half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot chocolate and
bed.

It took a long while to get started next morning. They were up at
dawn, but somehow they still seemed to have a great deal to do.

65



Mrs. Weasley dashed about in a bad mood looking for spare socks and
quills; people kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of toast
in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke his neck, tripping over a
stray chicken as he crossed the yard carrying Ginny's trunk to the car.

Harry couldn't see how eight people, six large trunks, two owls, and a
rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. He had reckoned, of
course, without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added.

"Not a word to Molly," he whispered to Harry as he opened the. trunk
and showed him how it had been magically expanded so that the
luggage fitted easily.

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the
back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy were all sitting
comfortably side by side, and said, "Muggles do know more than we
give them credit for, don't they?" She and Ginny got into the front seat,
which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench. "I mean,
you'd never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?"

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard,
Harry turning back for a last look at the house. He barely had time to
wonder when he'd see it again when they were back George had
forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they
skidded to a halt in the yard so that Fred could run in for his
broomstick. They had almost reached the highway when Ginny
shrieked that she'd left her diary. By the time she had clambered back
into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running
high.

* 66

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his wife.

"Molly, dear -"

"No, Arthur -"

"No one would see - this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I
installed - that'd get us up in the air - then we fly above the clouds.
We'd be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser -"

"I said no, Arthur, not in broad daylight -"

They reached King's Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mr. Weasley
dashed across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all
hurried into the station.

Harry had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky
part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn't
visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the
solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn't hurt, but it had to
be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

"Percy first," said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at the clock
overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear
casually through the barrier.

Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. Weasley went next;
Fred and George followed.

"I'll take Ginny and you two come right after us," Mrs. Weasley told
Harry and Ron, grabbing Ginny's hand and setting off. In the blink of
an eye they were gone.

"Let's go together, we've only got a minute," Ron said to Harry.

Harry made sure that Hedwig's cage was safely wedged on top of his
trunk and wheeled his trolley around to face the barrier. He felt

61

perfectly confident; this wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo
powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and
walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet
away from it, they broke into a run and

CRASH.

Both trolleys hit the barrier and bounced backward; Ron's trunk fell
off with a loud thump, Harry was knocked off his feet, and Hedwig's
cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking
indignantly; people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled,
"What in blazes d'you think you're doing?"

"Lost control of the trolley," Harry gasped, clutching his ribs as he
got up. Ron ran to pick up Hedwig, who was causing such a scene
that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the
surrounding crowd.

"Why can't we get through?" Harry hissed to Ron.

"I dunno -"

Ron looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still
watching them.

"We're going to miss the train," Ron whispered. "I don't understand
why the gateway's sealed itself -"

Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit
of his stomach. Ten seconds ... nine seconds ...

He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the
barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid.

Three seconds . . . two seconds ... one second ...

"It's gone," said Ron, sounding stunned. "The train's left. What if
Mum and Dad can't get back through to us? Have you got any
Muggle money?"

68

And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of
the station and back onto the side road where the old Ford Anglia was
parked.

Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from his wand.
They heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig on the back seat, and
got into the front.

"Check that no one's watching," said Ron, starting the ignition with
another tap of his wand. Harry stuck his head out of the window:
Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was
empty.

"Okay," he said.

Ron pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around
them vanished - and so did they. Harry could feel the seat vibrating
beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his
glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of
eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of
parked cars.

"Let's go," said Ron's voice from his right.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away,
dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London
lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Harry, and Ron
reappeared.

"Uh-oh," said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. "It's faulty -"

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back
again.

"Hold on!" Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the acceler

* 7 0

ator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything
turned dull and foggy.

"Now what?" said Harry, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing
in on them from all sides.

"We need to see the train to know what direction to go in," said Ron.

"Dip back down again - quickly -"

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their
seats, squinting at the ground.

"I can see it!" Harry yelled. "Right ahead - there!"

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet
snake.

"Due north," said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard.
"Okay, we'll just have to check on it every half hour or so - hold on

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out
into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of
fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

"All we've got to worry about now are airplanes," said Ron.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they
couldn't stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This,
thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel - past swirls and
turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat
pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing
Fred's and George's jealous faces when they

* 71

landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of
Hogwarts castle.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and
farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different
view. London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green
fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive
with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Harry had to admit that
some of the fun was wearing off. The toffees had made them
extremely thirsty and they had nothing to drink. He and Ron had
pulled off their sweaters, but Harry's T-shirt was sticking to the back
of his seat and his glasses kept sliding down to the end of his sweaty
nose. He had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and
was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy
ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch. Why
hadn't they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters?

"Can't be much further, can it?" croaked Ron, hours later still, as the
sun started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink.
"Ready for another check on the train?"

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped
mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds.

Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again,
but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Harry and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

"It's probably just tired," said Ron. "It's never been this far before
......

12

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing
louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were
blossoming in the blackness. Harry pulled his sweater back on, try
ing to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving fee
bly, as though in protest.
"Not far," said Ron, more to the car than to Harry, "not far
now," and he patted the dashboard nervously.
When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they
had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.
"There!" Harry shouted, making Ron and Hedwig jump.
"Straight ahead!"
Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake,
stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.
But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.
"Come on," Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a lit
tle shake, "nearly there, come on -"
The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from un
der the hood. Harry found himself gripping the edges of his seat
very hard as they flew toward the lake.
The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of his window, Harry
saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below.
Ron's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled
again.
"Come on," Ron muttered.
They were over the lake - the castle was right ahead - Ron
put his foot down.
There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died com
pletely.

"Uh-oh," said Ron, into the silence.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed,
heading straight for the solid castle wall.

"Noooooo!" Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they
missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc,
soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then
out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of
his back pocket

"STOP! STOP!" he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the
windshield, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward
them

"WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!" Harry bellowed, lunging for the
steering wheel, but too late

CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree
trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was
billowing from under the crumpled hood; Hedwig was shrieking in
terror; a golfball-size lump was throbbing on Harry's head where he
had hit the windshield; and to his right, Ron let out a low, despairing
groan.

"Are you okay?" Harry said urgently.

"My wand," said Ron, in a shaky voice. "Look at my wand -"

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a
few splinters.

Harry opened his mouth to say he was sure they'd be able to mend it
up at the school, but he never even got started. At that very moment,
something hit his side of the car with the force of a

* Y4 *

charging bull, sending him lurching sideways into Ron, just as an
equally heavy blow hit the roof.

"What's happen -?"

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Harry looked around
just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree
they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and
its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could
reach.

"Aaargh!" said Ron as another twisted limb punched a large dent into
his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from
knuckle-like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was
pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving

"Run for it!" Ron shouted, throwing his full weight against his door, but
next second he had been knocked backward into Harry's lap by a
vicious uppercut from another branch.

"We're done for!" he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the
floor of the car was vibrating - the engine had restarted.

"Reverse!" Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still
trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped
itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.

"That," panted Ron, "was close. Well done, car -"

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp
clunks, the doors flew open and Harry felt his seat tip sideways: Next
thing he knew he was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told
him that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Hedwig's
cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an
angry screech and sped off toward the castle

Y5

without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming,
the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

"Come back!" Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand.
"Dad'll kill me!"

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its
exhaust.

"Can you believe our luck?" said Ron miserably, bending down to
pick up Scabbers. "Of all the trees we could've hit, we had to get
one that hits back."

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still
flailing its branches threateningly.

"Come on," said Harry wearily, "we'd better get up to the school
......

It wasn't at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold,
and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging
them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

"I think the feast's already started," said Ron, dropping his trunk at
the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a
brightly lit window. "Hey - Harry - come and look - it's the Sorting!"

Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered in at the Great
Hall.

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long,
crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle.
Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky
outside, sparkled with stars.

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harry saw a long
line of scared-looking first years fiIing into the Hall. Ginny

* 76

was among them, easily visible because of her vivid Weasley ha-ir.
Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair
in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a
stool before the newcomers.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new
students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff,
Ravenclaw, and Slytherin). Harry well remembered putting it on,
exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it
muttered aloud in his ear. For a few horrible seconds he had feared
that the hat was going to put him in Slytherin, the house that had
turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other -but he had
ended up in Gryffindor, along with Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the
Weasleys. Last term, Harry and Ron had helped Gryffindor win the
House Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in seven
years.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the
hat on his head. Harry's eyes wandered past him to where Professor
Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff
table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the
candlelight. Several seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart,
dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Hagrid,
huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.

"Hang on. . . " Harry muttered to Ron. "There's an empty chair at the
staff table .... Where's Snape?"

Professor Severus Snape was Harry's least favorite teacher. Harry
also happened to be Snape's least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic,
and disliked by everybody except the students from his own house
(Slytherin), Snape taught Potions.

"Maybe he's ill!" said Ron hopefully.

"Maybe he's left," said Ha-rry, "because he missed out on the Defense
Against Dark Arts job again!"

"Or he might have been sacked!" said Ron enthusiastically. "I mean,
everyone hates him -"

"Or maybe," said a very cold voice right behind them, "he's waiting to
hear why you two didn't arrive on the school train."

Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze,
stood Severus Snape. He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked
nose, and greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he
was smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were in very deep
trouble.

"Follow me," said Snape.

Not daring even to look at each other, Harry and Ron followed Snape
up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with
flaming torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great
Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light, down a
narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons.

"In!" he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and
pointing.

They entered Snape's office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined
with shelves of large glass) ars, in which floated all manner of
revolting things Harry didn't really want to know the name of at the
moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape closed the door
and turned to look at them.

"So," he said softly, "the train isn't good enough for the famous Harry
Potter and his faithful sidekick Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang,
did we, boys?"

"No, sir, it was the barrier at King's Cross, it -"

78

"Silence!" said Snape coldly. "What have you done with the
car?"
Ron gulped. This wasn't the first time Snape had given Harry the
impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, he un
derstood, as Snape unrolled today's issue of the Evening Prophet.
"You were seen," he hissed, showing them the headline: FLY
ING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES. He began to read
aloud: "Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car
flying over the Post Office tower ... at noon in Norfolk, Mrs.
Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing ... Mr. Angus Fleet,
of Peebles, reported to police ... Six or seven Muggles in all. I be
lieve your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?"
he said, looking up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. "Dear,
dear ... his own son. . . "
Harry felt as though he'd just been walloped in the stomach by
one of the mad tree's larger branches. If anyone found out Mr.
Weasley had bewitched the car ... he hadn't thought of that ....
"I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage
seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,"
Snape went on.
"That tree did more damage to us than we -" Ron blurted out.
"Silence!" snapped Snape again. "Most unfortunately, you are
not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with
me. I shall go and fetch the people who do have that happy power.
You will wait here."
Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced. Harry didn't
feel hungry any more. He now felt extremely sick. He tried not to
look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a

shelf behind Snape's desk. If Snape had gone to fetch Professor
McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, they were hardly any better
off. She might be fairer than Snape, but she was still extremely strict.

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough it was Professor
McGonagall who accompanied him. Harry had seen Professor
McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either he had forgotten
just how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen her this angry
before. She raised her wand the moment she entered; Harry and Ron
both flinched, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where
flames suddenly erupted.

"Sit," she said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire.

"Explain," she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station
refusing to let them through.

"

-so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn't get on the train."

"Why didn't you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?"
Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.

Harry gaped at her. Now she said it, that seemed the obvious thing to
have done.

"I - I didn't think -"

"That," said Professor McGonagall, "is obvious."

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now looking happier
than ever, opened it. There stood the headmaster, Professor
Dumbledore.

Harry's whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually
grave. He stared down his very crooked nose at them, and

*80*

Harry suddenly found himself wishing he and Ron were still being
beaten up by the Whomping Willow.

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, "Please explain why
you did this."

It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry hated the
disappointment in his voice. For some reason, he was unable to look
Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told
Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the
bewitched car, making it sound as though he and Ron had happened to
find a flying car parked outside the station. He knew Dumbledore
would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions
about the car. When Harry had finished, he merely continued to peer
at them through his spectacles.

"We'll go and get our stuff," said Ron in a hopeless sort of voice.

"What are you talking about, Weasley?" barked Professor
McGonagall.

"Well, you're expelling us, aren't you?" said Ron.

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore.

"Not today, Mr. Weasley," said Dumbledore. "But I must impress upon
both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to
both your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything
like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you."

Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his
throat and said, "Professor Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the
Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious
damage to an old and valuable tree - surely acts of this nature -"

* 8i

"It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys'
punishments, Severus," said Dumbledore calmly. "They are in her
House and are therefore her responsibility." He turned to Professor
McGonagall. "I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I've got to give
out a few notices. Come, Severus, there's a delicious-looking cus
tard tart I want to sample -"
Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as he allowed
himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Pro
fessor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.
"You'd better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you're
bleeding."
"Not much," said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with
his sleeve. "Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted -"
"The Sorting Ceremony is over," said Professor McGonagall.
"Your sister is also in Gryffindor."
"Oh, good," said Ron.
"And speaking of Gryffindor -" Professor McGonagall said
sharply, but Harry cut in: "Professor, when we took the car, term
hadn't started, so - so Gryffindor shouldn't really have points
taken from it - should it?" he finished, watching her anxiously.
Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but he was sure
she had almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.
"I will not take any points from Gryffindor," she said, and
Harry's heart lightened considerably. "But you will both get a de
tention."
It was better than Harry had expected. As for Dumbledore's
writing to the Dursleys, that was nothing. Harry knew perfectly
well they'd just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn't
squashed him flat.

82

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Snape's
desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of-iced
pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

"You will eat in here and then go straight up to your dormitory," she
said. "I must also return to the feast."

When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a long, low whistle.

"I thought we'd had it," he said, grabbing a sandwich.

"So did I," said Harry, taking one, too.

"Can you believe our luck, though?" said Ron thickly through a
mouthful of chicken and ham. "Fred and George must've flown that
car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw them." He swallowed
and took another huge bite. "Why couldn't we get through the barrier?"

Harry shrugged. "We'll have to watch our step from now on, though,"
he said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice. "Wish we could've
gone up to the feast ......

"She didn't want us showing off," said Ron sagely. "Doesn't want
people to think it's clever, arriving by flying car."

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate
kept refilling itself) they rose and left the office, treading the familiar
path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the
feast was over. They walked past muttering portraits and creaking
suits of armor, 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 toward
them.

"There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors -
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 lopsided 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 then-t.

"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 for 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 we've come in the car, eh?"

84

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 toward 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 stood 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.

* 85 *

H-H A P T E RR		s 1 x

GILDEROY LOCKHART

he 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 gray). 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.

"Mail's due any minute - I think Gran's sending 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

86



streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the
chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville's head
and, a second later, something large and gray fell into Hermione's jug,
spraying them all with milk and feathers.

"Enrol!" said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol
slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red
envelope in his beak.

"Oh, no -" Ron gasped.

"It's all right, he's still alive," said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with
the tip of her finger.

"It's not that - it's that."

Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to
Harry, but Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they
expected it to explode.

"What's the matter?" said Harry.

"She's - she's sent me a Howler," said Ron faintly.

"You'd better open it, Ron," said Neville in a timid whisper. "It'll be
worse if you don't My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and" -
he gulped - "it was horrible."

Harry looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.

"What's a Howler?" he said.

But Ron's whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to
smoke at the corners.

"Open it," Neville urged. "It'll all be over in a few minutes -"

Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol's
beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears. A split
second later, Harry knew why. He thought for a moment it had
exploded; a roar of sound fiIled the huge hall, shaking dust from the
ceiling.

8 _

"-	E CAR, I WO ULDN'T HAVE BEEN S UR-

STEALING THE

PRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET
HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO
THINK WHAT YOUR FATHERAND I WENT THROUGH WHEN
WE SAW IT WAS GONE -"

Mrs. Weasleys yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the
plates and spoons rattle on the table, and echoed deafeningly off the
stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see
who had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that
only his crimson forehead could be seen.

"- LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT
YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING
YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD
BOTH HAVE DIED -"

Harry had been wondering when his name was going to crop up. He
tried very hard to look as though he couldn't hear the voice that was
making his eardrums throb.

"-ABSOLUTELYDISGUSTED - YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN
INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF
YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU
STRAIGHT BACK HOME."

A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron's
hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat
stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few
people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top
of Ron's head.

* 88

"Well, I don't know what you expected, Ron, but you -"

"Don't tell me I deserved it," snapped Ron.

Harry pushed his porridge away. His insides were burning with guilt.
Mr. Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley had done for him over the summer ...

But he had no time to dwell on this; Professor McGonagall was
moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules.
Harry took his and saw that they had double Herbology with the
Hufepuffs first.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the
vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical
plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing:
Hermione seemed to think they had now been punished enough and
was being perfectly friendly again.

As they neared the greenhouses they saw the rest of the class
standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view
across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor
Sprout's arms were full of bandages, and with another twinge of guilt,
Harry spotted the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its
branches now in slings.

Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over
her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her
clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint.
Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of
turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise
hat with gold trimming.

"Oh, hello there!" he called, beaming around at the assembled

89

students. "Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor
a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea
that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met
several of these exotic plants on my travels . . ."

"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, who was
looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.

There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in
greenhouse one before - greenhouse three housed far more interesting
and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt
and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and
fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-
sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. He was about to follow Ron
and Hermione inside when Lockhart's hand shot out.

"Harry! I've been wanting a word - you don't mind if he's a couple of
minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?"

Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said,
"That's the ticket," and closed the greenhouse door in her face.

"Harry," said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight
as he shook his head. "Harry, Harry, Harry."

Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.

"When I heard -well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked
myself."

Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was about to say so
when Lockhart went on, "Don't know when I've been more shocked.
Flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd
done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry."

It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant
teeth even when he wasn't talking.

90

"Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I?" said Lockhart. "Gave
you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me and
you couldn't wait to do it again."
"Oh, no, Professor, see -"
"Harry, Harry, Harry," said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping
his shoulder. "I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've
had that first taste - and I blame myself for giving you that, be
cause it was bound to go to your head - but see here, young man,
you can't start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm
down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes,
yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an in
ternationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was
just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, Id say I was even
more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't
they? All that business with He-\"o-Must-Not-Be-Named!" He
glanced at the lightning scar on Harry's forehead. "I know, I
know - it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most
Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have - but it's a
start, Harry, it's a start."
He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry stood
stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to
be in the greenhouse, he opened the door and slid inside.
Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the cen
ter of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored ear
muffs were lying on the bench. When Harry had taken his place
between Ron and Hermione, she said, "We'll be repotting Man
drakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Man
drake?"
To nobody's surprise, Hermione's hand was first into the air.

s1

"Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," said Hermione,
sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. "It is
used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their
original state."

"Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout. "The
Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also,
however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?"

Hermione's hand narrowly missed Harry's glasses as it shot up again.

"The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it," she said
promptly.

"Precisely. Take another ten points," said Professor Sprout. "Now, the
Mandrakes we have here are still very young."

She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone
shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants,
purplish green in color, were growing there in rows. They looked quite
unremarkable to Harry, who didn't have the slightest idea what
Hermione meant by the "cry" of the Mandrake.

"Everyone take a pair of earmuffs," said Professor Sprout.

There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn't
pink and fluffy.

"When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely
covered," said Professor Sprout. "When it is safe to remove them, I
will give you the thumbs-up. Right - earmuffs on."

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound
completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own
ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants
firmly, and pulled hard.

*92*

Harry let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.

Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out
of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had
pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his
lungs.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and
plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until
only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her
hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.

"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet," she
said calmly as though she'd just done nothing more exciting than water
a begonia. "However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as
I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your
earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your
attention when it is time to pack up.

"Four to a tray - there is a large supply of pots here - compost in the
sacks over there - and be careful of the Venemous Tentacula, it's
teething."

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making
it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her
shoulder.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were joined at their tray by a curly-haired
Hufflepuff boy Harry knew by sight but had never spoken to.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley," he said brightly, shaking Harry by the hand.
"Know who you are, of course, the famous Harry Potter... And you're
Hermione Granger - always top in everything"

* 9%

(Hermione beamed as she had her hand shaken too) "- and Ron
Weasley. Wasn't that your flying car?"

Ron didn't smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind.

"That Lockhart's something, isn't he?" said Justin happily as they
began fiIling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. "Awfully
brave chap. Have you read his books? Id have died of fear if Id been
cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and -
zap - just fantastic.

"My name was down for Eton, you know. I can't tell you how glad I
am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed,
but since I made her read Lockhart's books I think she's begun to see
how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family . . . ."

After that they didn't have much chance to talk. Their earmuffs were
back on and they needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor
Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes
didn't like coming out of the earth, but didn't seem to want to go back
into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and
gnashed their teeth; Harry spent ten whole minutes trying to squash a
particularly fat one into a pot.

By the end of the class, Harry, like everyone else, was sweaty,
aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for
a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.

Professor McGonagall's classes were always hard work, but today
was especially difficult. Everything Harry had learned last year
seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer. He was
supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he managed

* 94

to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the
desktop avoiding his wand.

Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand
with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond
repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time
Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick gray smoke
that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron
accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a
new one. Professor McGonagall wasn't pleased.

Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain felt like a wrung
sponge. Everyone fiIed out of the classroom except him and Ron, who
was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.

"Stupid - useless - thing -"

"Write home for another one," Harry suggested as the wand let off a
volley of bangs like a firecracker.

"Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back," said Ron, stuffing the now
hissing wand into his bag. " `It's your own fault your wand got snapped -
'"

They went down to lunch, where Ron's mood was not improved by
Hermione's showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons she had
produced in Transfiguration.

"What've we got this afternoon?" said Harry, hastily changing the
subject.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione at once.

"Why, "demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, "have you outlined all
Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"

Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.

* 95 *

They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard.
Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages
with Vampires again. Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for
several minutes before Harry became aware that he was being closely
watched. Looking up, he saw the very small, mousy-haired boy he'd
seen trying on the Sorting Hat last night staring at Harry as though
transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle
camera, and the moment Harry looked at him, he went bright red.

"All right, Harry? I'm -I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking
a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think - would it
be all right if - can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera
hopefully.

"A picture?" Harry repeated blankly.

"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging
further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About
how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he
disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on
your forehead" (his eyes raked Harry's hairline) "and a boy in my
dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll
move." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said,
"It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do
was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he
couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home
to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you" - he looked
imploringly at Harry - "maybe your friend could take it and I could
stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"

96

"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"

Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy's voice echoed around the
courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always
was at Hogwarts, by his large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and
Goyle.

"Everyone line up!" Malfoy roared to the crowd. "Harry Potter's
giving out signed photos!"

"No, I'm not," said Harry angrily, his fists clenching. "Shut up,
Malfoy."

"You're just jealous," piped up Colin, whose entire body was about
as thick as Crabbe's neck.

`jealous?"said Malfoy, who didn't need to shout anymore: half the
courtyard was listening in. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right
across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open
makes you that special, myself."

Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.

"Eat slugs, Malfoy," said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and
started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.

"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Malfoy. "You don't want to start any
trouble or your Mommy'll have to come and take you away from
school." He put on a shrill, piercing voice. "Ifyou put another toe
out of line' - "

A knot of Slytherin fifth-years nearby laughed loudly at this.

"Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter," smirked Malfoy. "It'd
be worth more than his family's whole house -"

Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages
with Vampires with a snap and whispered, "Look out!"

"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding

* 97

toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's giv
ing out signed photos?"
Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an
arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have
asked! We meet again, Harry!"
Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation, Harry
saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd.
"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin.
"A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it
for you."
Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell
rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.
"Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd,
and he set off back to the castle with Harry, who was wishing he
knew a good Vanishing Spell, still clasped to his side.
"A word to the wise, Harry," said Lockhart paternally as they
entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you
back there with young Creevey - if he was photographing me,
too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so
much . . . ."
Deaf to Harry's stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor
lined with staring students and up a staircase.
"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of
your career isn't sensible - looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be
frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to
keep a stack handy wherever you go, but" - he gave a little chor
tle - "I don't think you're quite there yet."
They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Harry go at

98

last. Harry yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very
back of the class, where he busied himself with piling all seven of
Lockhart's books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking at the
real thing.

The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat
down on either side of Harry.

"You could've fried an egg on your face" said Ron. "You'd better hope
Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Harry Potter fan
club."

"Shut up," snapped Harry. The last thing he needed was for Lockhart
to hear the phrase "Harry Potter fan club."

When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly
and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's
copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking
portrait on the front.

"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart,
Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force
Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-
Charming-Smile Award - but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of
the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.

"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books -well done. I
thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about

just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in -"

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of
the class and said, "You have thirty minutes - start - now!"

Harry looked down at his paper and read:


1.	What is Gilderoy Lockhart 's favorite color?

2.	What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3.	What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest
achievement to date?

On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

54.	When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his
ideal gift be?

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through
them in front of the class.

"Tut, tut - hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is
lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read
Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully - I clearly state in chapter
twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all
magic and non-magic peoples - though I wouldn't say no to a large
bottle of Ogdeds Old Firewhisky!"

He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now staring at
Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus
Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking
with silent laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to
Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when he mentioned her
name.

". . . but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the
world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions - good
girl! In fact" - he flipped her paper over - "full marks! Where is Miss
Hermione Granger?"

*100*

Hermione raised a trembling hand.

"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for
Gryffindor! And so - to business -"

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now - be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest
creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your
worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst
I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

In spite of himself, Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better
look at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and
Seamus had stopped laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front
row seat.

"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a low voice. "It might
provoke them."

As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.

"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies. "

Seamus Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of
laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.

"Yes?" He smiled at Seamus.

"Well, they're not - they're not very - dangerous, are they?" Seamus
choked.

"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at
Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"

The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed
faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies
arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they

*101*

had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and
making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.

"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of
them!" And he opened the cage.

It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets.
Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air.
Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row
with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more
effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and
sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures
from the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books
and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the
class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the
iron chandelier in the ceiling.

"Come on now - round them up, round them up, they're only pixies,"
Lockhart shouted.

He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed,

"Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and
threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under his
own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a
second later as the chandelier gave way.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative
calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harry,
Ron, and Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, "Well, I'll
ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He
swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.

*102*

"Can you believe him?" roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit
him painfully on the ear.

"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," said Hermione,
immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and
stuffing them back into their cage.

"Hands on? "said Harry, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of
reach with its tongue out. "Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he
was doing -"

"Rubbish," said Hermione. "You've read his books - look at all those
amazing things he's done -"

"He says he's done," Ron muttered.


arry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight
whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder
to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry's
schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All
right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back,
however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.

Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the disasterous car journey
and Ron's wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday
morning by shooting out of Ron's hand in Charms and hitting tiny old
Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large,
throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and
another, Harry was quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Ron, and
Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry,
however, was shaken awake several hours earlier

*104*



than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor
Quidditch team.

"Whassamatter?" said Harry groggily.

"Quidditch practice!" said Wood. "Come on!"

Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across
the pink-and-gold sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn't
understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were
making.

"Oliver," Harry croaked. "It's the crack of dawn."

"Exactly," said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the
moment, his eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. "It's part
of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let's go,"
said Wood heartily. "None of the other teams have started training yet;
we're going to be first off the mark this year -"

Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to
find his Quidditch robes.

"Good man," said Wood. "Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes.

When he'd found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for
warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he'd gone and
went down the spiral staircase to the common room, his Nimbus Two
Thousand on his shoulder. He had just reached the portrait hole when
there was a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down
the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and
something clutched in his hand.

"I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what
I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you -"

*105*

Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing
under his nose.

A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm
Harry recognized as his own. He was pleased to see that his
photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be
dragged into view. As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and
slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.

"Will you sign it?" said Colin eagerly.

"No," said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that the room was
really deserted. "Sorry, Colin, I'm in a hurry - Quidditch practice -"

He climbed through the portrait hole.

"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game
before!"

Colin scrambled through the hole after him.

"It'll be really boring," Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his
face shining with excitement.

"You were the youngest House player in a hundred years, weren't
you, Harry? Weren't you?" said Colin, trotting alongside him. "You
must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own
broom? Is that the best one there is?"

Harry didn't know how to get rid of him. It was like having an
extremely talkative shadow.

"I don't really understand Quidditch," said Colin breathlessly. "Is it
true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock
people off their brooms?"

"Yes," said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated
rules of Quidditch. "They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters

), *106*

on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their
side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters."

"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asked, tripping down a
couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at Harry.

"Well, the Quafe - that's the biggish red one - is the one that scores
goals. Three Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to each other
and try and get it through the goal posts at the end of the pitch -
they're three long poles with hoops on the end."

"And the fourth ball -"

"- is the Golden Snitch," said Harry, "and it's very small, very fast, and
difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker's got to do, because a
game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And
whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns his team an extra
hundred and fifty points."

"And you're the Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?" said Colin in awe.

"Yes," said Harry as they left the castle and started across the dew-
drenched grass. "And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goal
posts. That's it, really."

But Colin didn't stop questioning Harry all the way down the sloping
lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry only shook him off when he
reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice,
"I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" and hurried off to the stands.

The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room.
Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George
Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and touslehaired, next to fourth year
Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind
her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie

*107*

Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite
them.

"There you are, Harry, what kept you?" said Wood briskly. "Now, I
wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field,
because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program,
which I really think will make all the difference ....

Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which
were drawn many lines, arrows, and crosses in differentcolored inks.
He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to
wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a
speech about his new tactics, Fred Weasley's head drooped right
onto Alicia Spinnet's shoulder and he began to snore.

The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was
another board under that, and a third under that one. Harry sank into
a stupor as Wood droned on and on.

"So," said Wood, at long last, jerking Harry from a wistful fantasy
about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up
at the castle. "Is that clear? Any questions?"

"I've got a question, Oliver," said George, who had woken with a
start. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we
were awake?"

Wood wasn't pleased.

"Now, listen here, you lot," he said, glowering at them all. "We
should have won the Quidditch cup last year. We're easily the best
team. But unfortunately -owing to circumstances beyond our control -
"

*108*

Harry shifted guiltily in his seat. He had been unconscious in the
hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that
Gryffindor had been a player short and had suffered their worst
defeat in three hundred years.

Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat
was clearly still torturing him.

"So this year, we train harder than ever before .... Okay, let's go and
put our new theories into practice!" Wood shouted, seizing his
broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stifflegged
and still yawning, his team followed.

They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up
completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the
stadium. As Harry walked onto the field, he saw Ron and Hermione
sitting in the stands.

"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.

"Haven't even started," said Harry, looking jealously at the toast and
marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall.
"Wood's been teaching us new moves."

He mounted his broomstick and kicked at the ground, soaring up into
the air. The cool morning air whipped his face, waking him far more
effectively than Wood's long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the
Quidditch field. He soared right around the stadium at full speed,
racing Fred and George.

"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Fred as they hurtled around
the corner.

Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest
seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound
strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.

*io9*

"Look this way, Harry! This way!" he cried shrilly.

"Who's that?" said Fred.

"No idea," Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far
away as possible from Colin.

"What's going on?" said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the
air toward them. "Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't like it.
He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training
program."

"He's in Gryffindor," said Harry quickly.

"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George.

"What makes you say that?" said Wood testily.

"Because they're here in person," said George, pointing.

Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks
in their hands.

"I don't believe it!" Wood hissed in outrage. "I booked the field for
today! We'll see about this!"

Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to
in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and
George followed.

"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. "This is our practice
time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"

Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish
cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too. There were no girls
on the Slytherin team, who stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the
Gryffindors, leering to a man.

"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I
booked it!"

*110*

"Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from
Professor Snape. `I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team
permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to
train their new Seeker."'

"You've got a new Seeker?" said Wood, distracted. "Where?"

And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh,
smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco
Malfoy.

"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred, looking at Malfoy with
dislike.

"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint as the whole
Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. "Let me show you the
generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished,
brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the
words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors'
noses in the early morning sun.

"Very latest model. Only came out last month," said Flint carelessly,
flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips
the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old
Cleansweeps" - he smiled nastily at Fred and George, who were both
clutching Cleansweep Fives - "sweeps the board with them."

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a
moment. Malfoy was smirking so broadly his cold eyes were reduced
to slits.

"Oh, look," said Flint. "A field invasion."

Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.

*111*

"What's happening?" Ron asked Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And
what's he doing here?"

He was looking at Malfoy, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," said Malfoy, smugly.
"Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father's bought our
team.

Ron gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broomsticks in front of
him.

"Good, aren't they?" said Malfoy smoothly. "But perhaps the
Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms,
too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum
would bid for them."

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said
Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered.

"No one asked your opinion, you fiIthy little Mudblood," he spat.

Harry knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad
because there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in
front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George jumping on him, Alicia
shrieked, "How dare you!" ; and Ron plunged his hand into his robes,
pulled out his wand, yelling, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" and
pointed it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoys face.

A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot
out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and
sending him reeling backward onto the grass.

12

"Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" squealed Hermione.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he
gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth
onto his lap.

The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled
up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all
fours, banging the ground with his fist. The Gryffindors were
gathered around Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs.
Nobody seemed to want to touch him.

"We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest," said Harry to
Hermione, who nodded bravely, and the pair of them pulled Ron up
by the arms.

"What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill? But you can
cure him, can't you?" Colin had run down from his seat and was now
dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave
and more slugs dribbled down his front.

"Oooh," said Colin, fascinated and raising his camera. "Can you hold
him still, Harry?"

"Get out of the way, Colin!" said Harry angrily. He and Hermione
supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward
the edge of the forest.

"Nearly there, Ron," said Hermione as the gamekeeper's cabin came
into view. "You'll be all right in a minute - almost there -"

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid's house when the front door
opened, but it wasn't Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart,
wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.

"Quick, behind here," Harry hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby
bush. Hermione followed, somewhat reluctantly.

*113* *

"It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" Lockhart was
saying loudly to Hagrid. "If you need help, you know where I am! I'll
let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got
one - I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!" And he
strode away toward the castle.

Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of
the bush and up to Hagrid's front door. They knocked urgently.

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression
brightened when he saw who it was.

"Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me - come in, come in -
thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again -"

Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold into the one-
roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire
crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn't seem perturbed by Ron's
slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a
chair.

"Better out than in," he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in
front of him. "Get 'em all up, Ron."

"I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop," said
Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. "That's a
difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand -"

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang,
was slobbering over Harry.

"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching
Fang's ears.

"Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well," growled

*114*

Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and
setting down the teapot. "Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about
some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my
kettle."

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts' teacher, and Harry
looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice
somewhat higher than usual, "I think you're being a bit unfair.
Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for
the job -"

"He was the on' man for the job," said Hagrid, offering them a Y

plate of treacle fudge, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin.
"An' I mean the on' one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer Y

the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're
startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. So
tell me," said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. "Who was he tryin' ter
curse?"

"Malfoy called Hermione something - it must've been really bad,
because everyone went wild."

"It was bad," said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking
pale and sweaty. "Malfoy called her `Mudblood,' Hagrid -"

Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their
appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.

"He didn'!" he growled at Hermione.

"He did," she said. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it
was really rude, of course -"

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," gasped Ron,
coming back up. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is
Muggle-born - you know, non-magic parents. There are

*115*

some wizards - like Malfoy's family - who think they're better than
everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood." He
gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He
threw it into the basin and continued, "I mean, the rest of us know it
doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom -
he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way
up."

"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," said Hagrid
proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.

"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," said Ron, wiping his sweaty
brow with a shaking hand. "Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's
ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we
hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out."

He retched and ducked out of sight again.

"Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," said Hagrid
loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. "Bu' maybe it
was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy
would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least
yer not in trouble."

Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse
than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn't; Hagrid's
treacle fudge had cemented his jaws together.

"Harry," said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden thought.
"Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed
photos. How come I haven't got one?"

Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.

"I have not been giving out signed photos," he said hotly. "If
Lockhart's still spreading that around -"

*116*

But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.

"I'm on'y jokin'," he said, patting Harry genially on the back and
sending him face first into the table. "I knew yeh hadn't really. I told
Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without
tryin'."

"Bet he didn't like that," said Harry, sitting up and rubbing his chin.

"Don' think he did," said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. "An' then I told
him Id never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle
fudge, Ron?" he added as Ron reappeared.

"No thanks," said Ron weakly. "Better not risk it."

"Come an' see what I've bin growin'," said Hagrid as Harry and
Hermione finished the last of their tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of
the largest pumpkins Harry had ever seen. Each was the size of a
large boulder.

"Gettin' on well, aren't they?" said Hagrid happily. "Fer the Halloween
feast ... should be big enough by then."

"What've you been feeding them?" said Harry.

Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.

"Well, I've bin givin' them - you know - a bit o' help -"

Harry noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back
wall of the cabin. Harry had had reason to believe before now that
this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, he had the strong
impression that Hagrid's old school wand was concealed inside it.
Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from
Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry had never found out why -any
mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his

*117*

throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was
changed.

"An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?" said Hermione, halfway
between disapproval and amusement. "Well, you've done a good job on
them."

"That's what yer little sister said," said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. "Met
her jus' yesterday." Hagrid looked sideways at Harry, his beard
twitching. "Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon
she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house." He
winked at Harry. "If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed -"

"Oh, shut up," said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter and the ground
was sprayed with slugs.

"Watch it!" Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious
pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry had only had one bit of treacle
fudge since dawn, he was keen to go back to school to eat. They said
good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing
occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang
out, "There you are, Potter - Weasley." Professor McGonagall was
walking toward them, looking stern. "You will both do your detentions
this evening."

"What're we doing, Professor?" said Ron, nervously suppressing a
burp.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,"
said Professor McGonagall. "And no magic, Weasley - elbow grease."

*118*

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student
in the school.

"And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan
mail," said Professor McGonagall.

"Oh n - Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" said Harry
desperately.

"Certainly not," said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows.
"Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp,
both of you."

Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest
gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-
rules  sort of expression. Harry didn't enjoy his shepherd's pie as
much as he'd thought. Both he and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.

"Filch'll have me there all night," said Ron heavily. "No magic! There
must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle
cleaning."

"I'd swap anytime," said Harry hollowly. "I've had loads of practice
with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail ... he'll be a
nightmare ......

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no
time, it was five minutes to eight, and Harry was dragging his feet
along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. He gritted his
teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at him.

"Ah, here's the scalawag!" he said. "Come in, Harry, come in -"

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were
countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few
of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.



"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart told Harry, as though
this was a huge treat. "This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her -
huge fan of mine -"

The minutes snailed by. Harry let Lockhart's voice wash over him,
occasionally saying, "Mmm" and "Right" and "Yeah." Now and then
he caught a phrase like, "Fame's a fickle friend, Harry," or "Celebrity
is as celebrity does, remember that."

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the
many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. Harry moved his
aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope, writing out
Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to leave, Harry
thought miserably, please let it be nearly time...

And then he heard something - something quite apart from the
spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of
breathtaking, ice-cold venom.

"Come ... come to me.... Let me rip you.... Let me tear you .... Let me kill you . .
. ."

Harry gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica
Smethley's street.

"What?" he said loudly.

"I know!" said Lockhart. "Six solid months at the top of the best-
seller list! Broke all records!"

"No," said Harry frantically. "That voice!"

"Sorry?" said Lockhart, looking puzzled. "What voice?"

"That - that voice that said - didn't you hear it?"

Lockhart was looking at Harry in high astonishment.

* 3-2o *

"What are you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you're getting a litde
drowsy? Great Scott - look at the time! We've been here nearly four
hours! Id never have believed it - the time's flown, hasn't it?"

Harry didn't answer. He was straining his ears to hear the voice again,
but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling him he mustn't
expect a treat like this every time he got detention. Feeling dazed,
Harry left.

It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty.
Harry went straight up to the dormitory. Ron wasn't back yet. Harry
pulled on his pajamas, got into bed, and waited. Half an hour later, Ron
arrived, nursing his right arm and bringing a strong smell of polish into
the darkened room.

"My muscles have all seized up," he groaned, sinking on his bed.
"Fourteen times he made me buff up that Quidditch cup before he was
satisfied. And then I had another slug attack all over a Special Award
for Services to the School. Took ages to get the slime off... How was
it with Lockhart?"

Keeping his voice low so as not to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus,
Harry told Ron exactly what he had heard.

"And Lockhart said he couldn't hear it?" said Ron. Harry could see
him frowning in the moonlight. "D'you think he was lying? But I don't
get it - even someone invisible would've had to open the door."

"I know," said Harry, lying back in his four-poster and staring at the
canopy above him. "I don't get it either."

* 12-1 *

122
October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle.
Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among
the staff and students. Her Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left
the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny Weasley,
who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The
steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole
head was on fire.
Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on
end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's
pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for
regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Harry
was to be found, late one stormy Saturday afternoon a few days before
Halloween, returning to Gryffindor Tower, drenched to the skin and
splattered with mud..


123
Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice session.
Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for
themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They
reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs,
shooting through the air like missiles.
As Harry squelched along the deserted corridor he came across somebody
who looked just as preoccupied as he was. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost
of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering
under his breath, ". . . don't fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that .
. ."
"Hello, Nick," said Harry.
"Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He
wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff,
which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He
was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to the dark sky
and torrential rain outside.
"You look troubled, young Potter," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as
he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.
"So do you," said Harry.
"Ah," Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, "a matter of no
importance. . . . It's not as though I really wanted to join. . . . Thought I'd
apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements' -"
In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.
"But you would think, wouldn't you," he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter
back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a
blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"


124
"Oh - yes," said Harry, who was obviously supposed to agree.
"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean,
and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great
deal of pain and ridicule. However -" Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter
open and read furiously: "'We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have
parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be
impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as
Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret,
therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements.
With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.'"
Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.
"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! Most people
would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir
Properly Decapitated-Podmore."
Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far
calmer tone, "So - what's bothering you? Anything I can do?"
"No," said Harry. "Not unless you know where we can get seven free
Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our match against Sly -"
The rest of Harry's sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling
from somewhere near his ankles. He looked down and found himself gazing
into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal gray cat
who was used by the caretaker, Argus Filch, as a sort of deputy in his
endless battle against students.
"You'd better get out of here, Harry," said Nick quickly. "Filch isn't in a
good mood - he's got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog
brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He's been cleaning all morning,
and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place -"

.125
"Right," said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris,
but not quickly enough. Drawn to the spot by the mysterious power that
seemed to connect him with his foul cat, Argus Filch burst suddenly through
a tapestry to Harry's right, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breaker.
There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his head, and his nose
was unusually purple.
"Filth!" he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he
pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry's Quidditch robes.
"Mess and muck everywhere! I've had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me,
Potter!"
So Harry waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed
Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints on the
floor.
Harry had never been inside Filch's office before; it was a place most
students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil
lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about
the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels,
Harry could see that they contained details of every pupil Filch had ever
punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A
highly polished collection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind
Filch's desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging
Dumbledore to let him suspend students by their ankles from the ceiling.
Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around
looking for parchment.
"Dung," he muttered furiously, "great sizzling dragon bogies . . . frog brains
. . . rat intestines . . . I've had enough of it . . . make an example . . . where's
the form . . . yes . . ."

.126
He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it
out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.
"Name . . . Harry Potter. Crime . . ."
"It was only a bit of mud!" said Harry.
"It's only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it's an extra hour scrubbing!"
shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose.
"Crime . . . befouling the castle . . . suggested sentence . . ."
Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry who
waited with bated breath for his sentence to fall.
But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of
the office, which made the oil lamp rattle.
"PEEVES!" Filch roared, flinging down his quill in a transport of rage. "I'll
have you this time, I'll have you!"
And without a backward glance at Harry, Filch ran flat-footed from the
office, Mrs. Norris streaking alongside him.
Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to
cause havoc and distress. Harry didn't much like Peeves, but couldn't help
feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it
sounded as though he'd wrecked something very big this time) would
distract Filch from Harry.
Thinking that he should probably wait for Filch to come back, Harry sank
into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk. There was only one thing on it apart
from his half-completed form: a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver
lettering on the front. With a quick glance at the door to check that Filch
wasn't on his way back, Harry picked up the envelope and read: kwikspell A
Correspondence Course in Beginners' Magic.

127
Intrigued, Harry flicked the envelope open and pulled out the sheaf of
parchment inside. More curly silver writing on the front page said: Feel out
of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to
perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? There
is an answer! Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn
course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell
method! Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: "I had no memory for
incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell
course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of
my Scintillation Solution!" Warlock D. J. Prod of Didsbury says: "My wife
used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month into your fabulous
Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you,
Kwikspell!"
Fascinated, Harry thumbed through the rest of the envelope's contents. Why
on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn't a
proper wizard? Harry was just reading "Lesson One: Holding Your Wand
(Some Useful Tips)" when shuffling footsteps outside told him Filch was
coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it
back onto the desk just as the door opened.
Filch was looking triumphant.
"That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!" he was saying gleefully to
Mrs. Norris. "We'll have Peeves out this time, my sweet -"
His eyes fell on Harry and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which,
Harry realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.
Filch's pasty face went brick red. Harry braced himself for a tidal wave of
fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it
into a drawer.
"Have you - did you read -?" he sputtered.

.128
"No," Harry lied quickly.
Filch's knobbly hands were twisting together.
"If I thought you'd read my private - not that it's mine - for a friend - be that
as it may - however -"
Harry was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes
were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan
scarf didn't help.
"Very well - go - and don't breathe a word - not that - however, if you didn't
read - go now, I have to write up Peeves' report - go -"
Amazed at his luck, Harry sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back
upstairs. To escape from Filch's office without punishment was probably
some kind of school record.
"Harry! Harry! Did it work?"
Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Harry
could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to
have been dropped from a great height.
"I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch's office," said Nick eagerly.
"Thought it might distract him -"
"Was that you?" said Harry gratefully. "Yeah, it worked, I didn't even get
detention. Thanks, Nick!"
They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Harry noticed,
was still holding Sir Patrick's rejection letter..

129
"I wish there was something I could do for you about the Headless Hunt,"
Harry said.
Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Harry walked right through
him. He wished he hadn't; it was like stepping through an icy shower.
"But there is something you could do for me," said Nick excitedly. "Harry -
would I be asking too much - but no, you wouldn't want -"
"What is it?" said Harry.
"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," said Nearly
Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.
"Oh," said Harry, not sure whether he should look sorry or happy about this.
"Right."
"I'm holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be
coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you would
attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of
course - but I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?" He watched Harry
on tenterhooks.
"No," said Harry quickly, "I'll come -"
"My dear boy! Harry Potter, at my deathday party! And" - he hesitated,
looking excited - "do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick
how very frightening and impressive you find me?"
"Of - of course," said Harry.
Nearly Headless Nick beamed at him. "A deathday party?" said Hermione
keenly when Harry had changed at last and joined her and Ron in the
common room. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've
been to one of those - it'll be fascinating!".

130
"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" said Ron, who
was halfway through his Potions homework and grumpy. "Sounds dead
depressing to me. . . ."
Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black, but inside
all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the countless
squashy armchairs where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in
the case of Fred and George Weasley, trying to find out what would happen
if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Fred had "rescued" the
brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class
and it was now smouldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of
curious people.
Harry was at the point of telling Ron and Hermione about Filch and the
Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air,
emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. The
sight of Percy bellowing himself hoarse at Fred and George, the spectacular
display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander's mouth, and its
escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove both Filch and the
Kwikspell envelope from Harry's mind. By the time Halloween arrived,
Harry was regretting his rash promise to go to the deathday party. The rest of
the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast; the Great Hall had
been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been
carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were
rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the
entertainment.
"A promise is a promise," Hermione reminded Harry bossily. "You said
you'd go to the deathday party."
So at seven o'clock, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked straight past the
doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold
plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

.131
The passageway leading to Nearly Headless Nick's party had been lined
with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long,
thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light
even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step
they took. As Harry shivered and drew his robes tightly around him, he
heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous
blackboard.
"Is that supposed to be music?" Ron whispered. They turned a corner and
saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet
drapes.
"My dear friends," he said mournfully. "Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased
you could come. . . ."
He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.
It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white,
translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor,
waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by
an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead
blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose
in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.
"Shall we have a look around?" Harry suggested, wanting to warm up his
feet.
"Careful not to walk through anyone," said Ron nervously, and they set off
around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a
ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost,
who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Harry
wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin
ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the
other ghosts.

.132
"Oh, no," said Hermione, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't
want to talk to Moaning Myrtle -"
"Who?" said Harry as they backtracked quickly.
"She haunts one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the first floor," said
Hermione.
"She haunts a toilet?"
"Yes. It's been out-of-order all year because she keeps having tantrums and
flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it; it's awful
trying to have a pee with her wailing at you -"
"Look, food!" said Ron.
On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black
velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their
tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid
on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on
salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry
green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a
tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington
died 31st October, 1492
Harry watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched
low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through
one of the stinking salmon.
"Can you taste it if you walk though it?" Harry asked him.
"Almost," said the ghost sadly, and he drifted away.

.133
"I expect they've let it rot to give it a stronger flavor," said Hermione
knowledgeably, pinching her nose and leaning closer to look at the putrid
haggis.
"Can we move? I feel sick," said Ron.
They had barely turned around, however, when a little man swooped
suddenly from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.
"Hello, Peeves," said Harry cautiously.
Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse
of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a
revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.
"Nibbles?" he said sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in
fungus.
"No thanks," said Hermione.
"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," said Peeves, his eyes dancing.
"Rude you was about poor Myrtle." He took a deep breath and bellowed,
"OY! MYRTLE!"
"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said, she'll be really upset," Hermione
whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her - er, hello, Myrtle."
The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry
had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.
"What?" she said sulkily.
"How are you, Myrtle?" said Hermione in a falsely bright voice. "It's nice to
see you out of the toilet."

.134
Myrtle sniffed.
"Miss Granger was just talking about you -" said Peeves slyly in Myrtle's
ear.
"Just saying - saying - how nice you look tonight," said Hermione, glaring
at Peeves.
Myrtle eyed Hermione suspiciously.
"You're making fun of me," she said, silver tears welling rapidly in her
small, see-through eyes.
"No - honestly - didn't I just say how nice Myrtle's looking?" said
Hermione, nudging Harry and Ron painfully in the ribs.
"Oh, yeah -"
"She did -"
"Don't lie to me," Myrtle gasped, tears now flooding down her face, while
Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder. "D'you think I don't know what
people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable,
moaning, moping Myrtle!"
"You've forgotten pimply," Peeves hissed in her ear.
Moaning Myrtle burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon.
Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, "Pimply!
Pimply!"
"Oh, dear," said Hermione sadly.
Nearly Headless Nick now drifted toward them through the crowd.

.135
"Enjoying yourselves?"
"Oh, yes," they lied.
"Not a bad turnout," said Nearly Headless Nick proudly. "The Wailing
Widow came all the way up from Kent. . . . It's nearly time for my speech,
I'd better go and warn the orchestra. . . ."
The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and
everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a
hunting horn sounded.
"Oh, here we go," said Nearly Headless Nick bitterly.
Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a
headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Harry started to clap, too,
but stopped quickly at the sight of Nick's face.
The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing
and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his
bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn.
The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the
crowd (everyone laughed), and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick,
squashing his head back onto his neck.
"Nick!" he roared. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"
He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nearly Headless Nick on the shoulder.
"Welcome, Patrick," said Nick stiffly.
"Live 'uns!" said Sir Patrick, spotting Harry, Ron, and Hermione and giving
a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again (the crowd
howled with laughter).

.136
"Very amusing," said Nearly Headless Nick darkly.
"Don't mind Nick!" shouted Sir Patrick's head from the floor. "Still upset we
won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say - look at the fellow -"
"I think," said Harry hurriedly, at a meaningful look from Nick, "Nick's very
- frightening and - er -"
"Ha!" yelled Sir Patrick's head. "Bet he asked you to say that!"
"If I could have everyone's attention, it's time for my speech!" said Nearly
Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy
blue spotlight.
"My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow . . ."
But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt
had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to
watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave
up as Sir Patrick's head went sailing past him to loud cheers.
Harry was very cold by now, not to mention hungry.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron muttered, his teeth chattering, as the
orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance
floor.
"Let's go," Harry agreed.
They backed toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked
at them, and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of
black candles.
"Pudding might not be finished yet," said Ron hopefully, leading the way
toward the steps to the entrance hall.

.137
And then Harry heard it.
". . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . ."
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in
Lockhart's office.
He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his
might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.
"Harry, what're you -?"
"It's that voice again - shut up a minute -"
". . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . ."
"Listen!" said Harry urgently, and Ron and Hermione froze, watching him.
". . . kill . . . time to kill . . ."
The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving away -
moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared
at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to
whom stone ceilings didn't matter?
"This way," he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance
hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the
Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted up the
marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione clattering behind him.
"Harry, what're we -"
"SHH!"

.138
Harry strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter
still, he heard the voice: ". . . I smell blood. . . . I SMELL BLOOD!"
His stomach lurched -
"It's going to kill someone!" he shouted, and ignoring Ron's and Hermione's
bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to
listen over his own pounding footsteps -
Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Ron and Hermione
panting behind him, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last,
deserted passage.
"Harry, what was that all about?" said Ron, wiping sweat off his face. "I
couldn't hear anything. . . ."
But Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.
"Look!"
Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly,
squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the
wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming
torches. the chamber of secrets has been opened. enemies of the heir,
beware.
"What's that thing - hanging underneath?" said Ron, a slight quiver in his
voice.
As they edged nearer, Harry almost slipped - there was a large puddle of
water on the floor; Ron and Hermione grabbed him, and they inched toward
the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them
realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash..Mrs. Norris,


the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch
bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.
For a few seconds, they didn't move. Then Ron said, "Let's get out of here."
"Shouldn't we try and help -" Harry began awkwardly.
"Trust me," said Ron. "We don't want to be found here."
But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that
the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood
came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy
talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the
passage from both ends.
The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted
the hanging cat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the
corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see
the grisly sight.
Then someone shouted through the quiet.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes
alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the
hanging, immobile cat.

C H A P T X IR		N I N E

THE WRTITING
ON THE WALL

What's going on here? What's going on?" Attracted no doubt by
Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the
crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in
horror.

"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Harry.

"You!"he screeched. "You! You've murdered my cat! You've
killed her! I'll kill you! I'll -"

"Argus!"

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other
teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, and Hermione
and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr.
Weasley, Miss Granger."

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

*140*



"My office is nearest, Headmaster - just upstairs - please feel free -"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and
important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall
and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of
movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the
pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit
the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore lay Mrs. Norris
on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool
of candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from
Mrs. Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon
spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor
McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape
loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar
expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And
Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her - probably the Transmogrifian
Torture - I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I
know the very countercurse that would have saved her . .....

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs.
He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris,
his face in his hands. Much as he detested Filch, Harry

*141*

couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as
he felt for himself If Dumbledore believed Filch, he would be expelled
for sure.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and
tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She
continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

". . . I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou,"
said Lockhart, "a series of attacks, the full story's in my
autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various
amulets, which cleared the matter up at once ......

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in
agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair
net.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

"She's not dead, Argus," he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of
murders he had prevented.

"Not dead?" choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris.
"But why's she all - all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," said Dumbledore ("Ah! I thought so!" said
Lockhart). "But how, I cannot say . . . ."

"Ask him!" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to
Harry.

"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "it
would take Dark Magic of the most advanced -"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. "You saw
what he wrote on the wall! He found - in my office - he knows I'm a -
I'm a -" Filch's face worked horribly. "He knows I'm a Squib!" he
finished.

142

"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably
aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the
walls. "And I don't even know what a Squib is."

"Rubbish!" snarled Filch. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"

"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, and
Harry's sense of forboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had
to say was going to do him any good.

"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the
wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he
doubted it. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here.
Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the
Halloween feast?"

Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the
deathday party. ". . . there were hundreds of ghosts, theyll tell you we were
there -"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" said Snape, his black eyes
glittering in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry.

"Because - because -" Harry said, his heart thumping very fast;
something told him it would sound very far-fetched if he told them he
had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear,
"because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," he said.

"Without any supper?" said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across
his gaunt face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people
at their parties."

"We weren't hungry," said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge
rumble.

Snape's nasty smile widened.

*143*

"I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful," he
said. "It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges
until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should
be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be
honest."

"Really, Severus," said Professor McGonagall sharply, "I see no
reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the
head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has
done anything wrong."

Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-
blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

"My cat has been Petrified!" he shrieked, his eyes popping. "I want to
see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," said Dumbledore patiently.
"Professer Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As
soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that
will revive Mrs. Norris."

"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times.
I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep -"

"Excuse me," said Snape icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master
at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.

"You may go," Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When
they were a floor up from Lockhart's office, they turned into

*144*

an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. Harry
squinted at his friends' darkened faces.

"D'you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?"

"No," said Ron, without hesitation. "Hearing voices no one else can
hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."

Something in Ron's voice made Harry ask, "You do believe me, don't
you?"

"'Course I do," said Ron quickly. "But -you must admit it's weird ......

"I know it's weird," said Harry. "The whole thing's weird. What was
that writing on the wall about? The Cbamber Has Been Opened...
What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, it rings a sort of bell," said Ron slowly. "I think someone
told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once ... might've
been Bill . . . ."

"And what on earth's a Squib?" said Harry.

To his surprise, Ron stifled a snigger.

"Well - it's not funny really - but as it's Filch, he said. "A Squib is
someone who was born into a wizarding family but hasn't got any
magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but
Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch's trying to learn magic from a
Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a Squib. It would explain a lot.
Like why he hates students so much." Ron gave a satisfied smile.
"He's bitter."

A clock chimed somewhere.

"Midnight," said Harry. "We'd better get to bed before Snape comes
along and tries to frame us for something else."

*145*



For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on
Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's minds by pacing the spot
where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might
come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall
with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no
effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When
Filch wasn't guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-
eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and
trying to put them in detention for things like "breathing loudly' and
"looking happy."

Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris's fate.
According to Ron, she was a great cat lover.

"But you haven't really got to know Mrs. Norris," Ron told her
bracingly. "Honestly, we're much better off without her." Ginny's lip
trembled. "Stuff like this doesn't often happen at Hogwarts," Ron
assured her. "They'll catch the maniac who did it and have him out of
here in no time. I just hope he's got time to Petrify Filch before he's
expelled. I'm only joking -" Ron added hastily as Ginny blanched.

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was quite usual for
Hermione to spend a lot of time reading, but she was now doing
almost nothing else. Nor could Harry and Ron get much response
from her when they asked what she was up to, and not until the
following Wednesday did they find out.

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay
behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he
went upstairs to meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch-
Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming

*146*

toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say hello when Justin
caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite
direction.

Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring his History of
Magic homework. Professor Binns had asked for a threefoot-long
composition on "The Medieval Assembly of European

	Wizards."
	"I don't believe it, I'm still eight inches short 	said Ron fu

riously, letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll.
"And Hermione's done four feet seven inches and her writing's
tiny. "

"Where is she?" asked Harry, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling
his own homework.

"Somewhere over there," said Ron, pointing along the shelves. "Looking
for another book. I think she's trying to read the whole library before
Christmas."

Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from him.

"Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot," said Ron,
scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible. "All that junk
about Lockhart being so great -"

Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves. She looked irritable
and at last seemed ready to talk to them.

"All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out," she said,
sitting down next to Harry and Ron. "And there's a two-week waiting
list. I wish I hadn't left my copy at home, but I couldn't fit it in my trunk
with all the Lockhart books."

"Why do you want it?" said Harry.

*141*

"The same reason everyone else wants it," said Hermione, "to read
up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets."

"What's that?" said Harry quickly.

"That's just it. I can't remember," said Hermione, biting her lip. "And
I can't find the story anywhere else -"

"Hermione, let me read your composition," said Ron desperately,
checking his watch.

"No, I won't," said Hermione, suddenly severe. "You've had ten
days to finish it -"

"I only need another two inches, come on -"

The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic,
bickering.

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor
Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most
exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the
room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people
said he hadn't noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach
one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the
staff room fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since.

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and
began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly
everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to
long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again.
He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened
that had never happened before. Hermione put up her hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lec

*148*

ture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed.

"Miss - er -?"

"Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything
about the Chamber of Secrets," said Hermione in a clear voice.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open,
gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown's
head came up off her arms and Neville Longbottom's elbow slipped
off his desk.

Professor Binns blinked.

"My subject is History of Magic," he said in his dry, wheezy voice. "I
deal with facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends." He cleared his
throat with a small noise like chalk s!-ping and continued, "In
September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers

"

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione's hand was waving in the air again.

"Miss Grant?"

"Please, sir, don't legends always have a basis in fact?"

Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Harry was
sure no student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead.

"Well," said Professor Binns slowly, "yes, one could argue that, I
suppose." He peered at Hermione as though he had never seen a
student properly before. "However, the legend of which you speak is
such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale -"

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns's every
word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harry

*149*

could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of
interest.

"Oh, very well," he said slowly. "Let me see ... the Chamber of
Secrets ...

"You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand
years ago - the precise date is uncertain - by the four greatest witches
and wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after
them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and
Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying
Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common
people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution."

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued.

"For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking
out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the
castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between
them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin
wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He
believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families.
He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be
untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the
subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the
school."

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled
old tortoise.

"Reliable historical sources tell us this much," he said. "But these
honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the
Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a

*150*

hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew
nothing.

"Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets
so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at
the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of
Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of
all who were unworthy to study magic."

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn't the
usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns's classes. There was
unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for
more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.

"The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course," he said. "Naturally,
the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many
times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A
tale told to frighten the gullible."

Hermione's hand was back in the air.

"Sir - what exactly do you mean by the `horror within' the
Chamber?"

"That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of
Slytherin alone can control," said Professor Binns in his dry, reedy
voice.

The class exchanged nervous looks.

"I tell you, the thing does not exist," said Professor Binns, shuffling his
notes. "There is no Chamber and no monster."

"But, sir," said Seamus Finnigan, "if the Chamber can only be opened
by Slytherin's true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would
they?"

"Nonsense, O'Flaherty," said Professor Binns in an aggravated

*151*

tone. "If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and
headmistresses haven't found the thing -"

"But, Professor," piped up Parvati Patil, "you'd probably have to use
Dark Magic to open it -"

"Just because a wizard doesn't use Dark Magic doesn't mean he
can't, Miss Pennyfeather," snapped Professor Binns. "I repeat, if the
likes of Dumbledore -"

"But maybe you've got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore
couldn't -" began Dean Thomas, but Professor Binns had had
enough.

"That will do," he said sharply. "It is a myth! It does not exist! There
is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a
secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story! We
will return, if you please, to history, to solid, believable, verifiable
fact!"

And within five minutes, the class had sunk back into its usual torpor.

"I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony," Ron told
Harry and Hermione as they fought their way through the teeming
corridors at the end of the lesson to drop off their bags before
dinner. "But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I
wouldn't be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat
had tried to put me in Slytherin, I'd've got the train straight back
home ......

Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn't say anything. His
stomach had just dropped unpleasantly.

Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the Sorting Hat

*152*

had seriously considered putting him in Slytherin. He could remember,
as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear
when he'd placed the hat on his head a year before: You could be great,
you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin would help you on the
way to greatness, no doubt about that...

But Harry, who had already heard of Slytherin House's reputa

tion for turning out Dark wizards, had thought desperately, Not
Slytherin! and the hat had said, Oh, well, if you're sure ... better be
Gryffindor...

As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevy went past.

"Hiya, Harry!"

"Hullo, Colin," said Harry automatically.

"Harry - Harry - a boy in my class has been saying you're

But Colin was so small he couldn~t fight against the tide of people
bearing him toward the Great Hall; they heard him squeak, "See you,
Harry!" and he was gone.

"What's a boy in his class saying about you?" Hermione wondered.

"That I'm Slytherin's heir, I expect," said Harry, his stomach dropping
another inch or so as he suddenly remembered the way Justin Finch-
Fletchley had run away from him at lunchtime.

"People here'll believe anything," said Ron in disgust.

The crowd thinned and they were able to climb the next staircase
without difficulty.

"D'you really think there's a Chamber of Secrets?" Ron asked
Hermione.

"I don't know," she said, frowning. "Dumbledore couldn't cure

* 1,5 % *

Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her
might not be - well - human."

As she spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end
of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped
and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that
there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty
chair stood against the wall bearing the message "The Chamber of
Secrets has been Opened."

"That's where Filch has been keeping guard," Ron muttered.

They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.

"Can't hurt to have a poke around," said Harry, dropping his bag and
getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching
for clues.

"Scorch marks!" he said. "Here - and here -"

"Come and look at this!" said Hermione. "This is funny . . . ."

Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the
wall. Hermione was pointing at the topmost pane, where around
twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a
small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though
they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.

"Have you ever seen spiders act like that?" said Hermione
wonderingly.

"No," said Harry, "have you, Ron? Ron?"

He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well back and seemed
to be fighting the impulse to run.

"What's up?" said Harry.

"I - don't - like - spiders," said Ron tensely.

"I never knew that," said Hermione, looking at Ron in surprise.
"You've used spiders in Potions loads of times ......

*154*

"I don't mind them dead," said Ron, who was carefully looking
anywhere but at the window. "I just don't like the way they move ....

Hermione giggled.

"It's not funny," said Ron, fiercely. "If you must know, when I was
three, Fred turned my - my teddy bear into a great big fiIthy spider
because I broke his toy broomstick .... You wouldn't like them either if
you'd been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and. .
. "

He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously still trying not to
laugh. Feeling they had better get off the subject, Harry said,
"Remember all that water on the floor? Where did that come from?
Someone's mopped it up."

"It was about here," said Ron, recovering himself to walk a few paces
past Filch's chair and pointing. "Level with this door."

He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as
though he'd been burned.

"What's the matter?" said Harry.

"Can't go in there," said Ron gruffly. "That's a girls' toilet."

"Oh, Ron, there won't be anyone in there," said Hermione, standing up
and coming over. "That's Moaning Myrtle's place. Come on, let's have
a look."

And ignoring the large OUT of ORDER sign, she opened the door.

It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set
foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of
chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given
off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the
wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of
them was dangling off its hinges.

* -L 5,5

Hermione put her fingers to her lips and set off toward the end stall.
When she reached it she said, "Hello, Myrtle, how are you?"

Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was floating above the
tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin.

"This is a girls' bathroom," she said, eyeing Ron and Harry suspiciously.
"They're not girls."

"No," Hermione agreed. "I just wanted to show them how er - nice it is
in here."

She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor.

"Ask her if she saw anything," Harry mouthed at Hermione.

"What are you whispering?" said Myrtle, staring at him.

"Nothing," said Harry quickly. "We wanted to ask -"

"I wish people would stop talking behind my back!" said Myrtle, in a
voice choked with tears. "I do have feelings, you know, even if I am
dead -"

"Myrtle, no one wants to upset you," said Hermione. "Harry only -"

"No one wants to upset me! That's a good one!" howled Myrtle. "My
life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along
ruining my death!"

"We wanted to ask you if you've seen anything funny lately," said
Hermione quickly. "Because a cat was attacked right outside your
front door on Halloween."

"Did you see anyone near here that night?" said Harry.

"I wasn't paying attention," said Myrtle dramatically. "Peeves upset me
so much I came in here and tried to kill myself Then, of course, I
remembered that I'm - that I'm "

"Already dead," said Ron helpfully.

* IL 56*

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose up in the air, turned over, and dived
headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing
from sight, although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had
come to rest somewhere in the U-bend.

Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but Hermione shrugged
wearily and said, "Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle ....
Come on, let's go."

Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle's gurgling sobs when a
loud voice made all three of them jump.

"RON!"

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, prefect
badge agleam, an expression of complete shock on his face.

"That's a girls' bathroom!" he gasped. "What were you -?"

"Just having a look around," Ron shrugged. "Clues, you know -"

Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Harry forcefully of Mrs.
Weasley.

"Get - away - from - there -" Perry said, striding toward them and
starting to bustle them along, flapping his arms. "Don't you care what
this looks like? Coming back here while everyone's at dinner -"

"Why shouldn't we be here?" said Ron hotly, stopping short and glaring
at Percy. "Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!"

"That's what I told Ginny," said Percy fiercely, "but she still seems to
think you're going to be expelled, I've never seen her so upset, crying
her eyes out, you might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly
overexcited by this business -"

"You don't care about Ginny," said Ron, whose ears were now

*157*

reddening. "You're just worried I'm going to mess up your chances of
being Head Boy -"

"Five points from Gryffindor!" Percy said tersely, fingering his prefect
badge. "And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more detective work, or
I'll write to Mum!"

And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron's ears.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy
in the common room that night. Ron was still in a very bad temper and
kept blotting his Charms homework. When he reached absently for his
wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the parchment. Fuming almost
as much as his homework, Ron slammed The Standard Book of Spells,
Grade 2 shut. To Harry's surprise, Hermione followed suit.

"Who can it be, though?" she said in a quiet voice, as though
continuing a conversation they had just been having. "Who'd want to
frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?"

"Let's think," said Ron in mock puzzlement. "Who do we know who
thinks Muggle-borns are scum?"

He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, unconvinced.

"If you're talking about Malfoy -"

"Of course I am!" said Ron. "You heard him - `You'll be next,
Mudbloods!'- come on, you've only got to look at his foul rat face to
know it's him -"

"Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?" said Hermione skeptically.

"Look at his family," said Harry, closing his books, too. "The whole lot
of them have been in Slytherin; he's always boasting about it. They
could easily be Slytherin's descendants. His father's definitely evil
enough."

*158*

"They couldve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!"
said Ron. "Handing it down, father to son ......

"Well," said Hermione cautiously, "I suppose it's possible ......

"But how do we prove it?" said Harry darkly.

"There might be a way," said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice still
further with a quick glance across the room at Percy. "Of course, it
would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking
about fifty school rules, I expect -"

"If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know,
won't you?" said Ron irritably.

"All right," said Hermione coldly. "What we'd need to do is to get
inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions
without him realizing it's us."

"But that's impossible," Harry said as Ron laughed.

"No, it's not," said Hermione. "All we'd need would be some Polyjuice
Potion."

"What's that?" said Ron and Harry together.

"Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago -"

"D'you think we've got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to
Snape?" muttered Ron.

"It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could
change into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us.
Malfoy would probably tell us anything. He's probably boasting about it
in the Slytherin common room right now, if only we could hear him."

"This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me," said Ron, frowning.
"What if we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever?"

"It wears off after a while," said Hermione, waving her hand

*159*

impatiently. "But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult.
Snape said it was in a book called Moste Potente Potions and it's
bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library."
There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted
Section: You needed a signed note of permission from a teacher.
"Hard to see why we'd want the book, really," said Ron, "if we
weren't going to try and make one of the potions."
"I think," said Hermione, "that if we made it sound as though
we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance ......
"Oh, come on, no teacher's going to fall for that," said Ron.
"They'd have to be really thick . . . ."

C H-H A P T V It		T 1' N

THE ROGUE BLUDGER

ince 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 Harry to help him with these reconstructions;
so far, Harry 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.

Harry 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, Harry - 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

*161*



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, Harry - 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. Harry returned to the back of the room,
where Ron and Hermione were waiting.

"Ready?" Harry 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, Harry 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?"

-162

"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, Harry," 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. I was a Seeker, too. 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 ......

Harry 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.

*163*

"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.

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 sin

*164*

cerely 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?" said Ron 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 Harry, 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're 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 ='

*165

"I never thought Id see the day when you'd be persuading us to
break rules," said Ron. "All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?"

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

Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking
about the coming Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the
thought of what Wood would say if Gryffindor lost, but also at the
idea of facing a team mounted on the fastest racing brooms gold
could buy. He had never wanted to beat Slytherin so badly. 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

*166*

with a hint of thunder in the air. Ron and Hermione 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.
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 Weasley. "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 Harry.

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

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

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. 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 flew higher than any of
them, squinting around for the Snitch.

*167*

"All right there, Scarhead?" yelled Malfoy, shooting underneath him as
though to show off the speed of his broom.

Harry had no time to reply. At that very moment, 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!" said George, streaking past him with his club in his
hand, ready to knock the Bludger back toward a Slytherin. Harry saw
George give the Bludger a powerful whack in the direction of Adrian
Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight
for Harry again.

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

Fred Weasley 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 onto his glasses. He didn't have a clue what was going on
in the rest of the game until he heard Lee Jordan, who was
commentating, say, "Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero ='

*168*

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. Fred and George were now flying so close to him on
either side that Harry could see nothing at all except their flailing arms
and had no chance to look for the Snitch, let alone catch it.

"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.

"We need time out," said George, 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, and George dived for the ground, still trying to
avoid the mad Bludger.

"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 were you when that Bludger stopped
Angelina scoring?"

"We were twenty feet above her, stopping the other Bludger from
murdering Harry, Oliver," said George angrily. "Someone's fixed it -
it won't leave Harry alone. It hasn'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.

169

"Listen," said Harry as she came nearer and nearer, "with you two
flying around me all the time the only way I'm going to catch the
Snitch is if it flies up my sleeve. Go back to the rest of the team and
let me deal with the rogue one."

"Don't be thick," said Fred. "It'll take your head off."

Wood was looking from Harry to the Weasleys.

(I Oliver, this is insane," said Alicia Spinner angrily. "You can't let Harry
deal with that thing on his own. Let's ask for an inquiry -))

"If we stop now, we'll have to forfeit the match!" said Harry. "And
we're not losing to Slytherin just because of a crazy Bludger! Come
on, Oliver, tell them to leave me alone!"

"This is all your fault," George said angrily to Wood. " `Get the Snitch
or die trying,' what a stupid thing to tell him -"

Madam Hooch had joined them.

"Ready to resume play?" she asked Wood.

Wood looked at the determined look on Harry's face.

"All right," he said. "Fred, George, you heard Harry -leave him alone
and let him deal with the Bludger on his 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; he began a kind of roller-coaster
ride around the

*170*

edges of the stadium, squinting through the silver sheets of rain to the
Gryffindor goal posts, where Adrian Pucey 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 Malfoy 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, glaring back at
Malfoy in hatred, he saw it - the Golden Snitch. It was hovering inches
above Malfoy's left ear - and Malfoy, busy laughing at Harry, 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 his elbow, and Harry felt his arm break. Dimly, dazed by
the searing pain in his arm, he slid sideways on his rain-drenched
broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at
his side - the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time
W-ming 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 his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch;
he felt his fingers close on the cold Snitch but was now only

*171*

gripping the broom with his legs, and there was a yell from the crowd
below as he headed straight for the ground, trying hard not to pass
out.

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. He
focused on the Snitch clutched in his good hand.

"Aha," he said vaguely. "We've won."

And he fainted.

He came around, rain falling on his face, 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, Harry.
I'm about to fix your arm."

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

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

"He should really, Professor," said a muddy Wood, who couldn't
help grinning even though his Seeker was injured. "Great capture,
Harry, really spectacular, your best yet, Id say -"

Through the thicket of legs around him, Harry spotted Fred and

*112*

George Weasley, wrestling the rogue Bludger into a box. It was still
putting up a terrific fight.

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

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

A strange and unpleasant sensation started at Harry's 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, Harry, 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 Harry 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 Harry's bones. He had removed them.

Madam Pomfrey wasn't at all pleased.

"You should have come straight to me!" she raged, holding up

*173*

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 Harry desperately.

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

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

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

"No," said Harry, 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 Harry's mouth and throat as it
went down, making him cough and splutter. Still tut-tutting about
dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey re

*114*

treated, leaving Ron and Hermione to help Harry gulp down some
water.
"We won, though," said Ron, a grin breaking across his face.
"That was some catch you made. Malfoy's face ... he looked ready
to kill ......
"I want to know how he fixed that Bludger," said Hermione
darkly.
"We can add that to the list of questions we'll ask him when
we've taken the Polyjuice Potion," said Harry, 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.
"Unbelievable flying, Harry," said George. "I've just seen Mar
cus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on
top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn't seem too happy."
They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice;
they gathered around Harry's 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 Harry was left alone, with nothing to distract him from the
stabbing pains in his limp arm.

Hours and hours later, Harry 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 Harry
through the darkness. A single tear was running down his long,
pointed nose.

"Harry Potter came back to school," he whispered miserably.
"Dobby warned and warned Harry Potter. Ah sir, why didn't you
heed Dobby? Why didn't Harry Potter go back home when he
missed the train?"

Harry 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?"

Dobby's lip trembled and Harry was seized by a sudden suspicion.

"It was you!" he said slowly. "You stopped the barrier from letting us
through!"

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

He was rocking backward and forward, shaking his ugly head.

"Dobby was 'so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was back at
Hogwarts, he let his master's dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby
never had, sir . .....

*176*

Harry slumped back onto his pillows.

"You nearly got Ron and me expelled," he said fiercely. "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 Harry felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself.

"Why d'you wear that thing, Dobby?" he asked curiously.

"This, sir?" said Dobby, plucking at the pillowcase. "'Tis a mark of the
house-elf's enslavement, sir. Dobby can only be freed if his masters
present him with clothes, sir. The family is careful not to pass Dobby
even a sock, sir, for then he would be free to leave their house
forever."

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

"Your Bludger?" said Harry, anger rising once more. "What d'you
mean, your Bludger? You made that Bludger try and kill me?"

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

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

"Ah, if Harry Potter only knew!" Dobby groaned, more tears dripping
onto his ragged pillowcase. "If he knew what he means

*177*

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-elfs 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.
Harry Potter survived, and the Dark Lord's power was broken, and it
was a new dawn, sir, and Harry Potter shone like a beacon of hope
for those of us who thought the Dark days would never end, sit... And
now, at Hogwarts, terrible things are to happen, are perhaps happening
already, and Dobby cannot let Harry Potter stay here now that history
is to repeat itself, now that the Chamber of Secrets is open once more

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

"Ah, sir, 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
Harry Potter must not be here when they happen - go home, Harry
Potter, go home. Harry Potter must not meddle in this, sir, 'tis too
dangerous -"

"Who is it, Dobby?" Harry said, keeping a firm hold on Dobby's

*178*

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, Harry Potter, go home!"

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

"Harry 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, Harry Potter must not -"

Dobby suddenly froze, his bat ears quivering. Harry heard it, too.
There were footsteps coming down the passageway outside.

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

Next moment, Dumbledore was backing into the dormitory, 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 bed out of sight. Harry lay
quite still, pretending to be asleep. He heard urgent voices, and then
Professor 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.

*l79*

"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 Potter."

Harry'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 the 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. Harry, 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.

*180*

"But, Albus ... surely ... who?"
"The question is not who," said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin.
"The question is, how . . . ."
And from what Harry could see of Professor McGonagall's shad
owy face, she didn't understand this any better than he did.

C H-H A P T t R	ELEVEN

THE D-KJEL]ING C-L-IJIB

Harry woke up on Sunday morning to find the dormitory blazing with
winter sunlight and his arm reboned but very stiff. He sat up quickly
and looked over at Colin's bed, but it had been blocked from view by
the high curtains Harry had changed behind yesterday. Seeing that he
was awake, Madam Pomfrey came bustling over with a breakfast tray
and then began bending and stretching his arm and fingers.

"All in order," she said as he clumsily fed himself porridge lefthanded.
"When you've finished eating, you may leave."

Harry dressed as quickly as he could and hurried off to Gryffindor
Tower, desperate to tell Ron and Hermione about Colin and Dobby,
but they weren't there. Harry left to look for them, wondering where
they could have got to and feeling slightly hurt that they weren't
interested in whether he had his bones back or not.

*182*



As Harry passed the library, Percy Weasley strolled out of it,
looking in far better spirits than last time they'd met.

"Oh, hello, Harry," he said. "Excellent flying yesterday, really
excellent. Gryffindor has just taken the lead for the House Cup you
earned fifty points!"

"You haven't seen Ron or Hermione, have you?" said Harry.

"No, I haven't," said Percy, his smile fading. "I hope Ron's not in
another girls' toilet .....

Harry forced a laugh, watched Percy walk out of sight, and then
headed straight for Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. He couldn't see why
Ron and Hermione would be in there again, but after making sure
that neither Filch nor any prefects were around, he opened the door
and heard their voices coming from a locked stall.

"It's me," he said, closing the door behind him. There was a clunk, a
splash, and a gasp from within the stall and he saw Hermione's eye
peering through the keyhole.

`Harry!" she said. "You gave us such a fright - come in how's your
arm?"

"Fine," said Harry, squeezing into the stall. An old cauldron was
perched on the toilet, and a crackling from under the rim told Harry
they had lit a fire beneath it. Conjuring up portable, waterproof fires
was a speciality of Hermione's.

"We'd've come to meet you, but we decided to get started on the
Polyjuice Potion," Ron explained as Harry, with difficulty, locked the
stall again. "We've decided this is the safest place to hide it."

Harry started to tell them about Colin, but Hermione interrupted.

"We already know - we heard Professor McGonagall telling

Professor Flitwick this morning. That's why we decided we'd better get
going -"

"The sooner we get a confession out of Malfoy, the better," snarled
Ron. "D'you know what I think? He was in such a foul temper after
the Quidditch match, he took it out on Colin."

"There's something else," said Harry, watching Hermione tearing
bundles of knotgrass and throwing them into the potion. "Dobby came
to visit me in the middle of the night."

Ron and Hermione looked up, amazed. Harry told them everything
Dobby had told him - or hadn't told him. Hermione and Ron listened
with their mouths open.

"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?" Hermione said.

"This settles it," said Ron in a triumphant voice. "Lucius Malfoy must've
opened the Chamber when he was at school here and now he's told
dear old Draco how to do it. It's obvious. Wish Dobby'd told you what
kind of monster's in there, though. I want to know how come nobody's
noticed it sneaking around the school."

"Maybe it can make itself invisible," said Hermione, prodding leeches to
the bottom of the cauldron. "Or maybe it can disguise itself - pretend to
be a suit of armor or something - I've read about Chameleon Ghouls -"

"You read too much, Hermione," said Ron, pouring dead lacewings on
top of the leeches. He crumpled up the empty lacewing bag and looked
at Harry.

"So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and broke your

	arm 	He shook his head. "You know what, Harry? If he doesn't

stop trying to save your life he's going to kill you."

*184*

The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying
as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire
school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor
and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in
tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they
ventured forth alone.

Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin Creevey in Charms, was
distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and George were going the
wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking turns covering
themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind
statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic with rage, told
them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell her Ginny was
having nightmares.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans,
amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school.
Neville Longbottom bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a
pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other
Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger; he was a pure-
blood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.

"They went for Filch first," Neville said, his round face fearful. "And
everyone knows I'm almost a Squib."

In the second week of December Professor McGonagall came
around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at
school for Christmas. Harry, Ron, and Hermione signed her list; they
had heard that Malfoy was staying, which struck them as very
suspicious. The holidays would be the perfect time to use the
Polyjuice Potion and try to worm a confession out of him.

Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They still

* 3-85*

needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place
they were going to get them was from Snape's private stores. Harry
privately felt he'd rather face Slytherin's legendary monster than let
Snape catch him robbing his office.

"What we need," said Hermione briskly as Thursday afternoon's
double Potions lesson loomed nearer, "is a diversion. Then one of us
can sneak into Snape's office and take what we need."

Harry and Ron looked at her nervously.

"I think Id better do the actual stealing," Hermione continued in a
matter-of-fact tone. "You two will be expelled if you get into any more
trouble, and I've got a clean record. So all you need to do is cause
enough mayhem to keep Snape busy for five minutes or so.

Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape's Potions
class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye.

Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday
afternoon's lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons
stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass
scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes,
making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors' work while the
Slytherins sniggered appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape's
favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron and Harry, who
knew that if they retaliated they would get detention faster than you
could say "Unfair."

Harry's Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he had his mind on
more important things. He was waiting for Hermione's signal, and he
hardly listened as Snape paused to sneer at his watery

*186*

potion. When Snape turned and walked off to bully Neville, Hermione
caught Harry's eye and nodded.

Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron, pulled one of Fred's
Filibuster fireworks out of his pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his
wand. The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had only
seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it
landed right on target in Goyle's cauldron.

Goyle's potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked
as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and
his nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his
hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner plate -
Snape was trying to restore calm and find out what had happened.
Through the confusion, Harry saw Hermione slip quietly into Snape's
office.

"Silence! SILENCE!" Snape roared. "Anyone who has been splashed,
come here for a Deflating Draft - when I find out who did this -"

Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry forward, his head
drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. As half the
class lumbered up to Snape's desk, some weighted down with arms
like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffedup lips, Harry
saw Hermione slide back into the dungeon, the front of her robes
bulging.

When everyone had taken a swig of antidote and the various swellings
had subsided, Snape swept over to Goyle's cauldron and scooped out
the twisted black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.

*187*

"If I ever find out who threw this," Snape whispered, "I shall make
sure that person is expelled."

Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a puzzled
expression. Snape was looking right at him, and the bell that rang ten
minutes later could not have been more welcome.

"He knew it was me," Harry told Ron and Hermione as they hurried
back to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. "I could tell."

Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to
stir feverishly.

"It'll be ready in two weeks," she said happily.

"Snape can't prove it was you," said Ron reassuringly to Harry.
"What can he do?"

"Knowing Snape, something foul," said Harry as the potion frothed
and bubbled.

A week later, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking across the
entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around
the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been
pinned up. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them
over, looking excited.

"They're starting a Dueling Club!" said Seamus. "First meeting
tonight! I wouldn't mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy
one of these days ......

"What, you reckon Slytherin's monster can duel?" said Ron, but he,
too, read the sign with interest.

"Could be useful," he said to Harry and Hermione as they went into
dinner. "Shall we go?"

Harry and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o'clock that

*188*

evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables
had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by
thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety
black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed
beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

"I wonder who'll be teaching us?" said Hermione as they edged into
the chattering crowd. "Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling
champion when he was young - maybe it'll be him."

"As long as it's not -" Harry began, but he ended on a groan:
Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes
of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing
his usual black.

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called ' "Gather round,
gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me?
Excellent!

"Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start
this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend
yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions - for full
details, see my published works.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," said Lockhart,
flashing a wide smile. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about
dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short
demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you
youngsters to worry - you'll still have your Potions master when I'm
through with him, never fear!"

"Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron muttered in
Harry's ear.

Snape's upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart

*189*

was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that he'd have
been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least,
Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked
his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of
them.

"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative
position," Lockhart told the silent crowd. "On the count of three, we
will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."

"I wouldn't bet on that," Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his
teeth.

"One - two - three -"

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them
at their opponent; Snape cried: "Expelliarmus!" There was a dazzling
flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew
backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to
sprawl on the floor.

Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Hermione was
dancing on tiptoes. "Do you think he's all right?" she squealed through
her fingers.

"Who cares?" said Harry and Ron together.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and
his wavy hair was standing on end.

"Well, there you have it!" he said, tottering back onto the platform.
"That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I've lost my wand - ah,
thank you, Miss Brown - yes, an excellent idea to show them that,
Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying

*190*

so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to
stop you it would have been only too easy - however, I felt it would be
instructive to let them see . . ."

Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because
he said, "Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now
and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me -"

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart
teamed Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry
and Ron first.

"Time to split up the dream team, I think," he sneered. "Weasley, you
can partner Finnigan. Potter -"

Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.

"I don't think so," said Snape, smiling coldly. "Mr. Malfoy, come over
here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss
Granger - you can partner Miss Bulstrode."

Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked a Slytherin girl who
reminded Harry of a picture he'd seen in Holidays with Hags. She was
large and square and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione
gave her a weak smile that she did not return.

"Face your partners!" called Lockhart, back on the platform. "And
bow!"

Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off
each other.

"Wands at the ready!" shouted Lockhart. "When I count to three, cast
your charms to disarm your opponents - only to disarm them - we don't
want any accidents - one ... two ... three -"

*191*

Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already started on "two":
His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as though he'd been hit over the
head with a saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be
working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at
Malfoy and shouted, "Rictusempra!"

A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach and he doubled up,
wheezing.

"I said disarm only!" Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the
battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his knees; Harry had hit him with a
Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung
back, with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch Malfoy
while he was on the floor, but this was a mistake; gasping for breath,
Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry's knees, choked, "Tarantallegra!"
and the next second Harry's legs began to jerk around out of his
control in a kind of quickstep.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge.

"Finite Incantatem!" he shouted; Harry's feet stopped dancing, Malfoy
stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville
and Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an
ashen-faced Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had
done; but Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving;
Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering
in pain; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt
forward and pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot bigger
than he was.

"Dear, dear," said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at
the aftermath of the duels. "Up you go, Macmillan ....

*192*

Careful there, Miss Fawcett .... Pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a
second, Boot

"I think Id better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," said
Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at
Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. "Let's
have a volunteer pair - Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about
you -"

"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," said Snape, gliding over like a large
and malevolent bat. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest
spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the
hospital wing in a matchbox." Neville's round, pink face went pinker.
"How about Malfoy and Potter?" said Snape with a twisted smile.

"Excellent idea!" said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the
middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

"Now, Harry," said Lockhart. "When Draco points his wand at you,
you do this."

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling
action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up,
saying, "Whoops -my wand is a little overexcited -"

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something
in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too. Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart
and said, "Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?"

"Scared?" muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn't hear him.

"You wish," said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. "Just do what I did,
Harry!"

"What, drop my wand?"

But Lockhart wasn't listening.

"Three - two - one - go!" he shouted.

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, "Serpensortia!"

The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, as a long black
snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and
raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd
backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

"Don't move, Potter," said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of
Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. "I'll get
rid of it ......

"Allow me!" shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake
and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten
feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged,
hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and
raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Harry wasn't sure what made him do it. He wasn't even aware of
deciding to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him
forward as though he was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly
at the snake, "Leave him alone!" And miraculously - inexplicably - the
snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its
eyes now on Harry. Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the
snake wouldn't attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn't
have explained.

He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking

*194*

relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful - but certainly not angry and
scared.

"What do you think you're playing at?" he shouted, and before Harry
could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a
small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an
unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry
didn't like it. He was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all
around the walls. Then he felt a tugging on the back of his robes.

"Come on," said Rods voice in his ear. "Move - come on -"

Ron steered him out of the hall, Hermione hurrying alongside them. As
they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as
though they were frightened of catching something. Harry didn't have
a clue what was going on, and neither Ron nor Hermione explained
anything until they had dragged him all the way up to the empty
Gryffindor common room. Then Ron pushed Harry into an armchair
and said, "You're a Parselmouth. Why didn't you tell us?"

"I'm a what?" said Harry.

`A Parselmouth!" said Ron. "You can talk to snakes!"

"I know," said Harry. "I mean, that's only the second time I've ever
done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the
zoo once - long story - but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil
and I sort of set it free without meaning to that was before I knew I
was a wizard -"

"A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?" Ron repeated
faintly.

*195*

"So?" said Harry. "I bet loads of people here can do it."

"Oh, no they can't," said Ron. "It's not a very common gift. Harry, this
is bad."

"What's bad?" said Harry, starting to feel quite angry. "What's wrong
with everyone? Listen, if I hadn't told that snake not to attack Justin -"

"Oh, that's what you said to it?"

"What d'you mean? You were there - you heard me -"

"I heard you speaking Parseltongue," said Ron. "Snake language. You
could have been saying anything - no wonder Justin panicked, you
sounded like you were egging the snake on or something - it was
creepy, you know -"

Harry gaped at him.

"I spoke a different language? But - I didn't realize - how can I speak
a language without knowing I can speak it?"

Ron shook his head. Both he and Hermione were looking as though
someone had died. Harry couldn't see what was so terrible.

"D'you want to tell me what's wrong with stopping a massive snake
biting off Justin's head?" he said. "What does it matter how I did it as
long as Justin doesn't have to join the Headless Hunt?"

"It matters," said Hermione, speaking at last in a hushed voice,
"because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was
famous for. That's why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent."

Harry's mouth fell open.

"Exactly," said Ron. "And now the whole school's going to think you're
his great-great-great-great-grandson or something -"

"But I'm not," said Harry, with a panic he couldn't quite explain.

"You'll find that hard to prove," said Hermione. "He lived about a
thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be."

* IL96 *

Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains
around his four-poster he watched snow starting to drift past the
tower window and wondered . . .

Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slithering? He didn't know
anything about his father's family, after all. The Dursleys had always
forbidden questions about his wizarding relatives.

Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue. The words
wouldn't come. It seemed he had to be face-to-face with a snake to
do it.

	But I'm in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat wouldn't
have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood...

Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the Sorting Hat wanted to
put you in Slytherin, don't you remember?

Harry turned over. He'd see Justin the next day in Herbology and he'd
explain that he'd been calling the snake off, not egging it on, which (he
thought angrily, pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized.

By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had
turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the
term was canceled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves
on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else,
now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and
revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey.

Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor common
room, while Ron and Hermione used their time off to play a game of
wizard chess.

"For heaven's sake, Harry," said Hermione, exasperated, as one

*197*

of Ron's bishops wrestled her knight off his horse and dragged him off
the board. "Go and find Justin if it's so important to you."

So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where
Justin might be.

The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the
thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Harry walked
past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of
what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at
someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger.
Resisting the urge to take a look, Harry walked on by, thinking that
Justin might be using his free time to catch up on some work, and
deciding to check the library first.

A group of the Hufliepuffs who should have been in Herbology were
indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn't seem to be
working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see
that their heads were close together and they were having what looked
like an absorbing conversation. He couldn't see whether Justin was
among them. He was walking toward them when something of what
they were saying met his ears, and he paused to listen, hidden in the
Invisibility section.

"So anyway," a stout boy was saying, "I told Justin to hide up in our
dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter's marked him down as his next
victim, it's best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin's
been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to
Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually told him he'd been down
for Eton. That's not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin's
heir on the loose, is it?"

"You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?" said a girl with blonde
pigtails anxiously.

198

"Hannah," said the stout boy solemnly, "he's a Parselmouth. Everyone
knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a
decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself
Serpent-tongue."

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie went on,
"Remember what was written on the wall? Enemies of the Heir,
Beware. Potter had some sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we
know, Flich's cat's attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying
Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him while he was
lying in the mud. Next thing we know - Creevey's been attacked."

"He always seems so nice, though," said Hannah uncertainly, "and,
well, he's the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can't be
all bad, can he?"

Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and
Harry edged nearer so that he could catch Ernie's words.

"No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I
mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have
been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard
could have survived a curse like that." He dropped his voice until it
was barely more than a whisper, and said, "That's probably why You-
Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn't want another
Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter's
been hiding?"

Harry couldn't take anymore. Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped out
from behind the bookshelves. If he hadn't been feeling so angry, he
would have found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of the
Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been Petrified by the sight of
him, and the color was draining out of Ernie's face.

*199*

"Hello," said Harry. "I'm looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley."

The Hufepuffs' worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all
looked fearfully at Ernie.

"What do you want with him?" said Ernie in a quavering voice.

"I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the
Dueling Club," said Harry.

Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, "We
were all there. We saw what happened."

"Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?"
said Harry.

"All I saw," said Ernie stubbornly, though he was trembling as he
spoke, "was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake
toward Justin. "

"I didn't chase it at him!" Harry said, his voice shaking with anger. "It
didn't even touch him!"

"It was a very near miss," said Ernie. "And in case you're getting
ideas," he added hastily, "I might tell you that you can trace my
family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and
my blood's as pure as anyone's, so -"

- cc I don't care what sort of blood you've got!" said Harry fiercely.
"Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?"

"I've heard you hate those Muggles you live with," said Ernie swiftly.

"It's not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them," said
Harry. "Id like to see you try it."

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, earning himself
a reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was polishing the gilded
cover of a large spellbook.

*200*

Harry blundered up the corridor, barely noticing where he was going,
he was in such a fury. The result was that he walked into something
very large and solid, which knocked him backward onto the floor.

"Oh, hello, Hagrid," Harry said, looking up.

Hagrid's face was entirely hidden by a woolly, snow-covered
balaclava, but it couldn't possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of
the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging
from one of his massive, gloved hands.

"All righ', Harry?" he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could
speak. "Why aren't yeh in class?"

"Canceled," said Harry, getting up. "What're you doing in here?"

Hagrid held up the limp rooster.

"Second one killed this term," he explained. "It's either foxes or a
Blood-Suckin Bugbear, an' I need the Headmaster's permission ter
put a charm around the hen coop."

He peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, snowflecked
eyebrows.

"Yeh sure yeh're all righ'? Yeh look all hot an' bothered -"

Harry couldn't bring himself to repeat what Ernie and the rest of the
Hufflepuffs had been saying about him.

"It's nothing," he said. "Id better get going, Hagrid, it's Transfiguration
next and I've got to pick up my books."

He walked off, his mind still full of what Ernie had said about him.

	"Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he
let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born .....

* 2 0 IL *

Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor,
which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a
strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. He
was halfway down the passage when he tripped headlong over
something lying on the floor.

He turned to squint at what he'd fallen over and felt as though his
stomach had dissolved.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of
shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And
that wasn't all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight
Harry had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and
transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal,
six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an
expression of shock identical to Justin's.

Harry got to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a
kind of drumroll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the
deserted corridor and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they
could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled
voices of teachers from the classes on either side.

He could run, and no one would ever know he had been there. But
he couldn't just leave them lying here .... He had to get help ....
Would anyone believe he hadn't had anything to do with this?

As he stood there, panicking, a door right next to him opened with a
bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.

"Why, it's potty wee Potter!" cackled Peeves, knocking Harry's
glasses askew as he bounced past him. "What's Potter up to? Why's
Potter lurking -"

*202*

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down,
he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right
way up, filled his lungs and, before Harry could stop him, screamed,
"ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL
OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!
ATTAAAACK!"

Crash - crash - crash - door after door flew open along the corridor
and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene
of such confusion that Justin was in danger of being squashed and
people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry found himself
pinned against the wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. Professor
McGonagall came running, followed by her own class, one of whom
still had black-and-white-striped hair. She used her wand to set off
aloud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into
their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie
the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.

"Caught in the act!" Ernie yelled, his face stark white, pointing his
finger dramatically at Harry.

"That will do, Macmillan!" said Professor McGonagall sharply.

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the
scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justin
and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:

"Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done,
You're killing off' students, you think it's good fun -"

"That's enough Peeves!" barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves
zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry.

*203*

Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and
Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed
to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor
McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to
Ernie with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs.
This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This
left Harry and Professor McGonagall alone together.

"This way, Potter," she said.

"Professor," said Harry at once, "I swear I didn't -"

"This is out of my hands, Potter," said Professor McGonagall curtly.

They marched in silence around a corner and she stopped before a
large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.

"Lemon drop!" she said. This was evidently a password, because the
gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind
him split in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry
couldn't fail to be amazed. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that
was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As he and Professor
McGonagall stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind
them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last,
slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass
knocker in the shape of a griffin.

He knew now where he was being taken. This must be where
Dumbledore lived.

*204*

C I3 A P T V RR	T W E I V

THE POLYJUICE POTION

hey stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor
McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered.
Professor McGonagall told Harry to wait and left him there, alone.

Harry looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers'
offices Harry had visited so far this year, Dumbledore's was by far
the most interesting. If he hadn't been scared out of his wits that he
was about to be thrown out of school, he would have been very
pleased to have a chance to look around it.

It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A
number of curious silver instruments stood on spindlelegged tables,
whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered
with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom
were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous,
claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered
wizard's hat - the Sorting Hat.

*205*



Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and
wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn't hurt if he took the hat down
and tried it on again? Just to see ... just to make sure it had put him in
the right House

He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and
lowered it slowly onto his head. It was much too large and slipped
down over his eyes, just as it had done the last time he'd put it on.
Harry stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice
said in his ear, "Bee in your bonnet, Harry Potter?"

"Er, yes," Harry muttered. "Er - sorry to bother you - I wanted to ask -
"

"You've been wondering whether I put you in the right House," said
the hat smartly. "Yes ... you were particularly difficult to place. But I
stand by what I said before" - Harry's heart leapt - "you would have
done well in Slytherin -"

Harry's stomach plummeted. He grabbed the point of the hat and
pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand, grubby and faded. Harry
pushed it back onto its shelf, feeling sick.

"You're wrong," he said aloud to the still and silent hat. It didn't move.
Harry backed away, watching it. Then a strange, gagging noise behind
him made him wheel around.

He wasn't alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door
was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey.
Harry stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its
gagging noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull
and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.

Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore's

pet bird to die while he was alone in the office with it, when the bird
burst into flames.

Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. He looked
feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but
couldn't see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave
one loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smouldering
pile of ash on the floor.

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.

"Professor," Harry gasped. "Your bird - I couldn't do anything - he just
caught fire -"

To Harry's astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.

"About time, too," he said. "He's been looking dreadful for days; I've
been telling him to get a move on."

He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry's face.

"Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is
time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him . . ."

Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke
its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.

"It's a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore,
seating himself behind his desk. "He's really very handsome most of
the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures,
phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have
healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had forgotten what he
was there for, but it all came back to him as Dumbledore settled

himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his
penetrating, light-blue stare.

Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of
the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild
look in his eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head
and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand.

"It wasn' Harry, Professor Dumbledore!" said Hagrid urgently. "I was
talkin' ter him seconds before that kid was found, he never had time, sir -
"

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on,
waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers
everywhere.

"- it can't've bin him, I'll swear it in front o' the Ministry o' Magic if I
have to -"

"Hagrid, I -"

"- yeh've got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never ='

"Hagrid!" said Dumbledore loudly. "I do not think that Harry
attacked those people."

"Oh," said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. "Right. I'll wait
outside then, Headmaster."

And he stomped out looking embarrassed.

"You don't think it was me, Professor?" Harry repeated hopefully as
Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.

"No, Harry, I don't," said Dumbledore, though his face was somber
again. "But I still want to talk to you."

Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered him, the tips of
his long fingers together.

*208*

"I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you'd like to tell me,"
he said gently. "Anything at all."

Harry didn't know what to say. He thought of Malfoy shouting, "You'll
be next, Mudbloods!" and of the Polyjuice Potion simmering away in
Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Then he thought of the disembodied
voice he had heard twice and remembered what Ron had said:
"Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the
wizarding world." He thought, too, about what everyone was saying
about him, and his growing dread that he was somehow connected
with Salazar Slytherin ....

"No," said Harry. "There isn't anything, Professor . . . ."

The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned what
had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly
Headless Nick's fate that seemed to worry people most. What could
possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible
power could harm someone who was already dead? There was
almost a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that
students could go home for Christmas.

"At this rate, we'll be the only ones left," Ron told Harry and
Hermione. "Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it's
going to be."

Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy did, had signed
up to stay over the holidays, too. But Harry was glad that most people
were leaving. He was tired of people skirting around him in the
corridors, as though he was about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired
of all the muttering, pointing, and hissing as he passed.

*209*

Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of
their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting,
"Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming
through ......

Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior.

"It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly.

"Oh, get out of the way, Percy," said Fred. "Harry's in a hurry."

"Yeah, he's off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his
fanged servant," said George, chortling.

Ginny didn't find it amusing either.

"Oh, don't," she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he
was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Harry
off with a large clove of garlic when they met.

Harry didn't mind; it made him feel better that Fred and George, at
least, thought the idea of his being Slytherin's heir was quite ludicrous.
But their antics seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked
increasingly sour each time he saw them at it.

"It's because he's bursting to say it's really him," said Ron knowingly.
"You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you're
getting all the credit for his dirty work."

"Not for long," said Hermione in a satisfied tone. "The Polyjuice
Potion's nearly ready. We'll be getting the truth out of him any day
now."

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds
descended on the castle. Harry found it peaceful, rather than gloomy,
and enjoyed the fact that he, Hermione, and the Weasleys had the run
of Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could

*210*

play Exploding Snap loudly without bothering anyone, and practice
dueling in private. Fred, George, and Ginny had chosen to stay at
school rather than visit Bill in Egypt with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.
Percy, who disapproved of what he termed their childish behavior,
didn't spend much time in the Gryffindor common room. He had
already told them pompously that he was only staying over Christmas
because it was his duty as a prefect to support the teachers during
this troubled time.

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry and Ron, the only
ones left in their dormitory, were woken very early by Hermione,
who burst in, fully dressed and carrying presents for them both.

"Wake up," she said loudly, pulling back the curtains at the window.

"Hermione - you're not supposed to be in here -" said Ron, shielding
his eyes against the light.

"Merry Christmas to you, too," said Hermione, throwing him his
present. "I've been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to
the potion. It's ready."

Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," said Hermione, shifting Scabbers the rat so that she could
sit down on the end of Ron's four-poster. "If we're going to do it, I
say it should be tonight."

At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, carrying a very
small package in her beak.

"Hello," said Harry happily as she landed on his bed. "Are you
speaking to me again?"

211

She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way, which was a far
better present than the one that she had brought him, which turned
out to be from the Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a
note telling him to find out whether he'd be able to stay at Hogwarts
for the summer vacation, too.

The rest of Harry's Christmas presents were far more satisfactory.
Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle fudge, which Harry decided
to soften by the fire before eating; Ron had given him a book called
Flying with the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about his favorite
Quidditch team, and Hermione had bought him a luxury eagle-feather
quill. Harry opened the last present to find a new, hand-knitted
sweater from Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. He read her card
with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr. Weasley's car (which
hadn't been seen since its crash with the Whomping Willow), and the
bout of rule-breaking he and Ron were planning next.

No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice Potion later,
could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen
frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and
mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling,
warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his
favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every
goblet of eggnog he consumed. Percy, who hadn't noticed that Fred
had bewitched his prefect badge so that it now read "Pinhead," kept
asking them all what they were sniggering at. Harry didn't even care
that Draco Malfoy was making loud, snide remarks

* 2:L2 *

about his new sweater from the Slytherin table. With a bit of luck,
Malfoy would be getting his comeuppance in a few hours' time.

Harry and Ron had barely finished their third helpings of Christmas
pudding when Hermione ushered them out of the hall to finalize their
plans for the evening.

"We still need a bit of the people you're changing into," said
Hermione matter-of-facdy, as though she were sending them to the
supermarket for laundry detergent. "And obviously, it'll be best if you
can get something of Crabbe's and Goyle's; they're Malfoys best
friends, he'll tell them anything. And we also need to make sure the
real Crabbe and Goyle can't burst in on us while we're interrogating
him.

"I've got it all worked out," she went on smoothly, ignoring Harry's
and Ron's stupefied faces. She held up two plump chocolate cakes.
"I've filled these with a simple Sleeping Draught. All you have to do is
make sure Crabbe and Goyle find them. You know how greedy they
are, they're bound to eat them. Once they're asleep, pull out a few of
their hairs and hide them in a broom closet."

Harry and Ron looked incredulously at each other.

"Hermione, I don't think -"

"That could go seriously wrong -"

But Hermione had a steely glint in her eye not unlike the one
Professor McGonagall sometimes had.

"The potion will be useless without Crabbe's and Goyle's hair," she
said sternly. "You do want to investigate Malfoy, don't you?"

"Oh, all right, all right," said Harry. "But what about you? Whose hair
are you ripping out?"

*213*

"I've already got mine!" said Hermione brightly, pulling a tiny bottle
out of her pocket and showing them the single hair inside it.
"Remember Millicent Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling
Club? She left this on my robes when she was trying to strangle me!
And she's gone home for Christmas - so I'll just have to tell the
Slytherins I've decided to come back."

When Hermione had bustled off to check on the Polyjuice Potion
again, Ron turned to Harry with a doom-laden expression.

"Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things could go
wrong?"

But to Harry's and Ron's utter amazement, stage one of the
operation went just as smoothly as Hermione had said. They lurked
in the deserted entrance hall after Christmas tea, waiting for Crabbe
and Goyle who had remained alone at the Slytherin table, shoveling
down fourth helpings of trifle. Harry had perched the chocolate
cakes on the end of the banisters. When they spotted Crabbe and
Goyle coming out of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron hid quickly
behind a suit of armor next to the front door.

"How thick can you get?" Ron whispered ecstatically as Crabbe
gleefully pointed out the cakes to Goyle and grabbed them. Grinning
stupidly, they stuffed the cakes whole into their large mouths. For a
moment, both of them chewed greedily, looks of triumph on their
faces. Then, without the smallest change of expression, they both
keeled over backward onto the floor.

By far the hardest part was hiding them in the closet across the hall.
Once they were safely stowed among the buckets and mops, Harry
yanked out a couple of the bristles that covered Goyle's fore

* _2 14 *

head and Ron pulled out several of Crabbe's hairs. They also stole
their shoes, because their own were far too small for Crabbe- and
Goyle-size feet. Then, still stunned at what they had just done, they
sprinted up to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

They could hardly see for the thick black smoke issuing from the stall
in which Hermione was stirring the cauldron. Pulling their robes up
over their faces, Harry and Ron knocked softly on the door.

"Hermione?"

They heard the scrape of the lock and Hermione emerged, shiny-
faced and looking anxious. Behind her they heard the gloop gloop
of the bubbling, glutinous potion. Three glass tumblers stood ready on
the toilet seat.

"Did you get them?" Hermione asked breathlessly.

Harry showed her Goyle's hair.

"Good. And I sneaked these spare robes out of the laundry," Hermione
said, holding up a small sack. "You'll need bigger sizes once you're
Crabbe and Goyle."

The three of them stared into the cauldron. Close up, the potion looked
like thick, dark mud, bubbling sluggishly.

"I'm sure I've done everything right," said Hermione, nervously
rereading the splotched page of Moste Potente Potions. "It looks like the
book says it should ... once we've drunk it, we'll have exactly an hour
before we change back into ourselves."

"Now what?" Ron whispered.

"We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs."

Hermione ladled large dollops of the potion into each of the glasses.
Then, her hand trembling, she shook Millicent Bulstrode's hair out of
its bottle into the first glass.

*215*

The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly. A
second later, it had turned a sick sort of yellow.

"Urgh - essence of Millicent Bulstrode," said Ron, eyeing it with
loathing. "Bet it tastes disgusting."

"Add yours, then," said Hermione.

Harry dropped Goyle's hair into the middle glass and Ron put Crabbe's
into the last one. Both glasses hissed and frothed: Goyle's turned the
khaki color of a booger, Crabbe's a dark, murky brown.

"Hang on," said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached for their glasses.
"We'd better not all drink them in here .... Once we turn into Crabbe
and Goyle we won't fit. And Millicent Bulstrode's no pixie.

"Good thinking," said Ron, unlocking the door. "We'll take separate
stalls."

Careful not to spill a drop of his Polyjuice Potion, Harry slipped into
the middle stall.

"Ready?" he called.

"Ready," came Ron's and Hermione's voices.

"One - two - three -"

Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in two large gulps. It
tasted like overcooked cabbage.

Immediately, his insides started writhing as though he'd just swallowed
live snakes - doubled up, he wondered whether he was going to be
sick - then a burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to the
very ends of his fingers and toes - next, bringing him gasping to all
fours, came a horrible melting feeling, as the skin all over his body
bubbled like hot wax - and before his eyes, his hands began to grow,
the fingers thickened, the nails broadened,

* 2116 *

the knuckles were bulging like bolts -his shoulders stretched painfully
and a prickling on his forehead told him that hair was creeping down
toward his eyebrows - his robes ripped as his chest expanded like a
barrel bursting its hoops - his feet were agony in shoes four sizes too
small

As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. Harry lay facedown
on the stone-cold floor, listening to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end
toilet. With difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So this was
what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand trembling, he pulled off
his old robes, which were hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on
the spare ones, and laced up Goyle's boatlike shoes. He reached up to
brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the short growth of wiry
bristles, low on his forehead. Then he realized that his glasses were
clouding his eyes because Goyle obviously didn't need them - he took
them off and called, "Are you two okay?" Goyle's low rasp of a voice
issued from his mouth.

"Yeah," came the deep grunt of Crabbe from his right.

Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of the cracked mirror.
Goyle stared back at him out of dull, deepset eyes. Harry scratched
his ear. So did Goyle.

Ron's door opened. They stared at each other. Except that he looked
pale and shocked, Ron was indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the
pudding-bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms.

"This is unbelievable," said Ron, approaching the mirror and prodding
Crabbe's flat nose. "Unbelievable. "

"We'd better get going," said Harry, loosening the watch that was
cutting into Goyle's thick wrist. "We've still got to find out

* 217*

where the Slytherin common room is. I only hope we can find
someone to follow. . ."

Ron, who had been gazing at Harry, said, "You don't know how
bizarre it is to see Goyle thinking." He banged on Hermione's door.
"C'mon, we need to go -"

A high-pitched voice answered him.

"I - I don't think I'm going to come after all. You go on without me.

"Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode's ugly, no one's going to
know it's you -"

"No - really - I don't think I'll come. You two hurry up, you re
wasting time

Harry looked at Ron, bewildered.

"That looks more like Goyle," said Ron. "That's how he looks every
time a teacher asks him a question."

"Hermione, are you okay?" said Harry through the door.

"Fine - I'm fine - go on -"

Harry looked at his watch. Five of their precious sixty minutes had
already passed.

"We'll meet you back here, all right?" he said.

Harry and Ron opened the door of the bathroom carefully, checked
that the coast was clear, and set off.

"Don't swing your arms like that," Harry muttered to Ron.

"Eh?"

"Crabbe holds them sort of stiff . . . ."

"How's this?"

"Yeah, that's better . . . ."

They went down the marble staircase. All they needed now was

*218*

a Slytherin that they could follow to the Slytherin common room, but
there was nobody around.

"Any ideas?" muttered Harry.

"The Slytherins always come up to breakfast from over there," said
Ron, nodding at the entrance to the dungeons. The words had barely
left his mouth when a girl with long, curly hair emerged from the
entrance.

"Excuse me," said Ron, hurrying up to her. "We've forgotten the way
to our common room."

"I beg your pardon?" said the girl stiffly. "Our common room? I'm a
Ravenclaw."

She walked away, looking suspiciously back at them.

Harry and Ron hurried down the stone steps into the darkness, their
footsteps echoing particularly loudly as Crabbe's and Goyle's huge
feet hit the floor, feeling that this wasn't going to be as easy as they
had hoped.

The labyrinthine passages were deserted. They walked deeper and
deeper under the school, constantly checking their watches to see
how much time they had left. After a quarter of an hour, just when
they were getting desperate, they heard a sudden movement ahead.

"Ha!" said Ron excitedly. "There's one of them now!"

The figure was emerging from a side room. As they hurried nearer,
however, their hearts sank. It wasn't a Slytherin, it was Percy.

"What're you doing down here?" said Ron in surprise.

Percy looked affronted.

"That," he said stiffly, "is none of your business. It's Crabbe, isn't it?"

2 19

"Wh - oh, yeah," said Ron.

"Well, get off to your dormitories," said Percy sternly. "It's not safe to
go wandering around dark corridors these days."

"You are," Ron pointed out.

"I," said Percy, drawing himself up, "am a prefect. Nothing's about to
attack me."

A voice suddenly echoed behind Harry and Ron. Draco Malfoy was
strolling toward them, and for the first time in his life, Harry was
pleased to see him.

"There you are," he drawled, looking at them. "Have you two been
pigging out in the Great Hall all this time? I've been looking for you; I
want to show you something really funny."

Malfoy glanced witheringly at Percy.

"And what're you doing down here, Weasley?" he sneered.

Percy looked outraged.

"You want to show a bit more respect to a school prefect!" he said. "I
don't like your attitude!"

Malfoy sneered and motioned for Harry and Ron to follow him. Harry
almost said something apologetic to Percy but caught himself just in
time. He and Ron hurried after Malfoy, who said as they turned into
the next passage, "That Peter Weasley -"

"Percy," Ron corrected him automatically.

"Whatever," said Malfoy. "I've noticed him sneaking around a lot
lately. And I bet I know what he's up to. He thinks he's going to catch
Slytherin's heir single-handed."

He gave a short, derisive laugh. Harry and Ron exchanged excited
looks.

Malfoy paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.

* 220 *

"What's the new password again?" he said to Harry.

"Er -" said Harry.

"Oh, yeah -pure-blood!" said Malfoy, not listening, and a stone door
concealed in the wall slid open. Malfoy marched through it, and
Harry and Ron followed him.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room
with rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, greenish lamps
were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately
carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were
silhouetted around it in high-backed chairs.

"Wait here," said Malfoy to Harry and Ron, motioning them to a pair
of empty chairs set back from the fire. "I'll go and get it my father's
just sent it to me -"

Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them, Harry and Ron
sat down, doing their best to look at home.

Malfoy came back a minute later, holding what looked like a
newspaper clipping. He thrust it under Ron's nose.

"That'll give you a laugh," he said.

Harry saw Ron's eyes widen in shock. He read the clipping quickly,
gave a very forced laugh, and handed it to Harry.

It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it said:

INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office,
was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft
and Wizardry, where the

221

enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr.
Weasley's resignation.

"Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute," Mr. Malfoy told our
reporter. "He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous
Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately."

Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told
reporters to clear off or she'd set the family ghoul on them.

"Well?" said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the clipping back to
him. "Don't you think it's funny?"

"Ha, ha," said Harry bleakly.

"Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in
half and go and join them," said Malfoy scornfully. "You'd never know
the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave."

Ron's - or rather, Crabbe's - face was contorted with fury.

"What's up with you, Crabbe?" snapped Malfoy.

"Stomachache," Ron grunted.

"Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick
from me," said Malfoy, snickering. "You know, I'm surprised the Daily
Prophet hasn't reported all these attacks yet," he went on thoughtfully.
"I suppose Dumbledore's trying to hush it all up. He'll be sacked if it
doesn't stop soon. Father's always said old Dumbledore's the worst
thing that's ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A
decent headmaster would never've let slime like that Creevey in."

*222*

Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a
cruel but accurate impression of Colin: "`Potter, can I have your
picture, Potter? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes,
please, Potter?"'

He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron.

"What's the matter with you two?"

Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to laugh, but Malfoy
seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were always slow on
the uptake.

"Saint Potter, the Mudbloods' friend," said Malfoy slowly. "He's
another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn't go around
with that jumped up Granger Mudblood. And people think he's
Slytherin's heir!"

Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was surely seconds
away from telling them it was him - but then

"I wish I knew who it is," said Malfoy petulantly. "I could help them."

Ron's jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more clueless than
usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn't notice, and Harry, thinking fast,
said, "You must have some idea who's behind it all ......

"You know I haven't, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?"
snapped Malfoy. "And Father won't tell me anything about the last
time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years
ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says
that it was all kept quiet and it'll look suspicious if I know too much
about it. But I know one thing - last time the Chamber of Secrets
was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it's a matter of time before
one of them's killed this time .... I hope it's Granger," he said with
relish.

Ron was clenching Crabbe's gigantic fists. Feeling that it would be a
bit of a giveaway if Ron punched Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning
look and said, "D'you know if the person who opened the Chamber
last time was caught?"

"Oh, yeah ... whoever it was was expelled," said Malfoy. "They're
probably still in Azkaban."

"Azkaban?" said Harry, puzzled.

"Azkaban - the wizard prison, Goyle," said Malfoy, looking at him in
disbelief "Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going
backward."

He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, "Father says to keep my
head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the
school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed
up in it. Of course, he's got a lot on his plate at the moment. You
know the Ministry of Magic raided our manor last week?"

Harry tried to force Goyle's dull face into a look of concern.

"Yeah. . ." said Malfoy. "Luckily, they didn't find much. Father's got
some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we've got our own
secret chamber under the drawing-room floor

-"

"Ho!" said Ron.

Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed. Even his hair was
turning red. His nose was also slowly lengthening - their hour was
up, Ron was turning back into himself, and from the look of horror
he was suddenly giving Harry, he must be, too.

They both jumped to their feet.

"Medicine for my stomach," Ron grunted, and without further ado
they sprinted the length of the Slytherin common room, hurled
themselves at the stone wall, and dashed up the passage, hoping
against hope that Malfoy hadn't noticed anything. Harry

224

could feel his feet slipping around in Goyle's huge shoes and had to
hoist up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the steps into the dark
entrance hall, which was full of a muffled pounding coming from the
closet where they'd locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes
outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks up the marble
staircase toward Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"Well, it wasn't a complete waste of time," Ron panted, closing the
bathroom door behind them. "I know we still haven't found out who's
doing the attacks, but I'm going to write to Dad tomorrow and tell him
to check under the Malfoys' drawing room."

Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was back to normal.
He put his glasses on as Ron hammered on the door of Hermione's
stall.

"Hermione, come out, we've got loads to tell you -"

"Go away!" Hermione squeaked.

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

"What's the matter?" said Ron. "You must be back to normal by now,
we are

But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the stall door. Harry had
never seen her looking so happy.

"Ooooooh, wait till you see," she said. "It's awful-"

They heard the lock slide back and Hermione emerged, sobbing, her
robes pulled up over her head.

"What's up?" said Ron uncertainly. "Have you still got Millicent's nose
or something?"

Hermione let her robes fall and Ron backed into the sink.

Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had turned yellow and
there were long, pointed ears poking through her hair.

"It was a c-cat hair!" she howled. "M-Millicent Bulstrode

*225*

m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn't supposed to be used for
animal transformations!"

"Uh-oh," said Ron.

"You'll be teased something dreadful," said Myrtle happily.

"It's okay, Hermione," said Harry quickly. "We'll take you up to the
hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey never asks too many questions ......

It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way with a hearty guffaw. "Wait
till everyone finds out you've got a tail!"

ermione remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a
flurry of rumor about her disappearance when the rest of the school
arrived back from their Christmas holidays, because of course
everyone thought that she had been attacked. So many students filed
past the hospital wing trying to catch a glimpse of her that Madam
Pomfrey took out her curtains again and placed them around
Hermione's bed, to spare her the shame of being seen with a furry
face.

Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. When the new term
started, they brought her each day's homework.

"If Id sprouted whiskers, Id take a break from work," said Ron, tipping
a stack of books onto Hermione's bedside table one evening.

"Don't be silly, Ron, I've got to keep up," said Hermione briskly. Her
spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had

* "21 *



gone from her face and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown.
"I don't suppose you've got any new leads?" she added in a whisper,
so that Madam Pomfrey couldn't hear her.

"Nothing," said Harry gloomily.

"I was so sure it was Malfoy," said Ron, for about the hundredth time.

"What's that?" asked Harry, pointing to something gold sticking out
from under Hermione's pillow.

"Just a get well card," said Hermione hastily, trying to poke it out of
sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He pulled it out, flicked it open,
and read aloud:

"To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned
teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class,
Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner
of Witch Weekly's Most- Charming-Smile Award. "

Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.

"You sleep with this under your pillow?"

But Hermione was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping
over with her evening dose of medicine.

"Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you've ever met, or what?" Ron
said to Harry as they left the infirmary and started up the stairs
toward Gryffindor Tower. Snape had given them so much
homework, Harry thought he was likely to be in the sixth year before
he finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had asked Hermione
how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a HairRaising
Potion when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their
ears.

"That's Filch," Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and
paused, out of sight, listening hard.

* 228*

"You don't think someone else's been attacked?" said Ron tensely.

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Flich's voice, which
sounded quite hysterical.

`= even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to
do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore -"

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a
distant door slam.

They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been
manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot
where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what
Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over
half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from
under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had
stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the
bathroom walls.

"Now what's up with her?" said Ron.

"Let's go and see," said Harry, and holding their robes over their
ankles they stepped through the great wash of water to the door
bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign, ignored it as always, and entered.

Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever
before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in
the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great
rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.

"What's up, Myrtle?" said Harry.

"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably. "Come to throw something
else at me?"

Harry waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw
something at you?"

*229*

"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more
water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "Here I am,
minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a
book at me ......

"But it can't hurt you if someone throws something at you," said
Harry, reasonably. "I mean, it'd just go right through you, wouldn't
it?"

He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked,
"Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it! Ten points
if you can get it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through
her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don't think!"

"Who threw it at you, anyway?" asked Harry.

"I don't know... I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about
death, and it fell right through the top of my head," said Myrtle,
glaring at them. "It's over there, it got washed out ......

Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing. A
small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as
wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to
pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.

"What?" said Harry.

"Are you crazy?" said Ron. "It could be dangerous."

"Dangerous?"said Harry, laughing. "Come off it, how could it be
dangerous?"

"You'd be surprised," said Ron, who was looking apprehensively at
the book. "Some of the books the Ministry's confiscated Dad's told
me - there was one that burned your eyes out. And

*2%0*

everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest
of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could
never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it,
trying to do everything one-handed. And -"

"All right, I've got the point," said Harry.

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.

"Well, we won't find out unless we look at it," he said, and he ducked
around Ron and picked it up off the floor.

Harry saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover
told him it was fifty years old. He opened it eagerly. On the first page
he could just make out the name "T M. Riddle" in smudged ink.

"Hang on," said Ron, who had approached cautiously and was looking
over Harry's shoulder. "I know that name .... T. M. Riddle got an
award for special services to the school fifty years ago."

"How on earth d'you know that?" said Harry in amazement.

"Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in
detention," said Ron resentfully. "That was the one I burped slugs all
over. If you'd wiped slime off a name for an hour, you'd remember it,
too."

Harry peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank.
There wasn't the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even
Auntie Mabel's birthday, or dentist, half-past three.

"He never wrote in it," said Harry, disappointed.

"I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?" said Ron curiously.

Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name
of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.

*231 *

"He must've been Muggle-born," said Harry thoughtfufly. "To have
bought a diary from Vauxhall Road ......

"Well, it's not much use to you," said Ron. He dropped his voice. "Fifty
points if you can get it through Myrtle's nose."

Harry, however, pocketed it.

Hermione left the hospital wing, de-whiskered, tail-less, and furfree, at
the beginning of February. On her first evening back in Gryffindor
Tower, Harry showed her T. M. Riddle's diary and told her the story
of how they had found it.

"Oooh, it might have hidden powers," said Hermione enthusiastically,
taking the diary and looking at it closely.

"If it has, it's hiding them very well," said Ron. "Maybe it's shy. I don't
know why you don't chuck it, Harry."

"I wish I knew why someone did try to chuck it," said Harry. "I
wouldn't mind knowing how Riddle got an award for special services
to Hogwarts either."

"Could've been anything," said Ron. "Maybe he got thirty O.WL.s or
saved a teacher from the giant squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that
would've done everyone a favor .....

But Harry could tell from the arrested look on Hermione's face that
she was thinking what he was thinking.

"What?" said Ron, looking from one to the other.

"Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, wasn't it?"
he said. "That's what Malfoy said."

"Yeah. . ." said Ron slowly.

"And this diary is fifty years old," said Hermione, tapping it excitedly.

*232*

a so?

.

"Oh, Ron, wake up," snapped Hermione. "We know the person who
opened the Chamber last time was expelled fifty years ago. We know
T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years
ago. Well, what if Riddle got his special award for catching the Heir of
Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything - where the
Chamber is, and how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in it -
the person who's behind the attacks this time wouldn't want that lying
around, would they?"

"That's a brilliant theory, Hermione," said Ron, "with just one tiny little
flaw. There's nothing written in his diary."

But Hermione was pulling her wand out of her bag.

"It might be invisible ink!" she whispered.

She tapped the diary three times and said, "Aparecium!"

Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermione shoved her hand back into
her bag and pulled out what appeared to be a bright red eraser.

"It's a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley," she said.

She rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened.

"I'm telling you, there's nothing to find in there," said Ron. "Riddle just
got a diary for Christmas and couldn't be bothered filling it in."

Harry couldn't explain, even to himself, why he didn't just throw
Riddle's diary away. The fact was that even though he knew the diary
was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages,
as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And while Harry was
sure he had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed
to mean something to him, almost as though

* 233 *

Riddle was a friend he'd had when he was very small, and had
halfforgotten. But this was absurd. He'd never had friends before
Hogwarts, Dudley had made sure of that.

Nevertheless, Harry was determined to find out more about Riddle, so
next day at break, he headed for the trophy room to examine Riddle's
special award, accompanied by an interested Hermione and a
thoroughly unconvinced Ron, who told them he'd seen enough of the
trophy room to last him a lifetime.

Riddle's burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet. It
didn't carry details of why it had been given to him ("Good thing, too,
or it'd be even bigger and Id still be polishing it," said Ron). However,
they did find Riddle's name on an old Medal for Magical Merit, and on
a list of old Head Boys.

"He sounds like Percy," said Ron, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
"Prefect, Head Boy ... probably top of every class -"

"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Hermione in a slightly hurt
voice.

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside
the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no
more attacks since those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and
Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were
becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving
childhood.

"The moment their acne clears up, they'll be ready for repotting again,"
Harry heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. "And after that, it
won't be long until we're cutting them up and stewing them. You'll
have Mrs. Norris back in no time."

* 243 *

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her nerve, thought Harry.
It must be getting riskier and riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets,
with the school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster,
whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to hibernate for
another fifty years ....

Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn't take this cheerful view. He was
still convinced that Harry was the guilty one, that he had "given
himself away" at the Dueling Club. Peeves wasn't helping matters; he
kept popping up in the crowded corridors singing "Oh, Potter, you
rotter . . ." now with a dance routine to match.

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks
stop. Harry overheard him telling Professor McGonagall so while the
Gryffindors were lining up for Transfiguration.

"I don't think there'll be any more trouble, Minerva," he said, tapping
his nose knowingly and winking. "I think the Chamber has been locked
for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter
of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I
came down hard on him.

"You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash
away the memories of last term! I won't say any more just now, but I
think I know just the thing . . . ."

He tapped his nose again and strode off.

Lockhart's idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on
February fourteenth. Harry hadn't had much sleep because of a late-
running Quidditch practice the night before, and he hurried down to
the Great Hall, slightly late. He thought, for a moment, that he'd
walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse

* 235*

still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Harry
went over to the Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting looking
sickened, and Hermione seemed to have been overcome with giggles.

"What's going on?" Harry asked them, sitting down and wiping confetti
off his bacon.

Ron pointed to the teachers' table, apparently too disgusted to speak.
Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was
waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking
stony-faced. From where he sat, Harry could see a muscle going in
Professor McGonagall's cheek. Snape looked as though someone had
just fed him a large beaker of Skele-Gro.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart shouted. "And may I thank the
forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the
liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all - and it doesn't end
here!"

Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall
marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however.
Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.

"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" beamed Lockhart. "They will be
roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun
doesn't stop here! I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter into the
spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how
to whip up a Love Potion! And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick
knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've
ever met, the sly old dog!"

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was look

* 236

ing as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be
force-fed poison.

"Please, Hermione, tell me you weren't one of the forty-six, 51 said Ron
as they left the Great Hall for their first lesson. Hermione suddenly
became very interested in searching her bag for her schedule and
didn't answer.

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver
valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers, and late that afternoon as
the Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, one of the dwarfs
caught up with Harry.

"Oy, you! 'Arty Potter!" shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf,
elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry.

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line
of first years, which happened to include Ginny Weasley, Harry tried
to escape. The dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by
kicking people's shins, and reached him before he'd gone two paces.

"I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Arry Potter in person," he
said, twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way.

"Not here," Harry hissed, trying to escape.

"Stay still!" grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of Harry's bag and pulling
him back.

"Let me go!" Harry snarled, tugging.

With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His books, wand,
parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and his ink bottle smashed
over everything.

Harry scrambled around, trying to pick it all up before the dwarf
started singing, causing something of a holdup in the corridor.

*237*

"What's going on here?" came the cold, drawling voice of Draco
Malfoy. Harry started stuffing everything feverishly into his ripped
bag, desperate to get away before Malfoy could hear his musical
valentine.

"What's all this commotion?" said another familiar voice as Percy
Weasley arrived.

Losing his head, Harry tried to make a run for it, but the dwarf
seized him around the knees and brought him crashing to the floor.

"Right," he said, sitting on Harry's ankles. "Here is your singing
valentine:

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,

His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord

Harry would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the
spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, his
feet numb from the weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his
best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth.

"Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class,
now," he said, shooing some of the younger students away. "And you,
Malfoy-"

Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something.
Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry realized that
he'd got Riddle's diary.

"Give that back," said Harry quietly.

"Wonder what Potter's written in this?" said Malfoy, who obvi

* 238

ously hadn't noticed the year on the cover and thought he had
Harry's own diary. A hush fell over the onlookers. Ginny was staring
from the diary to Harry, looking terrified.

"Hand it over, Malfoy," said Percy sternly.

"When I've had a look," said Malfoy, waving the diary tauntingly at
Harry.

Percy said, "As a school prefect -" but Harry had lost his temper. He
pulled out his wand and shouted, "Expelliarmus!" and just as
Snape had disarmed Lockhart, so Malfoy found the diary shooting
out of his hand into the air. Ron, grinning broadly, caught it.

"Harry!" said Percy loudly. "No magic in the corridors. I'll have to
report this, you know!"

But Harry didn't care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and that was worth
five points from Gryffindor any day. Malfoy was looking furious, and
as Ginny passed him to enter her classroom, he yelled spitefully after
her, "I don't think Potter liked your valentine much!"

Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into class. Snarling,
Ron pulled out his wand, too, but Harry pulled him away. Ron didn't
need to spend the whole of Charms belching slugs.

It wasn't until they had reached Professor Flitwick's class that Harry
noticed something rather odd about Riddle's diary. All his other
books were drenched in scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as
clean as it had been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it. He
tried to point this out to Ron, but Ron was having trouble with his
wand again; large purple bubbles were blossoming out of the end,
and he wasn't much interested in anything else.

Harry went to bed before anyone else in his dormitory that night. This
was partly because he didn't think he could stand Fred and George
singing, "His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad" one more time,
and partly because he wanted to examine Riddle's diary again, and
knew that Ron thought he was wasting his time.

Harry sat on his four-poster and flicked through the blank pages, not
one of which had a trace of scarlet ink on it. Then he pulled a new
bottle out of his bedside cabinet, dipped his quill into it, and dropped a
blot onto the first page of the diary.

The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it
was being sucked into the page, vanished. Excited, Harry loaded up
his quill a second time and wrote, "My name is Harry Potter."

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without
trace. Then, at last, something happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Harry
had never written.

"Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my
diary?"

These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry had started to
scribble back.

"Someone tried to flush it down a toilet."

He waited eagerly for Riddle's reply.

"Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink.
But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this
diary read. "

"What do you mean?" Harry scrawled, blotting the page in his
excitement.

*240*

`I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were
covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry. "

"That's where I am now," Harry wrote quickly. "I'm at Hogwarts, and
horrible stuff's been happening. Do you know anything about the
Chamber of Secrets?"

His heart was hammering. Riddle's reply came quickly, his writing
becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew.

"Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it
was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the
Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally
killing one. I caught the person whod opened the Chamber and he was
expelled. But the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing
had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given
out that thegirl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny,
engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I
knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the
power to release it was not imprisoned. "

Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write back.

"It's happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one
seems to know who's behind them. Who was it last time?"

"I can show you, if you like, "came Riddle's reply. "You don't have

to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night
when I caught him. "

Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle
mean? How could he be taken inside somebody else's memory? He
glanced nervously at the door to the dormitory, which was

*241*

growing dark. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words
forming.

"Let me show you. "

Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters.

(40K.55

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind,
stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open,
Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have
turned into a miniscule television screen. His hands trembling slightly,
he raised the book to press his eye against the little window, and
before he knew what was happening, he was tilting forward; the
window was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he was
pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color
and shadow.

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred
shapes around him came suddenly into focus.

He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the
sleeping portraits was Dumbledore's office - but it wasn't Dumbledore
who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, fraillooking wizard, bald
except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by
candlelight. Harry had never seen this man before.

"I'm sorry," he said shakily. "I didn't mean to butt in -"

But the wizard didn't look up. He continued to read, frowning slightly.
Harry drew nearer to his desk and stammered, "Er - I'll just go, shall
I?"

Still the wizard ignored him. He didn't seem even to have heard him.
Thinking that the wizard might be deaf, Harry raised his voice.

*242*

"Sorry I disturbed you. I'll go now," he half-shouted.

The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, walked past
Harry without glancing at him, and went to draw the curtains at his
window.

The sky outside the window was ruby-red; it seemed to be sunset.
The wizard went back to the desk, sat down, and twiddled his thumbs,
watching the door.

Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the phoenix - no whirring
silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it,
meaning that this unknown wizard was Headmaster, not Dumbledore,
and he, Harry, was little more than a phantom, completely invisible to
the people of fifty years ago.

There was a knock on the office door.

"Enter," said the old wizard in a feeble voice.

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver
prefect's badge was glinting on his chest. He was much taller than
Harry, but he, too, had jet-black hair.

"Ah, Riddle," said the Headmaster.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" said Riddle. He looked
nervous.

"Sit down," said Dippet. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me.

"Oh," said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very
tightly.

"My dear boy," said Dipper kindly, "I cannot possibly let you stay at
school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the
holidays?"

"No," said Riddle at once. "Id much rather stay at Hogwarts than go
back to that - to that -"

* 243*

"You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?" said
Dippet curiously.

"Yes, sir," said Riddle, reddening slightly.

"You are Muggle-born?"

"Half-blood, sir," said Riddle. "Muggle father, witch mother."

"And are both your parents -?"

"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the
orphanage she lived just long enough to name me - Tom after my
father, Marvolo after my grandfather."

Dipper clucked his tongue sympathetically.

"The thing is, Tom," he sighed, "Special arrangements might have
been made for you, but in the current circumstances . . . ."

"You mean all these attacks, sir?" said Riddle, and Harry's heart
leapt, and he moved closer, scared of missing anything.

"Precisely," said the headmaster. "My dear boy, you must see how
foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when
term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy ... the death of
that poor little girl .... You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As
a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about
closing the school. We are no nearer locating the er - source of all
this unpleasantness . . . ."

Riddle's eyes had widened.

"Sir - if the person was caught - if it all stopped -"

"What do you mean?" said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting
up in his chair. "Riddle, do you mean you know something about
these attacks?"

"No, sir," said Riddle quickly.

But Harry was sure it was the same sort of "no" that he himself had
given Dumbledore.

*244*

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.

"You may go, Tom ......

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry
followed him.

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the
gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did
Harry, watching him. Harry could tell that Riddle was doing some
serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.

Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off,
Harry gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn't see another person
until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long,
sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the marble
staircase.

"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?"

Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-year-
younger Dumbledore.

"I had to see the headmaster, sir," said Riddle.

"Well, hurry off to bed," said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the
kind of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. "Best not to roam the
corridors these days. Not since . . ."

He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle
watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed
straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot
pursuit.

But to Harry's disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden
passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which
Harry had Potions with Snape. The torches hadn't been lit, and when
Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just

*2 45 *

see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.

It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an hour. All he could
see was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack,
waiting like a statue. And just when Harry had stopped feeling
expectant and tense and started wishing he could return to the present,
he heard something move beyond the door.

Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard whoever it was
pass the dungeon where he and Riddle were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a
shadow, edged through the door and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind
him, forgetting that he couldn't be heard.

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle
stopped suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises.
Harry heard a door creak open, and then someone speaking in a
hoarse whisper.

"C'mon ... gotta get yeh outta here .... C'mon now ... in the box. . ."

There was something familiar about that voice ....

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry stepped out behind
him. He could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching
in front of an open door, a very large box next to it.

"Evening, Rubeus," said Riddle sharply.

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.

"What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

Riddle stepped closer.

"It's all over," he said. "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus.
They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

4 6

"N" at d'yeh -"

"I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make
good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and -"

"It never killed no one!" said the large boy, backing against the
closed door. From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and
clicking.

"Come on, Rubeus," said Riddle, moving yet closer. "The dead girl's
parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make
sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered ......

"It wasn't him!" roared the boy, his voice echoing in the dark
passage. "He wouldn'! He never!"

"Stand aside," said Riddle, drawing out his wand.

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind
the large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall
opposite. And out of it came something that made Harry let out a
long, piercing scream unheard by anyone

A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of
many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers - Riddle raised his
wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it
scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle
scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the
huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down,
yelling, "NO000000!"

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harry felt himself
falling and, with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster
in the Gryffindor dormitory, Riddle's diary lying open on his stomach.

*24 7*

Before he had had time to regain his breath, the dormitory door
opened and Ron came in.

"There you are," he said.

Harry sat up. He was sweating and shaking.

"What's up?" said Ron, looking at him with concern.

"It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty
years ago."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that Hagrid had an
unfortunate liking for large and monstrous creatures. During their first
year at Hogwarts he had tried to raise a dragon in his little wooden
house, and it would be a long time before they forgot the giant, three-
headed dog he'd christened "Fluffy." And if, as a boy, Hagrid had
heard that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle, Harry was
sure he'd have gone to any lengths for a glimpse of it. He'd probably
thought it was a shame that the monster had been cooped up so
long, and thought it deserved the chance to stretch its many legs;
Harry could just imagine the thirteen-year-old Hagrid trying to fit a
leash and collar on it. But he was equally certain that Hagrid would
never have meant to kill anybody.

Harry half wished he hadn't found out how to work Riddle's diary.
Again and again Ron and Hermione made him recount what

he'd seen, until he was heartily sick of telling them and sick of the
long, circular conversations that followed.

"Riddle might have got the wrong person," said Hermione. "Maybe it
was some other monster that was attacking people . . . ."

"How many monsters d'you think this place can hold?" Ron asked
dully.

"We always knew Hagrid had been expelled," said Harry miserably.
"And the attacks must've stopped after Hagrid was kicked out.
Otherwise, Riddle wouldn't have got his award."

Ron tried a different tack.

"Riddle does sound like Percy - who asked him to squeal on Hagrid,
anyway?"

"But the monster had killed someone, Ron," said Hermione.

"And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle orphanage if they
closed Hogwarts," said Harry. "I don't blame him for wanting to stay
here ......

"You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn't you, Harry?"

"He was buying a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent," said Harry quickly.

The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermione voiced the
knottiest question of all in a hesitant voice.

"Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?"

"That'd be a cheerful visit," said Ron. "'Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have
you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?"'

In the end, they decided that they would not say anything to Hagrid
unless there was another attack, and as more and more days went by
with no whisper from the disembodied voice, they became

hopeful that they would never need to talk to him about why he had
been expelled. It was now nearly four months since Justin and Nearly
Headless Nick had been Petrified, and nearly everybody seemed to
think that the attacker, whoever it was, had retired for good. Peeves
had finally got bored of his "Oh, Potter, you rotter" song, Ernie
Macmillan asked Harry quite politely to pass a bucket of leaping
toadstools in Herbology one day, and in March several of the
Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in greenhouse three. This
made Professor Sprout very happy.

"The moment they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll
know they're fully mature," she told Harry. "Then we'll be able to
revive those poor people in the hospital wing."

The second years were given something new to think about during
their Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for
the third year, a matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.

"it could affect our whole future," she told Harry and Ron as they
pored over lists of new subjects, marking them with checks.

"I just want to give up Potions," said Harry.

"We can't," said Ron gloomily. "We keep all our old subjects, or I'd've
ditched Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"But that's very important!" said Hermione, shocked.

"Not the way Lockhart teaches it," said Ron. "I haven't learned
anything from him except not to set pixies loose."

Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from all the witches and
wizards in his family, all giving him different advice on what to
choose. Confused and worried, he sat reading the subject lists with

his tongue poking out, asking people whether they thought Arithmancy
sounded more difficult than the study of Ancient Runes. Dean
Thomas, who, like Harry, had grown up with Muggles, ended up
closing his eyes and jabbing his wand at the list, then picking the
subjects it landed on. Hermione took nobody's advice but signed up for
everything.

Harry smiled grimly to himself at the thought of what Uncle Vernon
and Aunt Petunia would say if he tried to discuss his career in
wizardry with them. Not that he didn't get any guidance: Percy
Weasley was eager to share his experience.

"Depends where you want to go, Harry," he said. "It's never too early
to think about the future, so Id recommend Divination. People say
Muggle Studies is a soft option, but I personally think wizards should
have a thorough understanding of the non-magical community,
particularly if they're thinking of working in close contact with them -
look at my father, he has to deal with Muggle business all the time. My
brother Charlie was always more of an outdoor type, so he went for
Care of Magical Creatures. Play to your strengths, Harry."

But the only thing Harry felt he was really good at was Quidditch. In
the end, he chose the same new subjects as Ron, feeling that if he was
lousy at them, at least he'd have someone friendly to help him.

Gryffindor's next Quidditch match would be against Hufflepuff. Wood
was insisting on team practices every night after dinner, so that Harry
barely had time for anything but Quidditch and homework. However,
the training sessions were getting better, or at least

drier, and the evening before Saturday's match he went up to his
dormitory to drop off his broomstick feeling Gryffindor's chances for
the Quidditch cup had never been better.

But his cheerful mood didn't last long. At the top of the stairs to the
dormitory, he met Neville Longbottom, who was looking frantic.

"Harry - I don't know who did it - I just found -"

Watching Harry fearfully, Neville pushed open the door.

The contents of Harry's trunk had been 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 realized what wasn't there.

"Riddle's diary's gone," he said in an undertone to Ron.

"What?"

Harry jerked his head toward the dormitory door and Ron followed
him out. They hurried 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 the 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 locker. room, his only comfort
was that everyone was now outside to watch the game.

The teams walked onto the field to tumultuous applause. Oliver
Wood took off for a warm-up flight around the goal posts; 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
toward 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 make their way back to the House common
rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further
information. As quickly as you can, please!"

Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned Harry over to her.

"Potter, I think you'd better come with me ......

Wondering how she could possibly suspect him this time, Harry saw
Ron detach himself from the complaining crowd; he came running up
to them as they set off toward the castle. To Harry's surprise,
Professor McGonagall didn't object.

"Yes, perhaps you'd better come, too, Weasley .....

Some of the students swarming around them were grumbling about
the match being canceled; others looked worried. Harry and Ron
followed Professor McGonagall back into the school and up the
marble staircase. But they weren't taken to anybody's office this time.

"This will be a bit of a shock," said Professor McGonagall in a
surprisingly gentle voice as they approached the infirmary. "There has
been another attack ... another double attack."

Harry's insides did a horrible somersault. Professor McGonagall
pushed the door open and he and Ron entered. .

Madam Pomfrey was bending over a fifth-year girl with long, curly
hair. Harry recognized her as the Ravenclaw they'd accidentally
asked for directions to the Slytherin common room. And on the bed
next to her was

"Hermione!" Ron groaned.

Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy.

"They were found near the library," said Professor McGonagall. "I
don't suppose either of you can explain this? It was on the floor next
to them ......

She was holding up a small, circular mirror.

Harry and Ron shook their heads, both staring at Hermione.

"I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower," said Professor
McGonagall heavily. "I need to address the students in any case.

"All students will return to their House common rooms by six o'clock
in the evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time.
You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use
the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All further Quidditch
training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more
evening activities."

The Gryffindors packed inside the common room listened to Professor
McGonagall in silence. She rolled up the parchment

from which she had been reading and said in a somewhat choked
voice, "I need hardly add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is
likely that the school will be closed unless the culprit behind these
attacks is caught. I would urge anyone who thinks they might know
anything about them to come forward."

She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait hole, and the
Gryffindors began talking immediately.

"That's two Gryffindors down, not counting a Gryffindor ghost, one
Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff, " said the Weasley twins' friend Lee
Jordan, counting on his fingers. "Haven't any of the teachers noticed
that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn't it obvious all this stuff's coming
from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin, the monster of Slytherin - why
don't they just chuck all the Slytherins out?" he roared, to nods and
scattered applause.

Percy Weasley was sitting in a chair behind Lee, but for once he didn't
seem keen to make his views heard. He was looking pale and stunned.

"Percy's in shock," George told Harry quietly. "That Ravenclaw girl -
Penelope Clearwater - she's a prefect. I don't think he thought the
monster would dare attack a prefect."

But Harry was only half-listening. He didn't seem to be able to get rid
of the picture of Hermione, lying on the hospital bed as though carved
out of stone. And if the culprit wasn't caught soon, he was looking at a
lifetime back with the Dursleys. Tom Riddle had turned Hagrid in
because he was faced with the prospect of a Muggle orphanage if the
school closed. Harry now knew exactly how he had felt.

"What're we going to do?" said Ron quietly in Harry's ear. "D'you
think they suspect Hagrid?"

"We've got to go and talk to him," said Harry, making up his
mind. "I can't believe it's him this time, but if he set the monster
loose last time he'll know how to get inside the Chamber of Secrets,
and that's a start."
"But McGonagall said we've got to stay in our tower unless we're
in class -"
"I think," said Harry, more quietly still, "it's time to get my dad's
old cloak out again."

Harry had inherited) ust one thing from his father: a long and sil
very Invisibility Cloak. It was their only chance of sneaking out of
the school to visit Hagrid without anyone knowing about it. They
went to bed at the usual time, waited until Neville, Dean, and Sea
mus had stopped discussing the Chamber of Secrets and finally
fallen asleep, then got up, dressed again, and threw the cloak over
themselves.
The journey through the dark and deserted castle corridors
wasn't enjoyable. Harry, who had wandered the castle at night sev
eral times before, had never seen it so crowded after sunset. Teach
ers, prefects, and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs,
staring around for any unusual activity. Their Invisibility Cloak
didn't stop them making any noise, and there was a particularly
tense moment when Ron stubbed his toe only yards from the spot
where Snape stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at
almost exactly the moment Ron swore. It was with relief that they
reached the oak front doors and eased them open.
It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the lit windows
of Hagrid's house and pulled off the cloak only when they were
right outside his front door.

Seconds after they had knocked, Hagrid flung it open. They found
themselves face-to-face with him aiming a crossbow at them. Fang
the boarhound barked loudly behind him.

"Oh," he said, lowering the weapon and staring at them. "What're
you two doin' here?"

"What's that for?" said Harry, pointing at the crossbow as they
stepped inside.

"Nothin' - nothin' - " Hagrid muttered. "I've bin expectin' doesn'
matter - Sit down - I'll make tea -"

He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He nearly
extinguished the fire, spilling water from the kettle on it, and then
smashed the teapot with a nervous jerk of his massive hand.

"Are you okay, Hagrid?" said Harry. "Did you hear about
Hermione?"

"Oh, I heard, all righ'," said Hagrid, a slight break in his voice.

He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He poured them both
large mugs of boiling water (he had forgotten to add tea bags) and
was just putting a slab of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud
knock on the door.

Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Harry and Ron exchanged
panicstricken looks, then threw the Invisibility Cloak back over
themselves and retreated into a corner. Hagrid checked that they
were hidden, seized his crossbow, and flung open his door once
more.

"Good evening, Hagrid."

It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly serious, and was
followed by a second, very odd-looking man.

The stranger had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and
was wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a

scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm
he carried a lime-green bowler.

"That's Dad's boss!" Ron breathed. "Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of
Magic!"

Harry elbowed Ron hard to make him shut up.

Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into one of his chairs
and looked from Dumbledore to Cornelius Fudge.

"Bad business, Hagrid," said Fudge in rather clipped tones. "Very bad
business. Had to come. Four attacks on Muggle-borns. Things've gone
far enough. Ministry's got to act."

"I never," said Hagrid, looking imploringly at Dumbledore. "You know I
never, Professor Dumbledore, sir -"

"I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my full confidence,"
said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge.

"Look, Albus," said Fudge, uncomfortably. "Hagrid's record's against
him. Ministry's got to do something - the school governors have been
in touch -"

"Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid away will not help
in the slightest," said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were full of a fire
Harry had never seen before.

"Look at it from my point of view," said Fudge, fidgeting with his
bowler. "I'm under a lot of pressure. Got to be seen to be doing
something. If it turns out it wasn't Hagrid, he'll be back and no more
said. But I've got to take him. Got to. Wouldn't be doing my duty -"

"Take me?" said Hagrid, who was trembling. "Take me where?"

"For a short stretch only," said Fudge, not meeting Hagrid's eyes. "Not
a punishment, Hagrid, more a precaution. If someone else is caught,
you'll be let out with a full apology -"



"Not Azkaban?" croaked Hagrid.

Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the door.

Dumbledore answered it. It was Harry's turn for an elbow in the ribs;
he'd let out an audible gasp.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid's hut, swathed in a long black
traveling cloak, smiling a cold and satisfied smile. Fang started to
growl.

"Already here, Fudge," he said approvingly. "Good, good. . ."

"What're you doin' here?" said Hagrid furiously. "Get outta my house!"

"My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being
inside your - er - d'you call this a house?" said Lucius Malfoy, sneering
as he looked around the small cabin. "I simply called at the school and
was told that the headmaster was here."

"And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?" said Dumbledore.
He spoke politely, but the fire was still blazing in his blue eyes.

"Dreadful thing, Dumbledore," said Malfoy lazily, taking out a long roll
of parchment, "but the governors feel it's time for you to step aside.
This is an Order of Suspension - you'll find all twelve signatures on it.
I'm afraid we feel you're losing your touch. How many attacks have
there been now? Two more this afternoon, wasn't it? At this rate,
there'll be no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what
an awful loss that would be to the school."

"Oh, now, see here, Lucius," said Fudge, looking alarmed,
"Dumbledore suspended - no, no - last thing we want just now

262

"The appointment - or suspension - of the headmaster is a matter for
the governors, Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. "And as
Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks -"

"See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can't stop them," said Fudge, whose
upper lip was sweating now, "I mean to say, who can?"

"That remains to be seen," said Mr. Malfoy with a nasty smile. "But as
all twelve of us have voted -"

Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing the ceiling.

'An' how many did yeh have ter threaten an' blackmail before they
agreed, Malfoy, eh?" he roared.

"Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead you into trouble
one of these days, Hagrid," said Mr. Malfoy. "I would advise you not
to shout at the Azkaban guards like that. They won't like it at all."

"Yeh can' take Dumbledore!" yelled Hagrid, making Fang the
boarhound cower and whimper in his basket. "Take him away, an' the
Muggle-borns won' stand a chance! There'll be killin' next!"

"Calm yourself, Hagrid," said Dumbledore sharply. He looked at
Lucius Malfoy.

"If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of course step aside
-"

"But -" stuttered Fudge.

"No!"growled Hagrid.

Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off Lucius Malfoy's
cold gray ones.

"However," said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly and clearly so that
none of them could miss a word, "you will find that I will

* 26$*

ummer was creeping over the grounds around the castle; sky and lake
alike turned periwinkle blue and flowers large as cabbages burst into
bloom in the greenhouses. But with no Hagrid visible from the castle
windows, striding the grounds with Fang at his heels, the scene didn't
look right to Harry; no better, in fact, than the inside of the castle,
where things were so horribly wrong.

Harry and Ron had tried to visit Hermione, but visitors were now
barred from the hospital wing.

"We're taking no more chances," Madam Pomfrey told them severely
through a crack in the infirmary door. "No, I'm sorry, there's every
chance the attacker might come back to finish these people off . . ."

With Dumbledore gone, fear had spread as never before, so that the
sun warming the castle walls outside seemed to stop at the mullioned
windows. There was barely a face to be seen in the school

* 265*



that didn't look worried and tense, and any laughter that rang through
the corridors sounded shrill and unnatural and was quickly stifled.

Harry constantly repeated Dumbledore's final words to himself "I will
only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me... Help will
always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it." But what good
were these words? Who exactly were they supposed to ask for help,
when everyone was just as confused and scared as they were?

Hagrid's hint about the spiders was far easier to understand the
trouble was, there didn't seem to be a single spider left in the castle to
follow. Harry looked everywhere he went, helped (rather reluctantly)
by Ron. They were hampered, of course, by the fact that they weren't
allowed to wander off on their own but had to move around the castle
in a pack with the other Gryffindors. Most of their fellow students
seemed glad that they were being shepherded from class to class by
teachers, but Harry found it very irksome.

One person, however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the
atmosphere of terror and suspicion. Draco Malfoy was strutting
around the school as though he had just been appointed Head Boy.
Harry didn't realize what he was so pleased about until the Potions
lesson about two weeks after Dumbledore and Hagrid had left, when,
sitting right behind Malfoy, Harry overheard him gloating to Crabbe
and Goyle.

"I always thought Father might be the one who got rid of
Dumbledore," he said, not troubling to keep his voice down. "I told you
he thinks Dumbledore's the worst headmaster the school's ever

*266*

had. Maybe we'll get a decent headmaster now. Someone who won't
want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall won't last long,
she's only filling in ......

Snape swept past Harry, making no comment about Hermione's
empty seat and cauldron.

"Sir," said Malfoy loudly. "Sir, why don't you apply for the
headmaster's job?"

"Now, now, Malfoy," said Snape, though he couldn't suppress a thin-
lipped smile. "Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the
governors. I daresay he'll be back with us soon enough."

"Yeah, right," said Malfoy, smirking. "I expect you'd have Father's
vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the job - I'll tell Father you're the
best teacher here, sir -"

Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon, fortunately not
spotting Seamus Finnigan, who was pretending to vomit into his
cauldron.

"I'm quite surprised the Mudbloods haven't all packed their bags by
now," Malfoy went on. "Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity
it wasn't Granger -"

The bell rang at that moment, which was lucky; at Malfoy's last
words, Ron had leapt off his stool, and in the scramble to collect bags
and books, his attempts to reach Malfoy went unnoticed.

"Let me at him," Ron growled as Harry and Dean hung onto his arms.
"I don't care, I don't need my wand, I'm going to kill him with my bare
hands -"

"Hurry up, I've got to take you all to Herbology," barked Snape over
the class's heads, and off they marched, with Harry, Ron, and Dean
bringing up the rear, Ron still trying to get loose. It was only

* 261*

safe to let go of him when Snape had seen them out of the castle and
they were making their way across the vegetable patch toward the
greenhouses.

The Herbology class was very subdued; there were now two missing
from their number, Justin and Hermione.

Professor Sprout set them all to work pruning the Abyssinian
Shrivelfigs. Harry went to tip an armful of withered stalks onto the
compost heap and found himself face-to-face with Ernie Macmillan.
Ernie took a deep breath and said, very formally, "I just want to say,
Harry, that I'm sorry I ever suspected you. I know you'd never attack
Hermione Granger, and I apologize for all the stuff I said. We're all in
the same boat now, and, well -"

He held out a pudgy hand, and Harry shook it.

Ernie and his friend Hannah came to work at the same Shrivelfig as
Harry and Ron.

"That Draco Malfoy character," said Ernie, breaking off dead twigs,
"he seems very pleased about all this, doesn't he? D'you know, I think
he might be Slytherin's heir."

"That's clever of you," said Ron, who didn't seem to have forgiven
Ernie as readily as Harry.

"Do you think it's Malfoy, Harry?" Ernie asked.

"No," said Harry, so firmly that Ernie and Hannah stared.

A second later, Harry spotted something.

Several large spiders were scuttling over the ground on the other side
of the glass, moving in an unnaturally straight line as though taking the
shortest route to a prearranged meeting. Harry hit Ron over the hand
with his pruning shears.

"Ouch! What're you -"

268

Harry pointed out the spiders, following their progress with his eyes
screwed up against the sun.

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, trying, and failing, to look pleased. "But we can't
follow them now -"

Ernie and Hannah were listening curiously.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he focused on the spiders. If they pursued
their fixed course, there could be no doubt about where they would
end up.

"Looks like they're heading for the Forbidden Forest . . . ."

And Ron looked even unhappier about that.

At the end of the lesson Professor Sprout escorted the class to their
Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harry and Ron lagged behind
the others so they could talk out of earshot.

"We'll have to use the Invisibility Cloak again," Harry told Ron. "We
can take Fang with us. He's used to going into the forest with Hagrid,
he might be some help."

"Right," said Ron, who was twirling his wand nervously in his fingers.
"Er - aren't there - aren't there supposed to be werewolves in the
forest?" he added as they took their usual places at the back of
Lockhart's classroom.

Preferring not to answer that question, Harry said, "There are good
things in there, too. The centaurs are all right, and the unicorns ...

Ron had never been into the Forbidden Forest before. Harry had
entered it only once and had hoped never to do so again.

Lockhart bounded into the room and the class stared at him. Every
other teacher in the place was looking grimmer than usual, but
Lockhart appeared nothing short of buoyant.

2 69

"Come now," he cried, beaming around him. "Why all these long
faces?"

People swapped exasperated looks, but nobody answered.

"Don't you people realize," said Lockhart, speaking slowly, as though
they were all a bit dim, "the danger has passed! The culprit has been
taken away -"

"Says who?" said Dean Thomas loudly.

"My dear young man, the Minister of Magic wouldn't have taken
Hagrid if he hadn't been one hundred percent sure that he was guilty,"
said Lockhart, in the tone of someone explaining that one and one
made two.

"Oh, yes he would," said Ron, even more loudly than Dean.

"I flatter myself I know a touch more about Hagrid's arrest than you
do, Mr. Weasley," said Lockhart in a self-satisfied tone.

Ron started to say that he didn't think so, somehow, but stopped in
midsentence when Harry kicked him hard under the desk.

"We weren't there, remember?" Harry muttered.

But Lockhart's disgusting cheeriness, his hints that he had always
thought Hagrid was no good, his confidence that the whole business
was now at an end, irritated Harry so much that he yearned to throw
Gadding with Ghouls right in Lockhart's stupid face. Instead he
contented himself with scrawling a note to Ron: Let's do it tonight.

Ron read the message, swallowed hard, and looked sideways at the
empty seat usually filled by Hermione. The sight seemed to stiffen his
resolve, and he nodded.

The Gryffindor common room was always very crowded these days,
because from six o'clock onward the Gryffindors had no -

*270*

where else to go. They also had plenty to talk about, with the result
that the common room often didn't empty until past midnight.

Harry went to get the Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk right after
dinner, and spent the evening sitting on it, waiting for the room to
clear. Fred and George challenged Harry and Ron to a few games of
Exploding Snap, and Ginny sat watching them, very subdued in
Hermione's usual chair. Harry and Ron kept losing on purpose, trying
to finish the games quickly, but even so, it was well past midnight
when Fred, George, and Ginny finally went to bed.

Harry and Ron waited for the distant sounds of two dormitory doors
closing before seizing the cloak, throwing it over themselves, and
climbing through the portrait hole.

It was another difficult journey through the castle, dodging all the
teachers. At last they reached the entrance hall, slid back the lock on
the oak front doors, squeezed between them, trying to stop any
creaking, and stepped out into the moonlit grounds.

"'Course," said Ron abruptly as they strode across the black grass,
"we might get to the forest and find there's nothing to follow. Those
spiders might not've been going there at all. I know it looked like they
were moving in that sort of general direction, but. . ."

His voice trailed away hopefully.

They reached Hagrid's house, sad and sorry-looking with its blank
windows. When Harry pushed the door open, Fang went mad with joy
at the sight of them. Worried he might wake everyone at the castle
with his deep, booming barks, they hastily fed him treacle fudge from
a tin on the mantelpiece, which glued his teeth together.

Harry left the Invisibility Cloak on Hagrid's table. There would be no
need for it in the pitch-dark forest.

* 21:L *

"C'mon, Fang, we're going for a walk," said Harry, patting his leg, and
Fang bounded happily out of the house behind them, dashed to the
edge of the forest, and lifted his leg against a large sycamore tree.

Harry took out his wand, murmured, "Lumos!" and a tiny light
appeared at the end of it, just enough to let them watch the path for
signs of spiders.

"Good thinking," said Ron. "Id light mine, too, but you know - it'd
probably blow up or something ......

Harry tapped Ron on the shoulder, pointing at the grass. Two solitary
spiders were hurrying away from the wandlight into the shade of the
trees.

"Okay," Ron sighed as though resigned to the worst, "I'm ready. Let's
go."

So, with Fang scampering around them, sniffing tree roots and leaves,
they entered the forest. By the glow of Harry's wand, they followed
the steady trickle of spiders moving along the path. They walked
behind them for about twenty minutes, not speaking, listening hard for
noises other than breaking twigs and rustling leaves. Then, when the
trees had become thicker than ever, so that the stars overhead were
no longer visible, and Harry's wand shone alone in the sea of dark,
they saw their spider guides leaving the path.

Harry paused, trying to see where the spiders were going, but
everything outside his little sphere of *light was pitch-black. He had
never been this deep into the forest before. He could vividly
remember Hagrid advising him not to leave the forest path last time
he'd been in here. But Hagrid was miles away now, probably sitting in
a cell in Azkaban, and he had also said to follow the spiders.

* 2-V2 *

Something wet touched Harry's hand and he jumped backward,
crushing Rods foot, but it was only Fang's nose.

"What d'you reckon?" Harry said to Ron, whose eyes he could just
make out, reflecting the light from his wand.

"We've come this far," said Ron.

So they followed the darting shadows of the spiders into the trees.
They couldn't move very quickly now; there were tree roots and
stumps in their way, barely visible in the near blackness. Harry could
feel Fang's hot breath on his hand. More than once, they had to stop,
so that Harry could crouch down and find the spiders in the wandlight.

They walked for what seemed like at least half an hour, their robes
snagging on low-slung branches and brambles. After a while, they
noticed that the ground seemed to be sloping downward, though the
trees were as thick as ever.

Then Fang suddenly let loose a great, echoing bark, making both Harry
and Ron jump out of their skins.

"What?" said Ron loudly, looking around into the pitch-dark, and
gripping Harry's elbow very hard.

"There's something moving over there," Harry breathed. "Listen ...
sounds like something big ......

They listened. Some distance to their right, the something big was
snapping branches as it carved a path through the trees.

"Oh, no," said Ron. "Oh, no, oh, no, oh -"

"Shut up," said Harry frantically. "It'll hear you."

"Hear me?" said Ron in an unnaturally high voice. "It's already heard
Fang!"

The darkness seemed to be pressing on their eyeballs as they

* 273*

stood, terrified, waiting. There was a strange rumbling noise and then
silence.

"What d'you think it's doing?" said Harry.

"Probably getting ready to pounce," said Ron.

They waited, shivering, hardly daring to move.

"D'you think it's gone?" Harry whispered.

"Dunno -"

Then, to their right, came a sudden blaze of light, so bright in the
darkness that both of them flung up their hands to shield their eyes.
Fang yelped and tried to run, but got lodged in a tangle of thorns and
yelped even louder.

"Harry!" Ron shouted, his voice breaking with relief "Harry, it's our
car!"

"What?"

"Come on!"

Harry blundered after Ron toward the light, stumbling and tripping,
and a moment later they had emerged into a clearing.

Mr. Weasley's car was standing, empty, in the middle of a circle of
thick trees under a roof of dense branches, its headlights ablaze. As
Ron walked, open-mouthed, toward it, it moved slowly toward him,
exactly like a large, turquoise dog greeting its owner.

"It's been here all the time!" said Ron delightedly, walking around the
car. "Look at it. The forest's turned it wild . . . ."

The sides of the car were scratched and smeared with mud.
Apparently it had taken to trundling around the forest on its own.
Fang didn't seem at all keen on it; he kept close to Harry, who could
feel him quivering. His breathing slowing down again, Harry stuffed
his wand back into his robes.

*214*

"And we thought it was going to attack us!" said Ron, leaning against
the car and patting it. "I wondered where it had gone!"

Harry squinted around on the floodlit ground for signs of more spiders,
but they had all scuttled away from the glare of the headlights.

"We've lost the trail," he said. "C'mon, let's go and find them."

Ron didn't speak. He didn't move. His eyes were fixed on a point
some ten feet above the forest floor, right behind Harry. His face was
livid with terror.

Harry didn't even have time to turn around. There was a loud clicking
noise and suddenly he felt something long and hairy seize him around
the middle and lift him off the ground, so that he was hanging
facedown. Struggling, terrified, he heard more clicking, and saw Ron's
legs leave the ground, too, heard Fang whimpering and howling - next
moment, he was being swept away into the dark trees.

Head hanging, Harry saw that what had hold of him was marching on
six immensely long, hairy legs, the front two clutching him tightly below
a pair of shining black pincers. Behind him, he could hear another of
the creatures, no doubt carrying Ron. They were moving into the very
heart of the forest. Harry could hear Fang fighting to free himself from
a third monster, whining loudly, but Harry couldn't have yelled even if
he had wanted to; he seemed to have left his voice back with the car
in the clearing.

He never knew how long he was in the creature's clutches; he only
knew that the darkness suddenly lifted enough for him to see that the
leaf-strewn ground was now swarming with spiders. Craning his neck
sideways, he realized that they had reached the ridge of

*21$*

a vast hollow, a hollow that had been cleared of trees, so that the stars
shone brightly onto the worst scene he had ever laid eyes on.

Spiders. Not tiny spiders like those surging over the leaves below.
Spiders the size of carthorses, eight-eyed, eight-legged, black, hairy,
gigantic. The massive specimen that was carrying Harry made its way
down the steep slope toward a misty, domed web in the very center of
the hollow, while its fellows closed in all around it, clicking their
pincers excitedly at the sight of its load.

Harry fell to the ground on all fours as the spider released him. Ron
and Fang thudded down next to him. Fang wasn't howling anymore,
but cowering silently on the spot. Ron looked exactly like Harry felt.
His mouth was stretched wide in a kind of silent scream and his eyes
were popping.

Harry suddenly realized that the spider that had dropped him was
saying something. It had been hard to tell, because he clicked his
pincers with every word he spoke.

"Aragog!" it called. "Aragog!"

And from the middle of the misty, domed web, a spider the size of a
small elephant emerged, very slowly. There was gray in the black of
his body and legs, and each of the eyes on his ugly, pincered head was
milky white. He was blind.

"What is it?" he said, clicking his pincers rapidly.

"Men," clicked the spider who had caught Harry.

"Is it Hagrid?" said Aragog, moving closer, his eight milky eyes
wandering vaguely.

"Strangers," clicked the spider who had brought Ron.

"Kill them," clicked Aragog fretfully. "I was sleeping ......

"We're friends of Hagrid's," Harry shouted. His heart seemed to have
left his chest to pound in his throat.

*216*

Click, click, click went the pincers of the spiders all around the hollow.

Aragog paused.

"Hagrid has never sent men into our hollow before," he said slowly.

"Hagrid's in trouble," said Harry, breathing very fast. "That's why
we've come."

"In trouble?" said the aged spider, and Harry thought he heard concern
beneath the clicking pincers. "But why has he sent you?"

Harry thought of getting to his feet but decided against it; he didn't
think his legs would support him. So he spoke from the ground, as
calmly as he could.

"They think,, up at the school, that Hagrid's been setting a a -
something on students. They've taken him to Azkaban."

Aragog clicked his pincers furiously, and all around the hollow the
sound was echoed by the crowd of spiders; it was like applause,
except applause didn't usually make Harry feel sick with fear.

"But that was years ago," said Aragog fretfully. "Years and years ago.
I remember it well. That's why they made him leave the school. They
believed that I was the monster that dwells in what they call the
Chamber of Secrets. They thought that Hagrid had opened the
Chamber and set me free."

"And you ... you didn't come from the Chamber of Secrets?" said
Harry, who could feel cold sweat on his forehead.

"I!" said Aragog, clicking angrily. "I was not born in the castle. I come
from a distant land. A traveler gave me to Hagrid when I was an egg.
Hagrid was only a boy, but he cared for me, hidden in a cupboard in
the castle, feeding me on scraps from the table. Hagrid

2Y

is my good friend, and a good man. When I was discovered, and
blamed for the death of a girl, he protected me. I have lived here in
the forest ever since, where Hagrid still visits me. He even found me
a wife, Mosag, and you see how our family has grown, all through
Hagrid's goodness ......

Harry summoned what remained of his courage.

"So you never - never attacked anyone?"

"Never," croaked the old spider. "It would have been my instinct, but
out of respect for Hagrid, I never harmed a human. The body of the
girl who was killed was discovered in a bathroom. I never saw any
part of the castle but the cupboard in which I grew up. Our kind like
the dark and the quiet ......

"But then ... Do you know what did kill that girl?" said Harry.
"Because whatever it is, it's back and attacking people again -"

His words were drowned by a loud outbreak of clicking and the
rustling of many long legs shifting angrily; large black shapes shifted
all around him.

"The thing that lives in the castle," said Aragog, "is an ancient creature
we spiders fear above all others. Well do I remember how I pleaded
with Hagrid to let me go, when I sensed the beast moving about the
school."

"What is it?" said Harry urgently.

More loud clicking, more rustling; the spiders seemed to be closing in.

"We do not speak of it!" said Aragog fiercely. "We do not name it! I
never even told Hagrid the name of that dread creature, though he
asked me, many times."

Harry didn't want to press the subject, not with the spiders

* 2-V8 *

pressing closer on all sides. Aragog seemed to be tired of tamng. He
was backing slowly into his domed web, but his fellow spiders
continued to inch slowly toward Harry and Ron.

"We'll just go, then," Harry called desperately to Aragog, hearing
leaves rustling behind him.

"Go?" said Aragog slowly. "I think not ......

"But - but -"

"My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid, on my command. But I
cannot deny them fresh meat, when it wanders so willingly into our
midst. Good-bye, friend of Hagrid."

Harry spun around. Feet away, towering above him, was a solid wall
of spiders, clicking, their many eyes gleaming in their ugly black heads.

Even as he reached for his wand, Harry knew it was no good, there
were too many of them, but as he tried to stand, ready to die fighting,
a loud, long note sounded, and a blaze of light flamed through the
hollow.

Mr. Weasley's car was thundering down the slope, headlights glaring,
its horn screeching, knocking spiders aside; several were thrown onto
their backs, their endless legs waving in the air. The car screeched to
a halt in front of Harry and Ron and the doors flew open.

"Get Fang!" Harry yelled, diving into the front seat; Ron seized the
boarhound around the middle and threw him, yelping, into the back of
the car - the doors slammed shut - Ron didn't touch the accelerator
but the car didn't need him; the engine roared and they were off,
hitting more spiders. They sped up the slope, out of the hollow, and
they were soon crashing through the forest, branches

whipping the windows as the car wound its way cleverly through the
widest gaps, following a path it obviously knew.

Harry looked sideways at Ron. His mouth was still open in the silent
scream, but his eyes weren't popping anymore.

"Are you okay?"

Ron stared straight ahead, unable to speak.

They smashed their way through the undergrowth, Fang howling loudly
in the back seat, and Harry saw the side mirror snap off as they
squeezed past a large oak. After ten noisy, rocky minutes, the trees
thinned, and Harry could again see patches of sky.

The car stopped so suddenly that they were nearly thrown into the
windshield. They had reached the edge of the forest. Fang flung
himself at the window in his anxiety to get out, and when Harry
opened the door, he shot off through the trees to Hagrid's house, tail
between his legs. Harry got out too, and after a minute or so, Ron
seemed to regain the feeling in his limbs and followed, still stiff-necked
and staring. Harry gave the car a grateful pat as it reversed back into
the forest and disappeared from view.

Harry went back into Hagrid's cabin to get the Invisibility Cloak. Fang
was trembling under a blanket in his basket. When Harry got outside
again, he found Ron being violently sick in the pumpkin patch.

"Follow the spiders," said Ron weakly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
"I'll never forgive Hagrid. We're lucky to be alive."

"I bet he thought Aragog wouldn't hurt friends of his," said Harry.

"That's exactly Hagrid's problem!" said Ron, thumping the wall of the
cabin. "He always thinks monsters aren't as bad as they're

*280*

made out, and look where it's got him! A cell in Azkaban!" He was
shivering uncontrollably now. "What was the point of sending us in
there? What have we found out, Id like to know?"

"That Hagrid never opened the Chamber of Secrets," said Harry,
throwing the cloak over Ron and prodding him in the arm to make him
walk. "He was innocent."

Ron gave a loud snort. Evidently, hatching Aragog in a cupboard
wasn't his idea of being innocent.

As the castle loomed nearer Harry twitched the cloak to make sure
their feet were hidden, then pushed the creaking front doors ajar.
They walked carefully back across the entrance hall and up the
marble staircase, holding their breath as they passed corridors where
watchful sentries were walking. At last they reached the safety of the
Gryffindor common room, where the fire had burned itself into
glowing ash. They took off the cloak and climbed the winding stair to
their dormitory.

Ron fell onto his bed without bothering to get undressed. Harry,
however, didn't feel very sleepy. He sat on the edge of his fourposter,
thinking hard about everything Aragog had said.

The creature that was lurking somewhere in the castle, he thought,
sounded like a sort of monster Voldemort - even other monsters didn't
want to name it. But he and Ron were no closer to finding out what it
was, or how it Petrified its victims. Even Hagrid had never known
what was in the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry swung his legs up onto his bed and leaned back against his
pillows, watching the moon glinting at him through the tower window.

He couldn't see what else they could do. They had hit dead ends

*281*

everywhere. Riddle had caught the wrong person, the Heir of
Slytherin had got off, and no one could tell whether it was the same
person, or a different one, who had opened the Chamber this time.
There was nobody else to ask. Harry lay down, still thinking about
what Aragog had said.

He was becoming drowsy when what seemed like their very last
hope occurred to him, and he suddenly sat bolt upright.

"Ron," he hissed through the dark, "Ron -"

Ron woke with a yelp like Fang's, stared wildly around, and saw
Harry.

"Ron -that girl who died. Aragog said she was found in a bathroom,"
said Harry, ignoring Neville's snufing snores from the corner. "What
if she never left the bathroom? What if she's still there?"

Ron rubbed his eyes, frowning through the moonlight. And then he
understood, too.

"You don't think - not Moaning Myrtle?"

	A ll those times we were in that bathroom, and she was just
	three toilets away," said Ron bitterly at breakfast next day,

"and we could've asked her, and now. . ."

It had been hard enough trying to look for spiders. Escaping their
teachers long enough to sneak into a girls' bathroom, the girls' bathroom,
moreover, right next to the scene of the first attack, was going to be
almost impossible.

But something happened in their first lesson, Transfiguration, that drove
the Chamber of Secrets out of their minds for the first time in weeks.
Ten minutes into the class, Professor McGonagall told them that their
exams would start on the first of June, one week from today.

`Exams?" howled Seamus Finnigan. "We're still getting exams?"

There was a loud bang behind Harry as Neville Longbottom's wand
slipped, vanishing one of the legs on his desk. Professorr

*28%*



McGonagall restored it with a wave of her own wand, and turned,
frowning, to Seamus.

"The whole point of keeping the school open at this time is for you to
receive your education," she said sternly. "The exams will therefore
take place as usual, and I trust you are all studying hard."

Studying hard! It had never occurred to Harry that there would be
exams with the castle in this state. There was a great deal of mutinous
muttering around the room, which made Professor McGonagall scowl
even more darkly.

"Professor Dumbledore's instructions were to keep the school running
as normally as possible, she said. "And that, I need hardly point out,
means finding out how much you have learned this year.

Harry looked down at the pair of white rabbits he was supposed to be
turning into slippers. What had he learned so far this year? He couldn't
seem to think of anything that would be useful in an exam.

Ron looked as though he'd just been told he had to go and live in the
Forbidden Forest.

"Can you imagine me taking exams with this?" he asked Harry, holding
up his wand, which had just started whistling loudly.

Three days before their first exam, Professor McGonagall made
another announcement at breakfast.

"I have good news," she said, and the Great Hall, instead of falling
silent, erupted.

"Dumbledore's coming back!" several people yelled joyfully.

"You've caught the Heir of Slytherin!" squealed a girl at the
Ravenclaw table.

284*

"Quidditch matches are back on!" roared Wood excitedly.

When the hubbub had subsided, Professor McGonagall said,
"Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for
cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who
have been Petrified. I need hardly remind you all that one of them may
well be able to tell us who, or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that
this dreadful year will end with our catching the culprit."

There was an explosion of cheering. Harry looked over at the
Slytherin table and wasn't at all surprised to see that Draco Malfoy
hadn't joined in. Ron, however, was looking happier than he'd looked in
days.

"It won't matter that we never asked Myrtle, then!" he said to Harry.
"Hermione'll probably have all the answers when they wake her up!
Mind you, she'll go crazy when she finds out we've got exams in three
days' time. She hasn't studied. It might be kinder to leave her where
she is till they're over."

Just then, Ginny Weasley came over and sat down next to Ron. She
looked tense and nervous, and Harry noticed that her hands were
twisting in her lap.

"What's up?" said Ron, helping himself to more porridge.

Ginny didn't say anything, but glanced up and down the Gryffindor
table with a scared look on her face that reminded Harry of someone,
though he couldn't think who.

"Spit it out," said Ron, watching her.

Harry suddenly realized who Ginny looked like. She was rocking
backward and forward slightly in her chair, exactly like Dobby did
when he was teetering on the edge of revealing forbidden information.

"I've got to tell you something," Ginny mumbled, carefully not looking at
Harry.

"What is it?" said Harry.

Ginny looked as though she couldn't find the right words.

"What?"said Ron.

Ginny opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Harry leaned
forward and spoke quietly, so that only Ginny and Ron could hear him.

"Is it something about the Chamber of Secrets? Have you seen
something? Someone acting oddly?"

Ginny drew a deep breath and, at that precise moment, Percy Weasley
appeared, looking tired and wan.

"If you've finished eating, I'll take that seat, Ginny. I'm starving, I've
only just come off patrol duty."

Ginny jumped up as though her chair had just been electrified, gave
Percy a fleeting, frightened look, and scampered away. Percy sat
down and grabbed a mug from the center of the table.

"Percy!" said Ron angrily. "She was just about to tell us some-' thing
important!"

Halfway through a gulp of tea, Percy choked.

"What sort of thing?" he said, coughing.

"I just asked her if she'd seen anything odd, and she started to say

"Oh - that - that's nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets," said
Percy at once.

"How do you know?" said Ron, his eyebrows raised.

"Well, er, if you must know, Ginny, er, walked in on me the other day
when I was - well, never mind - the point is, she spot

ted me doing something and I, um, I asked her not to mention it to
anybody. I must say, I did think she'd keep her word. It's nothing,
really, Id just rather -"

Harry had never seen Percy look so uncomfortable.

"What were you doing, Percy?" said Ron, grinning. "Go on, tell us, we
won't laugh."

Percy didn't smile back.

"Pass me those rolls, Harry, I'm starving."

Harry knew the whole mystery might be solved tomorrow without
their help, but he wasn't about to pass up a chance to speak to Myrtle
if it turned up - and to his delight it did, midmorning, when they were
being led to History of Magic by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Lockhart, who had so often assured them that all danger had passed,
only to be proved wrong right away, was now wholeheartedly
convinced that it was hardly worth the trouble to see them safely
down the corridors. His hair wasn't as sleek as usual; it seemed he
had been up most of the night, patrolling the fourth floor.

"Mark my words," he said, ushering them around a corner. "The first
words out of those poor Petrified people's mouths will be It was
Hagrid.' Frankly, I'm astounded Professor McGonagall thinks all
these security measures are necessary."

(ti agree, sir," said Harry, making Ron drop his books in surprise.

"Thank you, Harry, said Lockhart graciously while they waited for a
long line of Hufflepuffs to pass. "I mean, we teachers have quite
enough to be getting on with, without walking students to classes and
standing guard all night ......

"That's right," said Ron, catching on. "Why don't you leave us here, sir,
we've only got one more corridor to go -"

"You know, Weasley, I think I will," said Lockhart. "I really should go
and prepare my next class -"

And he hurried off.

"Prepare his class," Ron sneered after him. "Gone to curl his hair,
more like."

They let the rest of the Gryffindors draw ahead of them, then darted
down a side passage and hurried off toward Moaning Myrtle's
bathroom. But just as they were congratulating each other on their
brilliant scheme

"Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?"

It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin
lines.

"We were -we were-" Ron stammered. "We were going to - to go and
see -"

"Hermione," said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked
at him.

"We haven't seen her for ages, Professor," Harry went on hurriedly,
treading on Ron's foot, "and we thought we'd sneak into the hospital
wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er,
not to worry -"

Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment,
Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in
a strangely croaky voice.

"Of course," she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her
beady eye. "Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends
of those who have been ... I quite understand. Yes,

Potter, of course you may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor
Binns where you've gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given my
permission."

Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe that they'd
avoided detention. As they turned the corner, they distinctly heard
Professor McGonagall blow her nose.

"That," said Ron fervently, "was the best story you've ever come up
with."

They had no choice now but to go to the hospital wing and tell Madam
Pomfrey that they had Professor McGonagall's permission to visit
Hermione.

Madam Pomfrey let them in, but reluctantly.

"There's just no point talking to a Petrified. person," she said, and they
had to admit she had a point when they'd taken their seats next to
Hermione. It was plain that Hermione didn't have the faintest inkling
that she had visitors, and that they might just as well tell her bedside
cabinet not to worry for all the good it would do.

"Wonder if she did see the attacker, though?" said Ron, looking sadly
at Hermione's rigid face. "Because if he sneaked up on them all, no
one'll ever know . .....

But Harry wasn't looking at Hermione's face. He was more interested
in her right hand. It lay clenched on top of her blankets, and bending
closer, he saw that a piece of paper was scrunched inside her fist.

Making sure that Madam Pomfrey was nowhere near, he pointed this
out to Ron.

"TG and get it out," Ron whispered, shifting his chair so that he
blocked Harry from Madam Pomfrey's view.

It was no easy task. Hermione's hand was clamped so tightly around
the paper that Harry was sure he was going to tear it. While Ron kept
watch he tugged and twisted, and at last, after several tense minutes,
the paper came free.

It was a page torn from a very old library book. Harry smoothed it out
eagerly and Ron leaned close to read it, too.

Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land,
there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk,
known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may
reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born

from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are
most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk
has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall
suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal
enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is
fatal to it.

And beneath this, a single word had been written, in a hand Harry
recognized as Hermione's. Pipes.

It was as though somebody had just flicked a light on in his brain.

"Ron," he breathed. "This is it. This is the answer. The monster in the
Chamber's a basilisk - a giant serpent! That why I've been hearing
that voice all over the place, and nobody else has heard it. It's because
I understand Parseltongue . . . ."

Harry looked up at the beds around him.

"The basilisk kills people by looking at them. But no one's died -
because no one looked it straight in the eye. Colin saw it through his
camera. The basilisk burned up all the film inside it, but Colin just got
Petrified. Justin . . . Justin must've seen the basilisk through Nearly
Headless Nick! Nick got the full blast of it, but he couldn't die again .
. . and Hermione and that Ravenclaw prefect were found with a
mirror next to them. Hermione had just realized the monster was a
basilisk. I bet you anything she warned the first person she met to
look around corners with a mirror first! And that girl pulled out her
mirror - and -"

Rods jaw had dropped.

"And Mrs. Norris?" he whispered eagerly.

Harry thought hard, picturing the scene on the night of Halloween.

"The water. . ." he said slowly. "The flood from Moaning Myrtle's
bathroom. I bet you Mrs. Norris only saw the reflection . . . ."

He scanned the page in his hand eagerly. The more he looked at it,
the more it made sense.

`: . . The crowing of the rooster . . . is fatal to it"! he read aloud. "Hagrid's
roosters were killed! The Heir of Slytherin didn't want one anywhere
near the castle once the Chamber was opened! Spidersflee before it.! It
all fits!"

"But how's the basilisk been getting around the place?" said Ron. "A
giant snake . . . Someone would've seen. . ."

Harry, however, pointed at the word Hermione had scribbled at the
foot of the page.

"Pipes," he said. "Pipes . . . Ron, it's been using the plumbing. I've
been hearing that voice inside the walls . . . ."

291*

Ron suddenly grabbed Harry's arm.
"The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets!" he said hoarsely.
"What if it's a bathroom? What if it's in -"
`= Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, "said Harry.
They sat there, excitement coursing through them, hardly able
to believe it.
"This means," said Harry, "I can't be the only Parselmouth in
the school. The Heir of Slytherin's one, too. That's how he's been
controlling the basilisk."
"What're we going to do?" said Ron, whose eyes were flashing.
"Should we go straight to McGonagall?"
"Let's go to the staff room," said Harry, jumping up. "She'll be
there in ten minutes. It's nearly break."
They ran downstairs. Not wanting to be discovered hanging
around in another corridor, they went straight into the deserted
staff room. It was a large, paneled room full of dark, wooden chairs.
Harry and Ron paced around it, too excited to sit down.
But the bell to signal break never came.
Instead, echoing through the corridors came Professor McGon
agall's voice, magically magnified.
`All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teach
ers return to the staff room. Immediately, please. "

Harry wheeled around to stare at Ron.
"Not another attack? Not now?"
"What'll we do?" said Ron, aghast. "Go back to the dormitory?"
"No," said Harry, glancing around. There was an ugly sort of
wardrobe to his left, full of the teachers' cloaks. "In here. Let's hear
what it's all about. Then we can tell them what we've found out."

They hid themselves inside it, listening to the rumbling of hundreds of
people moving overhead, and the staff room door banging open.
From between the musty folds of the cloaks, they watched the
teachers filtering into the room. Some of them were looking puzzled,
others downright scared. Then Professor McGonagall arrived.

"It has happened," she told the silent staff room. "A student has been
taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself."

Professor Flitwick let out a squeal. Professor Sprout clapped her
hands over her mouth. Snape gripped the back of a chair very hard
and said, "How can you be sure?"

"The Heir of Slytherin," said Professor McGonagall, who was very
white, "left another message. Right underneath the first one. `Her
skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever. "'

Professor Flitwick burst into tears.

"Who is it?" said Madam Hooch, who had sunk, weak-kneed, into a
chair. "Which student?"

"Ginny Weasley," said Professor McGonagall.

Harry felt Ron slide silently down onto the wardrobe floor beside
him.

"We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow," said
Professor McGonagall. "This is the end of Hogwarts. Dumbledore
always said. . ."

The staffroom door banged open again. For one wild moment,
Harry was sure it would be Dumbledore. But it was Lockhart, and
he was beaming.

"So sorry - dozed off - what have I missed?"

He didn't seem to notice that the other teachers were looking at him
with something remarkably like hatred. Snape stepped forward.

"Just the man," he said. "The very man. A girl has been snatched by
the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your
moment has come at last."

Lockhart blanched.

"That's right, Gilderoy," chipped in Professor Sprout. "Weren't you
saying just last night that you've known all along where the entrance to
the Chamber of Secrets is?"

"I - well, I -"sputtered Lockhart.

"Yes, didn't you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?"
piped up Professor Flitwick.

"D-did I? I don't recall -"

"I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn't had a
crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested," said Snape. "Didn't
you say that the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should
have been given a free rein from the first?"

Lockhart stared around at his stony-faced colleagues.

"I - I really never - you may have misunderstood -"

"We'll leave it to you, then, Gilderoy," said Professor McGonagall.
"Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We'll make sure everyone's
out of your way. You'll be able to tackle the monster all by youself. A
free rein at last."

Lockhart gazed desperately around him, but nobody came to the
rescue. He didn't look remotely handsome anymore. His lip was
trembling, and in the absence of his usually toothy grin, he looked
weak-chinned and feeble.

"V very well," he said. "I'll - I'll be in my office, getting getting ready."

And he left the room.

"Right," said Professor McGonagall, whose nostrils were flared,

"that's got him out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should
go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the
Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the
rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their
dormitories."

The teachers rose and left, one by one.

It was probably the worst day of Harry's entire life. He, Ron, Fred,
and George sat together in a corner of the Gryffindor common room,
unable to say anything to each other. Percy wasn't there. He had gone
to send an owl to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, then shut himself up in his
dormitory.

No afternoon ever lasted as long as that one, nor had Gryffindor
Tower ever been so crowded, yet so quiet. Near sunset, Fred and
George went up to bed, unable to sit there any longer.

"She knew something, Harry," said Ron, speaking for the first time
since they had entered the wardrobe in the staff room. "That's why
she was taken. It wasn't some stupid thing about Percy at all., She'd
found out something about the Chamber of Secrets. That must be why
she was -" Ron rubbed his eyes frantically. "I mean, she was a pure-
blood. There can't be any other reason."

Harry could see the sun sinking, blood-red, below the skyline. This was
the worst he had ever felt. If only there was something they could do.
Anything.

"Harry" said Ron. "D'you think there's any chance at all she's not - you
know ="

Harry didn't know what to say. He couldn't see how Ginny could still
be alive.

"D'you know what?" said Ron. "I think we should go and see

*295*

Lockhart. Tell him what we know. He's going to try and get into the
Chamber. We can tell him where we think it is, and tell him it's a
basilisk in there."

Because Harry couldn't think of anything else to do, and because he
wanted to be doing something, he agreed. The Gryffindors around
them were so miserable, and felt so sorry for the Weasleys, that
nobody tried to stop them as they got up, crossed the room, and left
through the portrait hole.

Darkness was falling as they walked down to Lockhart's office.
There seemed to be a lot of activity going on inside it. They could hear
scraping, thumps, and hurried footsteps.

Harry knocked and there was a sudden silence from inside. Then the
door opened the tiniest crack and they saw one of Lockhart's eyes
peering through it.

"Oh - Mr. Potter - Mr. Weasley -" he said, opening the door a bit
wider. "I'm rather busy at the moment - if you would be quick -"

"Professor, we've got some information for you," said Harry. "We
think it'll help you."

"Er - well - it's not terribly -" The side of Lockhart's face that they
could see looked very uncomfortable. "I mean - well all right -"

He opened the door and they entered.

His office had been almost completely stripped. Two large trunks
stood open on the floor. Robes, jade-green, lilac, midnightblue, had
been hastily folded into one of them; books were jumbled untidily into
the other. The photographs that had covered the walls were now
crammed into boxes on the desk.

*296*

"Are you going somewhere?" said Harry.

"Er, well, yes," said Lockhart, ripping a life-size poster of himself from
the back of the door as he spoke and starting to roll it up. "Urgent call -
unavoidable - got to go -"

"What about my sister?" said Ron jerkily.

"Well, as to that - most unfortunate -" said Lockhart, avoiding their
eyes as he wrenched open a drawer and started emptying the contents
into a bag. "No one regrets more than I -"

"You're the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!" said Harry.
"You can't go now! Not with all the Dark stuff going on here!"

"Well - I must say - when I took the job -" Lockhart muttered, now
piling socks on top of his robes. "nothing in the job description - didn't
expect -"

"You mean you're running away?" said Harry disbelievingly. "After all
that stuff you did in your books -"

"Books can be misleading," said Lockhart delicately.

"You wrote them!" Harry shouted.

"My dear boy," said Lockhart, straightening up and frowning at Harry.
"Do use your common sense. My books wouldn't have sold half as
well if people didn't think Id done all those things. No one wants to
read about some ugly old Armenian warlock, even if he did save a
village from werewolves. He'd look dreadful on the front cover. No
dress sense at all. And the witch who banished the Bandon Banshee
had a harelip. I mean, come on -"

"So you've just been taking credit for what a load of other people have
done?" said Harry incredulously.

"Harry, Harry," said Lockhart, shaking his head impatiently, "it's not
nearly as simple as that. There was work involved. I had

*297*

to track these people down. Ask them exactly how they managed to
do what they did. Then I had to put a Memory Charm on them so they
wouldn't remember doing it. If there's one thing I pride myself on, it's
my Memory Charms. No, it's been a lot of work, Harry. It's not all
book signings and publicity photos, you know. You want fame, you
have to be prepared for a long hard slog."

He banged the lids of his trunks shut and locked them.

"Let's see," he said. "I think that's everything. Yes. Only one thing
left."

He pulled out his wand and turned to them.

"Awfully sorry, boys, but I'll have to put a Memory Charm on you
now. Can't have you blabbing my secrets all over the place. Id never
sell another book -"

Harry reached his wand just in time. Lockhart had barely raised his,
when Harry bellowed, "Expelliarmus!"

Lockhart was blasted backward, falling over his trunk; his wand flew
high into the air; Ron caught it, and flung it out of the open window.

"Shouldn't have let Professor Snape teach us that one," said Harry
furiously, kicking Lockhart's trunk aside. Lockhart was looking up at
him, feeble once more. Harry was still pointing his wand at him.

"What d'you want me to do?" said Lockhart weakly. "I don't know
where the Chamber of Secrets is. There's nothing I can do."

"You're in luck," said Harry, forcing Lockhart to his feet at wandpoint.
"We think we know where it is. And what's inside it. Let's go."

*298*

They marched Lockhart out of his office and down the nearest stairs,
along the dark corridor where the messages shone on the wall, to the
door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

They sent Lockhart in first. Harry was pleased to see that he was
shaking.

Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end toilet.

"Oh, it's you," she said when she saw Harry. "What do you want this
time?"

"To ask you how you died," said Harry.

Myrtle's whole aspect changed at once. She looked as though she had
never been asked such a flattering question.

"Ooooh, it was dreadful," she said with relish. "It happened right in
here. I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. Id hidden because
Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked,
and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said
something funny. A different language, I think it must have been.
Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So I
unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then -"
Myrtle swelled importantly, her face shining. "I died."

"How?" said Harry.

"No idea," said Myrtle in hushed tones. "I just remember seeing a pair
of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I
was floating away . . . ." She looked dreamily at Harry. "And then I
came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see.
Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glasses."

"Where exactly did you see the eyes?" said Harry.

*299*

"Somewhere there," said Myrtle, pointing vaguely toward the sink in
front of her toilet.

Harry and Ron hurried over to it. Lockhart was standing well back, a
look of utter terror on his face.

It looked like an ordinary sink. They examined every inch of it, inside
and out, including the pipes below. And then Harry saw it: Scratched
on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake.

"That tap's never worked," said Myrtle brightly as he tried to turn it.

"Harry," said Ron. "Say something. Something in Parseltongue."

"But -" Harry thought hard. The only times he'd ever managed to
speak Parseltongue were when he'd been faced with a real snake. He
stared hard at the tiny- engraving, trying to imagine it was real.

"Open up," he said.

He looked at Ron, who shook his head.

"English," he said.

Harry looked back at the snake, willing himself to believe it was alive.
If he moved his head, the candlelight made it look as though it were
moving.

"Open up," he said.

Except that the words weren't what he heard; a strange hissing had
escaped him, and at once the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and
began to spin. Next second, the sink began to move; the sink, in fact,
sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide
enough for a man to slide into.

Harry heard Ron gasp and looked up again. He had made up his mind
what he was going to do.

*300*

"I'm going down there," he said. .

He couldn't not go, not now they had found the entrance to the
Chamber, not if there was even the faintest, slimmest, wildest chance
that Ginny might be alive.

"Me too," said Ron.

There was a pause.

"Well, you hardly seem to need me," said Lockhart, with a shadow
of his old smile. "I'll just -"

He put his hand on the door knob, but Ron and Harry both pointed
their wands at him.

"You can go first," Ron snarled.

White-faced and wandless, Lockhart approached the opening.

"Boys," he said, his voice feeble. "Boys, what good will it do?"

Harry jabbed him in the back with his wand. Lockhart slid his legs
into the pipe.

"I really don't think -" he started to say, but Ron gave him a push,
and he slid out of sight. Harry followed quickly. He lowered himself
slowly into the pipe, then let go.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see
more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs,
which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew
that he was falling deeper below the school than even the dungeons.
Behind him he could hear Ron, thudding slightly at the curves.

And then, just as he had begun to worry about what would happen
when he hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the
end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel
large enough to stand in. Lockhart was getting to his

*301

feet a little ways away, covered in slime and white as a ghost. Harry
stood aside as Ron came whizzing out of the pipe, too.

"We must be miles under the school," said Harry, his voice echoing in
the black tunnel.

"Under the lake, probably," said Ron, squinting around at the dark,
slimy walls.

All three of them turned to stare into the darkness ahead.

"Lumos!" Harry muttered to his wand and it lit again. "C'mon," he
said to Ron and Lockhart, and off they went, their footsteps slapping
loudly on the wet floor.

The tunnel was so dark that they could only see a little distance ahead.
Their shadows on the wet walls looked monstrous in the wandlight.

"Remember," Harry said quietly as they walked cautiously forward,
"any sign of movement, close your eyes right away . .....

But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first unexpected sound
they heard was a loud crunch as Ron stepped on what turned out to be
a rat's skull. Harry lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw that
it was littered with small animal bones. Trying very hard not to
imagine what Ginny might look like if they found her, Harry led the
way forward, around a dark bend in the tunnel.

"Harry - there's something up there -" said Ron hoarsely, grabbing
Harry's shoulder.

They froze, watching. Harry could just see the outline of something
huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn't moving.

"Maybe it's asleep," he breathed, glancing back at the other two.
Lockhart's hands were pressed over his eyes. Harry turned back to
look at the thing, his heart beating so fast it hurt.

* 302 *

Very slowly, his eyes as narrow as he could make them and still see,
Harry edged forward, his wand held high.

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green,
lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had
shed it must have been twenty feet long at least.

"Blimey," said Ron weakly.

There was a sudden movement behind them. Gilderoy Lockhart's
knees had given way.

"Get up," said Ron sharply, pointing his wand at Lockhart.

Lockhart got to his feet - then he dived at Ron, knocking him to the
ground.

Harry jumped forward, but too late - Lockhart was straightening up,
panting, Ron's wand in his hand and a gleaming smile back on his
face.

"The adventure ends here, boys!" he said. "I shall take a bit of this
skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl,
and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her
mangled body - say good-bye to your memories!"

He raised Ron's Spellotaped wand high over his head and yelled,
"Obliviate!"

The wand exploded with the force of a small bomb. Harry flung his
arms over his head and ran, slipping over the coils of snake skin, out
of the way of great chunks of tunnel ceiling that were thundering to
the floor. Next moment, he was standing alone, gazing at a solid wall
of broken rock.

"Ron!" he shouted. "Are you okay? Ron!"

"I'm here!" came Ron's muffled voice from behind the rockfall. "I'm
okay - this git's not, though - he got blasted by the wand ='

*303*

There was a dull thud and a loud "ow!" It sounded as though Ron had
just kicked Lockhart in the shins.

"What now?" Ron's voice said, sounding desperate. "We can't get
through - it'll take ages ......

Harry looked up at the tunnel ceiling. Huge cracks had appeared in it.
He had never tried to break apart anything as large as these rocks by
magic, and now didn't seem a good moment to try - what if the whole
tunnel caved in?

There was another thud and another "ow!" from behind the rocks.
They were wasting time. Ginny had already been in the Chamber of
Secrets for hours .... Harry knew there was only one thing to do.

"Wait there," he called to Ron. "Wait with Lockhart. I'll go on.... If I'm
not back in an hour. . .

There was a very pregnant pause,

"I'll try and shift some of this rock," said Ron, who seemed to be trying
to keep his voice steady. "So you can - can get back through. And,
Harry -"

"See you in a bit," said Harry, trying to inject some confidence into his
shaking voice.

And he set off alone past the giant snake skin.

Soon the distant noise of Ron straining to shift the rocks was gone.
The tunnel turned and turned again. Every nerve in Harry's body was
tingling unpleasantly. He wanted the tunnel to end, yet dreaded what
he'd find when it did. And then, at last, as he crept around yet another
bend, he saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were
carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

*304*

Harry approached, his throat very dry. There was no need to pretend
these stone snakes were real; their eyes looked strangely alive.

He could guess what he had to do. He cleared his throat, and the
emerald eyes seemed to flicker.

"Open, "said Harry, in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves slid smoothly
out of sight, and Harry, shaking from head to foot, walked inside.

e was standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering
stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a
ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd,
greenish gloom that filled the place.

His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to the chill silence.
Could the basilisk be lurking in a shadowy corner, behind a pillar? And
where was Ginny?

He pulled out his wand and moved forward between the serpentine
columns. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls.
He kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest
sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes
seemed to be following him. More than once, with a jolt of the
stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the
Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

*306*



Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It
was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to
the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two
enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between
the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed figure with flaming-red
hair.

"tinny!" Harry muttered, sprinting to her and dropping to his knees.
"tinny - don't be dead - please don't be dead -" He flung his wand
aside, grabbed Ginny's shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was
white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn't
Petrified. But then she must be

"Ginny, please wake up," Harry muttered desperately, shaking her.
Ginny's head lolled hopelessly from side to side.

"She won't wake," said a soft voice.

Harry jumped and spun around on his knees.

A tall, black-haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar,
watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though
Harry were looking at him through a misted window. But there was
no mistaking him

"Tom - Tom Riddle?"

Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry's face.

"What d'you mean, she won't wake?" Harry said desperately. "She's
not - she's not -?"

"She's still alive," said Riddle. "But only just."

Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years
ago, yet here he stood, a weird, misty light shining about him, not a day
older than sixteen.

"Are you a ghost?" Harry said uncertainly.

* 30 7*

"A memory," said Riddle quietly. "Preserved in a diary for fifty years.

He pointed toward the floor near the statue's giant toes. Lying open
there was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle's
bathroom. For a second, Harry wondered how it had got there - but
there were more pressing matters to deal with.

"You've got to help me, Tom," Harry said, raising Ginny's head again.
"We've got to get her out of here. There's a basilisk ... I don't know
where it is, but it could be along any moment .... Please, help me -1)

Riddle didn't move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist Ginny half off
the floor, and bent to pick up his wand again.

But his wand had gone.

"Did you see -?"

He looked up. Riddle was still watching him - twirling Harry's wand
between his long fingers.

"Thanks," said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.

A smile curled the corners of Riddle's mouth. He continued to stare at
Harry, twirling the wand idly.

"Listen," said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny's dead
weight. "We've got to go! If the basilisk comes -"

"It won't come until it is called," said Riddle calmly.

Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to hold her up any
longer.

"What d'you mean?" he said. "Look, give me my wand, I might need it
-"

Riddle's smile broadened.

"You won't be needing it," he said.

*%08*

Harry stared at him.

"What d'you mean, I won't be -?"

"I've waited a long time for this, Harry Potter," said Riddle. "For the
chance to see you. To speak to you."

"Look," said Harry, losing patience, "I don't think you get it. We're in
the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later -"

"We're going to talk now," said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he
pocketed Harry's wand.

Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here
....

"How did Ginny get like this?" he asked slowly.

"Well, that's an interesting question," said Riddle pleasantly. "And quite
a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is
because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible
stranger."

"What are you talking about?" said Harry.

"The diary," said Riddle. `My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for
months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes - how
her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with
secondhand robes and books, how" -Riddle's eyes glinted "how she
didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her . . . ."

All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. There
was an almost hungry look in them.

"It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-
year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was
sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever
understood me like you, Tom .... I'm so glad I've got this diary to

*309*

confide in .... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket . . . .

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs
stand up on the back of Harry's neck.

"If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I
needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to
be exactly what I wanted .... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of
her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more
powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding
Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul
back into her. . ."

"What d'you mean?" said Harry, whose mouth had gone very dry.

" Haven't you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" said Riddle softly. "Ginny
Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school
roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the
Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat.

"No," Harry whispered.

"Yes," said Riddle, calmly. "Of course, she didn't know what she was
doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her
new diary entries ... far more interesting, they became .... Dear Tom,"
he recited, watching Harry's horrified face, `I think I'm losing my
memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and 1 don't know how
they got there. Dear Tom, l can't remember what 1 did on the night of
Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front.
Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he
suspects me... There was another attack today

*310

and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm
going mad... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!"

Harry's fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his Palms.

"it took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her
diary," said Riddle. "But she finally became suspicious and tried to
dispose of it. And that's where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I
couldn't have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have
picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet . .
. ."

"And why did you want to meet me?" said Harry. Anger was coursing
through him, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady.

"Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry," said Riddle. "Your
whole fascinating history. " His eyes roved over the lightning scar on
Harry's forehead, and their expression grew hungrier. "I knew I must
find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided
to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your
trust -"

"Hagrid's my friend," said Harry, his voice now shaking. "And you
framed him, didn't you? I thought you made a mistake, but -"

Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

"It was my word against Hagrid's, Harry. Well, you can imagine how
it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor
but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student ...
on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week,
trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the
Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls ... but I

* 31:L *

admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked. I thought
someone must realize that Hagrid couldn't possibly be the Heir of
Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I
could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance
... as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!

"Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think
Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded Dipper to keep Hagrid and train
him as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed ....
Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers
did ......

"I bet Dumbledore saw right through you," said Harry, his teeth gritted.

"Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid
was expelled," said Riddle carelessly. "I knew it wouldn't be safe to
open the Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn't going
to waste those long years Id spent searching for it. I decided to leave
behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages, so that
one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and
finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work."

"Well, you haven't finished it," said Harry triumphantly. "No one's died
this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will
be ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right again -"

"Haven't I already told you," said Riddle quietly, "that killing Mudbloods
doesn't matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target
has been -you."

Harry stared at him.

"Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was

*312*

opened, it was Ginny who was writing to me, not you. She saw you
with the diary, you see, and panicked. "What if you found out how to
work it, and I repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I
told you who'd been strangling roosters? So the foolish little brat waited
until your dormitory was deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I
must do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin's
heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you, I knew you would
go to any lengths to solve the mystery --

particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had
told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak
Parseltongue ....

"So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall and come down
here to wait. She struggled and cried and became very boring. But
there isn't much life left in her .... She put too much into the diary, into
me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last .... I have been waiting for
you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you'd come. I have many
questions for you, Harry Potter."

"Like what?" Harry spat, fists still clenched.

"Well," said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, "how is it that you a skinny boy
with no extraordinary magical talent - managed to defeat the greatest
wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while
Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.

"Why do you care how I escaped?" said Harry slowly. "Voldemort was
after your time ......

"Voldemort," said Riddle softly, "is my past, present, and future, Harry
Potter . . . ."

He pulled Harry's wand from his pocket and began to trace it
through the air, writing three shimmering words:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name
rearranged themselves:

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

"You see?" he whispered. "It was a name I was already using at
Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I
was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose
veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my
mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who
abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his
wife was a witch? No, Harry - I fashioned myself a new name, a
name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak,
when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

Harry's brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle,
at the orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry's own
parents, and so many others .... At last he forced himself to -,peak.

"You're not," he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.

"Not what?" snapped Riddle.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," said Harry, breathing fast.
"Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the
world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were
strong, you didn't dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore
saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you
now, wherever you're hiding these days -"

The smile had gone from Riddle's face, to be replaced by a very ugly
look.

*31-4*

"Dumbledore's been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of
me!" he hissed.

"He's not as gone as you might think!" Harry retorted. He was
speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than
believing it to be true

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare
down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. It was
eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry's scalp and
made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size.
Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating
inside his own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music
to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a
peacock's and gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged
bundle.

A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It dropped the
ragged thing it was carrying at his feet, then landed heavily on his
shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a
long, sharp golden beak and a beady black eye.

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry's cheek,
gazing steadily at Riddle.

	"That's a phoenix 	said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.

	"Fawkes?" Harry breathed, and he felt the bird's golden claws
squeeze his shoulder gently

"And that -" said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes had
dropped, "that's the old school Sorting Hat -"

So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay motionless at Harry's
feet.

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark
chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles were laughing at once

"This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old
hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?"

Harry didn't answer. He might not see what use Fawkes or the
Sorting Hat were, but he was no longer alone, and he waited for
Riddle to stop laughing with his courage mounting.

"To business, Harry," said Riddle, still smiling broadly. "Twice - in your
past, in my future - we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How
did you survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk," he added
softly, "the longer you stay alive."

Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle had the wand.
He, Harry, had Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, neither of which would
be much good in a duel. It looked bad, all right ... but the longer Riddle
stood there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny ... and in the
meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle's outline was becoming
clearer, more solid .... If it had to be a fight between him and Riddle,
better sooner than later.

"No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me,"
said Harry abruptly. "I don't know myself But I know why you
couldn't kill me. Because my mother died to save me. My common
Muggle-born mother," he added, shaking with suppressed rage. "She
stopped you killing me. And I've seen the real you, I saw you last
year. You're a wreck. You're barely alive. That's where all your
power got you. You're in hiding. You're ugly, you're foul -"

*%16*

Riddle's face contorted. Then he forced it into an awful smile. "So.
Your mother died to save you. Yes, that's a powerful countercharm. I
can see now ... there is nothing special about you, after all. I
wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all.
Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by
Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts
since the great Slytherin himself We even look something alike ... but
after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That's
all I wanted to know."

Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his wand. But Riddle's
twisted smile was widening again.

"Now, Harry, I'm going to teach you a little lesson. Let's match the
powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous
Harry Potter, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him . . . ."

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked
away. Harry, fear spreading up his numb legs, watched Ridthe stop
between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin,
high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and
hissed - but Harry understood what he was saying ....

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four. "

Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on his
shoulder.

Slytherin's gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Harry saw
his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.

	And something was stirring inside the statue's mouth. Something
was slithering up from its depths. 3 1

Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber wall, and as he shut
his eyes tight he felt Fawkes' wing sweep his cheek as he took flight.
Harry wanted to shout, "Don't leave me!" but what chance did a
phoenix have against the king of serpents?

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harry felt it
shudder - he knew what was happening, he could sense it, could
almost see the giant serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin's mouth.
Then he heard Riddle's hissing voice:

"Kill him. "

The basilisk was moving toward Harry; he could hear its heavy body
slithering heavily across the dusty floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry
began to run blindly sideways, his hands outstretched, feeling his way -
Voldemort was laughing

Harry tripped. He fell hard onto the stone and tasted blood the serpent
was barely feet from him, he could hear it coming

There was a loud, explosive spitting sound right above him, and then
something heavy hit Harry so hard that he was smashed into the wall.
Waiting for fangs to sink through his body he heard more mad hissing,
something thrashing wildly off the pillars

He couldn't help it - he opened his eyes wide enough to squint at what
was going on.

The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk,
had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving
drunkenly between the pillars. As Harry trembled, ready to close his
eyes if it turned, he saw what had distracted the snake.

Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the basilisk was snapping
furiously at him with fangs long and thin as sabers

Fawkes dived. His long golden beak sank out of sight and a

*318*

sudden shower of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake's tail
thrashed, narrowly missing Harry, and before Harry could shut his
eyes, it turned - Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its
eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been punctured by the
phoenix; blood was streaming to the floor, and the snake was spitting
in agony.

"NO!" Harry heard Riddle screaming. "LEAVE THE BIRD! LEAVE
THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. YOU CAN STILL SMELL
HIM. KILL HIMI"

The blinded serpent swayed, confused, still deadly. Fawkes was
circling its head, piping his eerie song, jabbing here and there at its
scaly nose as the blood poured from its ruined eyes.

"Help me, help me," Harry muttered wildly, "someone - anyone

The snake's tail whipped across the floor again. Harry ducked.
Something soft hit his face.

The basilisk had swept the Sorting Hat into Harry's arms. Harry
seized it. It was all he had left, his only chance - he rammed it onto his
head and threw himself flat onto the floor as the basilisk's tail swung
over him again.

Help me - help me - Harry thought, his eyes screwed tight under the hat.
Please help me

There was no answering voice. Instead, the hat contracted, as though
an invisible hand was squeezing it very tightly.

Something very hard and heavy thudded onto the top of Harry's head,
almost knocking him out. Stars winking in front of his eyes, he grabbed
the top of the hat to pull it off and felt something long and hard
beneath it.

3 19

A gleaming silver sword had appeared inside the hat, its handle
glittering with rubies the size of eggs.

"KILL THE BOY! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU.
SNIFF -- SMELL HIM."

Harry was on his feet, ready. The basilisk's head was falling, its body
coiling around, hitting pillars as it twisted to face him. He could see the
vast, bloody eye sockets, see the mouth stretching wide, wide enough
to swallow him whole, lined with fangs long as his sword, thin,
glittering, venomous -

It lunged blindly -- Harry dodged and it hit the Chamber wall. It lunged
again, and its forked tongue lashed Harry's side. He raised the sword
in both his hands -

The basilisk lunged again, and this time its aim was true -- Harry threw
his whole weight behind the sword and drove it to the hilt into the roof
of the serpent's mouth -

But as warm blood drenched Harry's arms, he felt a searing pain just
above his elbow. One long, poisonous fang was sinking deeper and
deeper into his arm and it splintered as the basilisk keeled over
sideways and fell, twitching, to the floor.

Harry slid down the wall. He gripped the fang that was spreading
poison through his body and wrenched it out of his arm. But he knew it
was too late. White-hot pain was spreading slowly and steadily from
the wound. Even as he dropped the fang and watched his own blood
soaking his robes, his vision went foggy. The Chamber was dissolving
in a whirl of dull color.

A patch of scarlet swam past, and Harry heard a soft clatter of claws
beside him.

"Fawkes," said Harry thickly. "You were fantastic, Fawkes . . . ."

1,520

He felt the bird lay its beautiful head on the spot where the serpent's
fang had pierced him.

He could hear echoing footsteps and then a dark shadow moved in
front of him.

"You're dead, Harry Potter," said Riddle's voice above him. "Dead.
Even Dumbledore's bird knows it. Do you see what he's doing, Potter?
He's crying."

Harry blinked. Fawke's head slid in and out of focus. Thick, pearly tears
were trickling down the glossy feathers.

"I'm going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time.
I'm in no hurry."

Harry felt drowsy. Everything around him seemed to be spinning.

"So ends the famous Harry Potter," said Riddle's distant voice. "Alone
in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by
the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You'll be back with your dear
Mudblood mother soon, Harry... She bought you twelve years of
borrowed time ... but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew
he must . . . ."

If this is dying, thought Harry, it's not so bad.

Even the pain was leaving him ....

But was this dying? Instead of going black, the Chamber seemed to be
coming back into focus. Harry gave his head a little shake and there was
Fawkes, still resting his head on Harry's arm. A pearly patch of tears was
shining all around the wound -- except that there was no wound

"Get away, bird," said Riddle's voice suddenly. "Get away from him -
I said, get away --"

Harry raised his head. Riddle was pointing Harry's wand at

Fawkes; there was a bang like a gun, and Fawkes took flight again in a
whirl of gold and scarlet.

"Phoenix tears. - ." said Riddle quietly, staring at Harry's arm. "Of
course ... healing powers ... I forgot. . ."

He looked into Harry's face. "But it makes no difference. In fact, I
prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter ... you and me....

He raised the wand

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and
something fell into Harry's lap -- the diary.

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it.
Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to
do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him
and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the
diary in torrents, streaming over Harry's hands, flooding the floor.
Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing and then

He had gone. Harry's wand fell to the floor with a clatter and there
was silence. Silence except for the steady drip drip of ink still oozing
from the diary. The basilisk venom had burned a sizzling hole right
through it.

Shaking all over, Harry pulled himself up. His head was spinning as
though he'd just traveled miles by Floo powder. Slowly, he gathered
together his wand and the Sorting Hat, and, with a huge tug, retrieved
the glittering sword from the roof of the basilisk's mouth.

Then came a faint moan from the end of the Chamber. Ginny was
stirring. As Harry hurried toward her, she sat up. Her bemused

1,522

eyes traveled from the huge form of the dead basilisk, over Harry, in
his blood-soaked robes, then to the diary in his hand. She drew a great,
shuddering gasp and tears began to pour down her face.

"Harry -- oh, Harry -- I tried to tell you at b-breakfast, but I c-couldn't
say it in front of Percy -- it was me, Harry -- but I -- I s-swear I d-
diddt mean to -- R-Riddle made me, he t-took me over -- and - how
did you kill that -- that thing? W-where's Riddle? The last thing I r-
remember is him coming out of the diary --"

" It's all right," said Harry, holding up the diary, and showing Ginny the
fang hole, "Riddle's finished. Look! Him and the basilisk. C'mon,
Ginny, let's get out of here --"

"I'm going to be expelled!" Ginny wept as Harry helped her
awkwardly to her feet. "I've looked forward to coming to Hogwarts
ever since B-Bill came and n-now I'll have to leave and -- w-what'll
Mum and Dad say?"

Fawkes was waiting for them, hovering in the Chamber entrance.
Harry urged Ginny forward; they stepped over the motionless coils of
the dead basilisk, through the echoing gloom, and back into the tunnel.
Harry heard the stone doors close behind them with a soft hiss.

After a few minutes' progress up the dark tunnel, a distant sound of
slowly shifting rock reached Harry's ears.

"Ron!" Harry yelled, speeding up. "Ginny's okay! I've got her!"

He heard Ron give a strangled cheer, and they turned the next bend to
see his eager face staring through the sizable gap he had managed to
make in the rock fall.

"Ginny!" Ron thrust an arm through the gap in the rock to pull

321,3

her through first. "You're alive! I don't believe it! What happened?"
How - what -- where did that bird come from?"

Fawkes had swooped through the gap after Ginny.

"He's Dumbledore's," said Harry, squeezing through himself

"How come you've got a sword?" said Ron, gaping at the glittering
weapon in Harry's hand.

"I'll explain when we get out of here," said Harry with a sideways
glance at Ginny, who was crying harder than ever.

"But --"

"Later," Harry said shortly. He didn't think it was a good idea to tell
Ron yet who'd been opening the Chamber, not in front of Ginny,
anyway. "Where's Lockhart?"

"Back there," said Ron, still looking puzzled but jerking his head up the
tunnel toward the pipe. "He's in a bad way. Come and see."

Led by Fawkes, whose wide scarlet wings emitted a soft golden glow
in the darkness, they walked all the way back to the mouth of the pipe.
Gilderoy Lockhart was sitting there, humming placidly to himself.

"His memory's gone," said Ron. "The Memory Charm backfired. Hit
him instead of us. Hasn't got a clue who he is, or where he is, or who
we are. I told him to come and wait here. He's a danger to himself"

Lockhart peered good-naturedly up at them all.

"Hello," he said. "Odd sort of place, this, isn't it? Do you live here?"

"No," said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry bent down and looked up the long, dark pipe.

"Have you thought how we're going to get back up this?" he said to
Ron.

*324*

Ron shook his head, but Fawkes the phoenix had swooped past Harry
and was now fluttering in front of him, his beady eyes bright in the
dark. He was waving his long golden tail feathers. Harry looked
uncertainly at him.

"He looks like he wants you to grab hold. . ." said Ron, looking
perplexed. "But you're much too heavy for a bird to pull up there -"

"Fawkes," said Harry, "isn't an ordinary bird." He turned quickly to the
others. "We've got to hold on to each other. Ginny, grab Ron's hand.
Professor Lockhart --"

"He means you," said Ron sharply to Lockhart.

"You hold Ginny's other hand --"

Harry tucked the sword and the Sorting Hat into his belt, Ron took
hold of the back of Harry's robes, and Harry reached out and took
hold of Fawkes's strangely hot tail feathers.

An extraordinary lightness seemed to spread through his whole body
and the next second, in a rush of wings, they were flying upward
through the pipe. Harry could hear Lockhart dangling below him,
saying, "Amazing! Amazing! This is just like magic!" The chill air was
whipping through Harry's hair, and before he'd stopped enjoying the
ride, it was over -- all four of them were hitting the wet floor of
Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and as Lockhart straightened his hat, the
sink that hid the pipe was sliding back into place.

Myrtle goggled at them.

"You're alive," she said blankly to Harry.

"There's no need to sound so disappointed," he said grimly, wiping
flecks of blood and slime off his glasses.

* 325*

"Oh, well ... Id just been thinking ... if you had died, you'd have been
welcome to share my toilet," said Myrtle, blushing silver.

"Urgh!" said Ron as they left the bathroom for the dark, deserted
corridor outside. "Harry! I think Myrtle's grown fond of you! You've
got competition, Ginny!"

But tears were still flooding silently down Ginny's face.

"Where now?" said Ron, with an anxious look at Ginny. Harry pointed.

Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the corridor. They
strode after him, and moments later, found themselves outside
Professor McGonagall's office.

Harry knocked and pushed the door open.

G F-I A P T E IR

k' I G 14 T V V N

DO

Y'$ REWARD

or a moment there was silence as Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Lockhart
stood in the doorway, covered in muck and slime and (in Harry's case)
blood. Then there was a scream.

"Ginny!"

It was Mrs. Weasley, who had been sitting crying in front of the fire.
She leapt to her feet, closely followed by Mr. Weasley, and both of
them flung themselves on their daughter.

Harry, however, was looking past them. Professor Dumbledore was
standing by the mantelpiece, beaming, next to Professor McGonagall,
who was taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest. Fawkes
went whooshing past Harry's ear and settled on Dumbledore's
shoulder, just as Harry found himself and Ron being swept into Mrs.
Weasleys tight embrace.

"You saved her! You saved her! How did you do it?"

"I think we'd all like to know that," said Professor McGonagall weakly.





Mrs. Weasley let go of Harry, who hesitated for a moment, then
walked over to the desk and laid upon it the Sorting Hat, the
rubyencrusted sword, and what remained of Riddle's diary.

Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a quarter of an
hour he spoke into the rapt silence: He told them about hearing the
disembodied voice, how Hermione had finally realized that he was
hearing a basilisk in the pipes; how he and Ron had followed the
spiders into the forest, that Aragog had told them where the last
victim of the basilisk had died; how he had guessed that Moaning
Myrtle had been the victim, and that the entrance to the Chamber of
Secrets might be in her bathroom ....

"Very well," Professor McGonagall prompted him as he paused, "so
you found out where the entrance was -- breaking a hundred school
rules into pieces along the way, I might add - but how on earth did
you all get out of there alive, Potter?"

So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this talking, told
them about Fawkes's timely arrival and about the Sorting Hat giving
him the sword. But then he faltered. He had so far avoided
mentioning Riddle's diary -- or Ginny. She was standing with her
head against Mrs. Weasley's shoulder, and tears were still coursing
silently down her cheeks. What if they expelled her? Harry thought in
panic. Riddle's diary didn't work anymore .... How could they prove
it had been he who'd made her do it all?

Instinctively, Harry looked at Dumbledore, who smiled faintly, the
firelight glancing off his half-moon spectacles.

"\What interests me most," said Dumbledore gently, "is how Lord
Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny, when my sources tell me he is
currently in hiding in the forests of Albania."

*328*

Relief -- warm, sweeping, glorious relief -- swept over Harry. "W-
what's that?" said Mr. Weasley in a stunned voice. "YouKnow-Who?
En-enchant Ginny? But Ginny's not ... Ginny hasn't been ... has she?"

"It was this diary," said Harry quickly, picking it up and showing it to
Dumbledore. "Riddle wrote it when he was sixteen . . . ."

Dumbledore took the diary from Harry and peered keenly down his
long, crooked nose at its burnt and soggy pages.

"Brilliant," he said softly. "Of course, he was probably the most
brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen." He turned around to the
Weasleys, who were looking utterly bewildered.

"Very few people know that Lord Voldemort was once called Tom
Riddle. I taught him myself, fifty years ago, at Hogwarts. He
disappeared after leaving the school ... traveled far and wide ... sank
so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our
kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that
when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable.
Hardly anyone connected Lord Voldemort with the clever,
handsome boy who was once Head Boy here."

"But, Ginny," said Mrs. Weasley. "What's our Ginny got to do with -
with -- him?"

"His d-diaryl" Ginny sobbed. "I've b-been writing in it, and he's been
w-writing back all year --"

"tinny!" said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. "Haven't I taught you
anything. What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can
think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain?  Why didn't
you show the diary to me, or your mother? A suspicious object like
that, it was clearly full of Dark Magic ='

*329*

"I d-didn't know," sobbed Ginny. "I found it inside one of the books
Mum got me. I th-thought someone had just left it in there and
forgotten about it --"

"Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away,"
Dumbledore interrupted in a firm voice. "This has been a terrible
ordeal for her. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards
than she have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort." He strode over
to the door and opened it. "Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming
mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up," he added,
twinkling kindly down at her. "You will find that Madam Pomfrey is
still awake. She's just giving out Mandrake juice -- I daresay the
basilisk's victims will be waking up any moment."

"So Hermione's okay!" said Ron brightly.

"There has been no lasting harm done, Ginny," said Dumbledore.

Mrs. Weasley led Ginny out, and Mr. Weasley followed, still looking
deeply shaken.

"You know, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore said thoughtfully to
Professor McGonagall, "I think all this merits a good feast. Might I ask
you to go and alert the kitchens?"

"Right," said Professor McGonagall crisply, also moving to the door.
"I'll leave you to deal with Potter and Weasley, shall I?"

"Certainly," said Dumbledore.

She left, and Harry and Ron gazed uncertainly at Dumbledore. What
exactly had Professor McGonagall meant, deal with them? Surely -
surely - they weren't about to be punished?

"I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if
you broke any more school rules, said Dumbledore.

*%30*

Ron opened his mouth in horror.

"Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our
words," Dumbledore went on, smiling. "You will both receive Special
Awards for Services to the School and -- let me see - yes, I think two
hundred points apiece for Gryffindor."

Ron went as briglitly pink as Lockhart's valentine flowers and closed
his mouth again.

"But one of us seems to be keeping mightily quiet about his part in this
dangerous adventure," Dumbledore added. "Why so modest,
Gilderoy?"

Harry gave a start. He had completely forgotten about Lockhart. He
turned and saw that Lockhart was standing in a corner of the room,
still wearing his vague smile. When Dumbledore addressed him,
Lockhart looked over his shoulder to see who he was talking to.

"Professor Dumbledore," Ron said quickly, "there was an accident
down in the Chamber of Secrets. Professor Lockhart --"

"Am I a professor?" said Lockhart in mild surprise. "Goodness. I
expect I was hopeless, was I?"

"He tried to do a Memory Charm and the wand backfired," Ron
explained quietly to Dumbledore.

"Dear me," said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his long silver
mustache quivering. "Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy!"

"Sword?" said Lockhart dimly. "Haven't got a sword. That boy has,
though." He pointed at Harry. "He'll lend you one."

"Would you mind taking Professor Lockhart up to the infirmary, too?"
Dumbledore said to Ron. "Id like a few more words with Harry .....

Lockhart ambled out. Ron cast a curious look back at Dumbledore and
Harry as he closed the door.

Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.

"Sit down, Harry," he said, and Harry sat, feeling unaccountably
nervous.

"First of all, Harry, I want to thank you," said Dumbledore, eyes
twinkling again. "You must have shown me real loyalty down in the
Chamber. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you."

He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto his knee.
Harry grinned awkwardly as Dumbledore watched him.

"And so you met Tom Riddle," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "I
imagine he was most interested in you . . . . "

Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came tumbling out of
his mouth.

"Professor Dumbledore ... Riddle said I'm like him. Strange likenesses,
he said ......

"Did he, now?" said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully at Harry from
under his thick silver eyebrows. "And what do you think, Harry?"

"I don't think I'm like him!" said Harry, more loudly than he'd intended.
"I mean, I'm -- I'm in Gryffindor, I'm . . ."

But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his mind.

"Professor," he started again after a moment. "The Sorting Hat told me
Id -- Id have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin's
heir for a while ... because I can speak Parseltongue ....

"You can speak Parseltongue, Harry," said Dumbledore calmly,
"because Lord Voldemort -- who is the last remaining ancestor

*$32*

of Salazar Slytherin -- can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm much
mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he
gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I'm sure ....

"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry said, thunderstruck.

"It certainly seems so."

"So I should be in Slytherin," Harry said, looking desperately into
Dumbledore's face. "The Sorting Hat could see Slytherin's power in
me, and it --"

"Put you in Gryffindor," said Dumbledore calmly. "Listen to me, Harry.
You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-
picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue -
resourcefulness - determination -- a certain disregard for rules," he
added, his mustache quivering again. "Yet the Sorting Hat placed you
in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."

"It only put me in Gryffindor," said Harry in a defeated voice, "because
I asked not to go in Slytherin . . . ."

`Exactly, "said Dumbledore, beaming once more. "Which makes you
very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what
we truly are, far more than our abilities." Harry sat motionless in his
chair, stunned. "If you want proof, Harry, that you belong in
Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely at this."

Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall's desk, picked
up the blood-stained silver sword, and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry
turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the
name engraved just below the hilt.

Godric Gryffindor

*333*

"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harry,"
said Dumbledore simply.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Dumbledore pulled open
one of the drawers in Professor McGonagall's desk and took out a quill
and a bottle of ink.

What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go down
to the feast, while I write to Azkaban -- we need our gamekeeper
back. And I must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, too," he
added thoughtfully. "We'll be needing a new Defense Against the
Dark Arts teacher... Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don't
we?"

Harry got up and crossed to the door. He had just reached for the
handle, however, when the door burst open so violently that it bounced
back off the wall.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, fury in his face. And cowering behind his
legs, heavily wrapped in bandages, was Dobby.

"Good evening, Lucius," said Dumbledore pleasantly.

Mr. Malfoy almost knocked Harry over as he swept into the room.
Dobby went scurrying in after him, crouching at the hem of his cloak,
a look of abject terror on his face.

The elf was carrying a stained rag with which he was attempting to
finish cleaning Mr. Malfoys shoes. Apparently Mr. Malfoy had set out
in a great hurry, for not only were his shoes half-polished, but his
usually sleek hair was disheveled. Ignoring the elf bobbing
apologetically around his ankles, he fixed his cold eyes upon
Dumbledore.

"So!" he said "You've come back. The governors suspended you, but
you still saw fit to return to Hogwarts."

*%$4*

"Well, you see, Lucius," said Dumbledore, smiling serenely, "the
other eleven governors contacted me today. It was something like
being caught in a hailstorm of owls, to tell the truth. They'd heard that
Arthur Weasleys daughter had been killed and wanted me back here
at once. They seemed to think I was the best man for the job after
all. Very strange tales they told me, too .... Several of them seemed
to think that you had threatened to curse their families if they didn't
agree to suspend me in the first place."

Mr. Malfoy went even paler than usual, but his eyes were still slits of
fury.

"So -- have you stopped the attacks yet?" he sneered. "Have you
caught the culprit?"

"We have," said Dumbledore, with a smile.

"Well?"said Mr. Malfoy sharply. "Who is it?"

"The same person as last time, Lucius," said Dumbledore. "But this
time, Lord Voldemort was acting through somebody else. By means
of this diary."

He held up the small black book with the large hole through the
center, watching Mr. Malfoy closely. Harry, however, was watching
Dobby.

The elf was doing something very odd. His great eyes fixed
meaningfully on Harry, he kept pointing at the diary, then at Mr.
Malfoy, and then hitting himself hard on the head with his fist.

"I see. . . " said Mr. Malfoy slowly to Dumbledore.

"A clever plan," said Dumbledore in a level voice, still staring Mr.
Malfoy straight in the eye. "Because if Harry here" --Mr. Malfoy shot
Harry a swift, sharp look -- "and his friend Ron hadn't discovered
this book, why -- Ginny Weasley might have taken all

*335*

the blame. No one would ever have been able to prove she hadn't
acted of her own free will ......

Mr. Malfoy said nothing. His face was suddenly masklike.

"And imagine," Dumbledore went on, "what might have happened
then .... The Weasleys are one of our most prominent pure-blood
families. Imagine the effect on Arthur Weasley and his Muggle
Protection Act, if his own daughter was discovered attacking and -
killing Muggle-borns .... Very fortunate the diary was discovered,
and Riddle's memories wiped from it. "Who knows what the
consequences might have been otherwise ......

Mr. Malfoy forced himself to speak.

"Very fortunate," he said stiffly.

And still, behind his back, Dobby was pointing, first to the diary,
then to Lucius Malfoy, then punching himself in the head.

And Harry suddenly understood. He nodded at Dobby, and Dobby
backed into a corner, now twisting his ears in punishment.

"Don't you want to know how Ginny got hold of that diary, Mr.
Malfoy?" said Harry.

Lucius Malfoy rounded on him.

"How should I know how the stupid little girl got hold of it?" he said.

"Because you gave it to her," said Harry. "In Flourish and Blotts.
You picked up her old Transfiguration book and slipped the diary
inside it, didn't you?"

He saw Mr. Malfoy's white hands clench and unclench.

"Prove it," he hissed.

"Oh, no one will be able to do that," said Dumbledore, smiling at
Harry. "Not now that Riddle has vanished from the book. On

*336*

the other hand, I would advise you, Lucius, not to go giving out any
more of Lord Voldemort's old school things. If any more of them find
their way into innocent hands, I think Arthur Weasley, for one, will
make sure they are traced back to you ......

Lucius Malfoy stood for a moment, and Harry distinctly saw his right
hand twitch as though he was longing to reach for his wand. Instead,
he turned to his house-elf

"We're going, Dobby!"

He wrenched open the door and as the elf came hurrying up to him,
he kicked him right through it. They could hear Dobby squealing with
pain all the way along the corridor. Harry stood for a moment,
thinking hard. Then it came to him -

"Professor Dumbledore," he said hurriedly. "Can I give that diary
back to Mr. Malfoy, please?"

"Certainly, Harry," said Dumbledore calmly. "But hurry. The feast,
remember ......

Harry grabbed the diary and dashed out of the office. He could hear
Dobby's squeals of pain receding around the corner. Quickly,
wondering if this plan could possibly work, Harry took off one of his
shoes, pulled off his slimy, filthy sock, and stuffed the diary into it.
Then he ran down the dark corridor.

He caught up with them at the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Malfoy," he gasped, skidding to a halt, "I've got something for
you --"

And he forced the smelly sock into Lucius Malfoy's hand.

")What the --?"

Mr. Malfoy ripped the sock off the diary, threw it aside, then looked
furiously from the ruined book to Harry.

*',531*

You'll meet the same sticky end as your parents one of these days,
Harry Potter," he said softly. "They were meddlesome fools, too.

He turned to go.

"Come, Dobby. I said, come."

But Dobby didn't move. He was holding up Harry's disgusting, slimy
sock, and looking at it as though it were a priceless treasure.

"Master has given a sock," said the elf in wonderment. "Master gave
it to Dobby."

"What's that?" spat Mr. Malfoy. "What did you say?"

"Got a sock," said Dobby in disbelief. "Master threw it, and Dobby
caught it, and Dobby -- Dobby is free. "

Lucius Malfoy stood frozen, staring at the elf Then he lunged at
Harry.

"You've lost me my servant, boy!"

But Dobby shouted, "You shall not harm Harry Potter!"

There was a loud bang, and Mr. Malfoy was thrown backward. He
crashed down the stairs, three at a time, landing in a crumpled heap
on the landing below. He got up, his face livid, and pulled out his
wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger.

"You shall go now," he said fiercely, pointing down at Mr. Malfoy.
"You shall not touch Harry Potter. You shall go now."

Lucius Malfoy had no choice. With a last, incensed stare at the pair
of them, he swung his cloak around him and hurried out of sight.

"Harry Potter freed Dobby!" said the elf shrilly, gazing up at Harry,
moonlight from the nearest window reflected in his orb-like eyes.
"Harry Potter set Dobby free!"

"Least I could do, Dobby," said Harry, grinning. "Just promise never
to try and save my life again."

The elf's ugly brown face split suddenly into a wide, toothy smile.

"I've just got one question, Dobby," said Harry as Dobby pulled on
Harry's sock with shaking hands. "You told me all this had nothing to
do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, remember? Well --"

"It was a clue, sir," said Dobby, his eyes widening, as though this was
obvious. "Was giving you a clue. The Dark Lord, before he changed
his name, could be freely named, you see?"

"Right," said Harry weakly. "Well, Id better go. There's a feast, and
my friend Hermione should be awake by now .....

Dobby threw his arms around Harry's middle and hugged him.

"Harry Potter is greater by far than Dobby knew!" he sobbed.
"Farewell, Harry Potter!"

And with a final loud crack, Dobby disappeared.

Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like
this. Everybody was in their pajamas, and the celebration lasted all
night. Harry didn't know whether the best bit was Hermione running
toward him, screaming "You solved it! You solved it!" or Justin
hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to wring. his hand and
apologize endlessly for suspecting him, or Hagrid turning up at half
past three, cuffing Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders that they
were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and Ron's four hundred
points for Gryffindor securing the House Cup for the second year
running, or Professor McGonagall standing up to

*339*

tell them all that the exams had been canceled as a school treat ("Oh,
no!" said Hermione), or Dumbledore announcing that, unfortunately,
Professor Lockhart would be unable to return next year, owing to the
fact that he needed to go away and get his memory back. Quite a few
of the teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.

"Shame," said Ron, helping himself to a jam doughnut. "He was
starting to grow on me."

The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine.
Hogwarts was back to normal with only a few, small differences -
Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were canceled ("but we've
had plenty of practice at that anyway," Ron told a disgruntled
Hermione) and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a school governor.
Draco was no longer strutting around the school as though he owned
the place. On the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the other
hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy again.

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the Hogwarts Express.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny got a compartment to
themselves. They made the most of the last few hours in which they
were allowed to do magic before the holidays. They played Exploding
Snap, set off the very last of Fred and George's Filibuster fireworks,
and practiced disarming each other by magic. Harry was getting very
good at it.

They were almost at King's Cross when Harry remembered
something.

"Ginny - what did you see Percy doing, that he didn't want you to tell
anyone?"

*340*

"Oh, that," said Ginny, giggling. "Well - Percy's got a girlfriend." Fred
dropped a stack of books on George's head.

"What?"

"It's that Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater," said Ginny.
"That's who he was writing to all last summer. He's been meeting her
all over the school in secret. I walked in on them kissing in an empty
classroom one day. He was so upset when she was -- you know -
attacked. You won't tease him, will you?" she added anxiously.

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Fred, who was looking like his birthday
had come early.

"Definitely not," said George, sniggering.

The Hogwarts Express slowed and finally stopped.

Harry pulled out his quill and a bit of parchment and turned to Ron
and Hermione.

"This is called a telephone number," he told Ron, scribbling it twice,
tearing the parchment in two, and handing it to them. "I told your dad
how to use a telephone last summer - he'll know. Call me at the
Dursleys', okay? I can't stand another two months with only Dudley
to talk to ......

"Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won't they?" said
Hermione as they got off the train and joined the crowd thronging
toward the enchanted barrier. "When they hear what you did this
year?"

"Proud?" said Harry. "Are you crazy? All those times I could've
died, and I didn't manage it? They'll be furious ......

And together they walked back through the gateway to the Muggle
world. '

Title: Pride and Prejudice

Author: Jane Austen

Editor: R. W. Chapman

Release date: May 9, 2013 [eBook #42671]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Jon Hurst, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ***


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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:

A Novel.

In Three Volumes.

By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."

VOL. I.







London:
Printed for T. Egerton,
Military Library, Whitehall.
1813.




[Illustration: Morning Dress.

_Invented by M^{rs} Bell 26 Charlotte Street Bedford Square._

_Engraved for No. 72 of La Belle Assemblee 1^{st} July 1815_]




PRIDE & PREJUDICE.




CHAPTER I.


It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful
property of some one or other of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
told me all about it."

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do not you want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is
to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be
in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four
or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

"How so? how can it affect them?"

"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You
must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

"Is that his design in settling here?"

"Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
soon as he comes."

"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the
party."

"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a woman has
five grown up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own
beauty."

"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."

"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
the neighbourhood."

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go,
merely on that account, for in general you know they visit no new
comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit
him, if you do not."

"You are over scrupulous surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
hearty consent to his marrying which ever he chuses of the girls; though
I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."

"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
good humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the
preference."

"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are
all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
quickness than her sisters."

"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take
delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves."

"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
these twenty years at least."

"Ah! you do not know what I suffer."

"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."

"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come since you will not
visit them."

"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
all."

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three and twenty years had
been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented she
fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.




CHAPTER II.


Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his
wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
paid, she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
suddenly addressed her with,

"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it Lizzy."

"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother
resentfully, "since we are not to visit."

"But you forget, mama," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the
assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him."

"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
of her."

"No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do
not depend on her serving you."

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but unable to contain
herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces."

"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times
them ill."

"I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully.

"When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?"

"To-morrow fortnight."

"Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back
till the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself."

"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
Mr. Bingley to _her_."

"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
myself; how can you be so teazing?"

"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after
all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and therefore, as
she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
take it on myself."

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense,
nonsense!"

"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do
you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
Mary? for you are a young lady of deep reflection I know, and read great
books, and make extracts."

Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how.

"While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr.
Bingley."

"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.

"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me so before? If I
had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on
him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
cannot escape the acquaintance now."

The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy
was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
while.

"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said
a word about it till now."

"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you chuse," said Mr. Bennet; and,
as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

"What an excellent father you have, girls," said she, when the door was
shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so
pleasant I can tell you, to be making new acquaintance every day; but
for your sakes, we would do any thing. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
ball."

"Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I'm the tallest."

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
dinner.




CHAPTER III.


Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
in various ways; with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.

"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,"
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all the others equally well
married, I shall have nothing to wish for."

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten
minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard
much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had
Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to
accept the honour of their invitation, &c. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a
large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved over such a number of ladies; but were comforted the
day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve, he had brought
only six with him from London, his five sisters and a cousin. And when
the party entered the assembly room, it consisted of only five
altogether; Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good looking and gentleman-like; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien; and
the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after
his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was
much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his
large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
with his friend.

Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one
himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in
the world, and every body hoped that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
his general behaviour, was sharpened into particular resentment, by his
having slighted one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and
Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his
friend to join it.

"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
dance."

"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it
would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
another woman in the room, whom it would not be a punishment to me to
stand up with."

"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Bingley, "for a
kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my
life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
uncommonly pretty."

"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

"Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
dare say, very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."

"Which do you mean?" and turning round, he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said,
"She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no
humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story
however with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this, as her
mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they
had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned therefore in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a
book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised
such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife's
views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he
had a very different story to hear.

"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most
delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Every body said how well
she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
her twice. Only think of _that_ my dear; he actually danced with her
twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all: indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
down the dance. So, he enquired who she was, and got introduced, and
asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss
King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane
again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the Boulanger----"

"If he had had any compassion for _me_," cried her husband impatiently,
"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
his partners. Oh! that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!"

"Oh! my dear," continued Mrs. Bennet, "I am quite delighted with him. He
is so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never
in my life saw any thing more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the
lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown----"

Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not
suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man."




CHAPTER IV.


When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much
she admired him.

"He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible, good
humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much ease,
with such perfect good breeding!"

"He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth, "which a young man ought
likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete."

"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
did not expect such a compliment."

"Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between
us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in
the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
stupider person."

"Dear Lizzy!"

"Oh! you are a great deal too apt you know, to like people in general.
You never see a fault in any body. All the world are good and agreeable
in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life."

"I would wish not to be hasty in censuring any one; but I always speak
what I think."

"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
others! Affectation of candour is common enough;--one meets it every
where. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the good
of every body's character and make it still better, and say nothing of
the bad--belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man's sisters too,
do you? Their manners are not equal to his."

"Certainly not; at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother and keep
his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
neighbour in her."

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and
with a judgment too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very
little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not
deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of
being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. They were
rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private
seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the
habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people
of rank; and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of
themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in
the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their
memories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been
acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly an hundred
thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate,
but did not live to do it.--Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
purchase.

His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but
though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
means unwilling to preside at his table, nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to
look at Netherfield House. He did look at it and into it for half an
hour, was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied
with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.

Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a
great opposition of character.--Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
easiness, openness, ductility of his temper, though no disposition could
offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never
appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard Bingley had the
firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In
understanding Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient,
but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting. In
that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of
being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offence.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier
girls in his life; every body had been most kind and attentive to him,
there had been no formality, no stiffness, he had soon felt acquainted
with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel
more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people
in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had
felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or
pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too
much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired
her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom
they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorised by such
commendation to think of her as he chose.




CHAPTER V.


Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade
in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune and risen to the
honour of knighthood by an address to the King, during his mayoralty.
The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a
disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; and
quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a
mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance, and unshackled by
business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For
though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the
contrary, he was all attention to every body. By nature inoffensive,
friendly and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made him
courteous.

Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet.--They had several children. The
eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven,
was Elizabeth's intimate friend.

That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a
ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly
brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.

"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet with civil
self-command to Miss Lucas. "_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice."

"Yes;--but he seemed to like his second better."

"Oh!--you mean Jane, I suppose--because he danced with her twice. To be
sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he
_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something
about Mr. Robinson."

"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not
I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty
women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his
answering immediately to the last question--Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet
beyond a doubt, there cannot be two opinions on that point."

"Upon my word!--Well, that was very decided indeed--that does seem as
if----but however, it may all come to nothing you know."

"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza," said
Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
is he?--Poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_."

"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
ill-treatment; for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite
a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he
sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips."

"Are you quite sure, Ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?" said
Jane.--"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."

"Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
could not help answering her;--but she said he seemed very angry at
being spoke to."

"Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that he never speaks much unless
among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably
agreeable."

"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
agreeable he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was;
every body says that he is ate up with pride, and I dare say he had
heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to
the ball in a hack chaise."

"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long," said Miss Lucas, "but I
wish he had danced with Eliza."

"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with _him_,
if I were you."

"I believe, Ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him."

"His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not offend _me_ so much as pride
often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
very fine a young man, with family, fortune, every thing in his favour,
should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_
to be proud."

"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive
_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_."

"Pride," observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
reflections, "is a very common failing I believe. By all that I have
ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human
nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us
who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
things, though the words are often used synonimously. A person may be
proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of
ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."

"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a young Lucas who came with his
sisters, "I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day."

"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought," said Mrs.
Bennet; "and if I were to see you at it I should take away your bottle
directly."

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
would, and the argument ended only with the visit.




CHAPTER VI.


The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
was returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the
good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
found to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a
wish of being better acquainted with _them_, was expressed towards the
two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest
pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of
every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was
generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to
_her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the
suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss
Lucas.

"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose
on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the
dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew _more_
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."

"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can
perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to
discover it too."

"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."

"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
it, he must find it out."

"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane
meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they
always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his
attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling
in love as much as she chuses."

"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in
question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined
to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she
cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite
enough to make her understand his character."

"Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four
evenings may do a great deal."

"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both
like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."

"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if
she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
chance of happiness, as if she were to be studying his character for a
twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or
ever so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the
least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
life."

"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself."

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had
hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
this she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made
himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough
to dance with.

He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.

"What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my
conversation with Colonel Forster?"

"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."

"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him."

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
turned to him and said,

"Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well
just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
Meryton?"

"With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady
energetic."

"You are severe on us."

"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going
to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."

"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken
a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would
really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
hearing the very best performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing
at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of
course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I
shall keep mine to swell my song."

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she
would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with
some of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing
at one end of the room.

Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas
was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.

"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There
is nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first
refinements of polished societies."

"Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue
amongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can
dance."

Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully;" he
continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--"and I doubt
not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy."

"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir."

"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
you often dance at St. James's?"

"Never, sir."

"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?"

"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it."

"You have a house in town, I conclude?"

Mr. Darcy bowed.

"I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself--for I am fond of
superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
London would agree with Lady Lucas."

He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to
make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
her,

"My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow
me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You
cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you."
And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though
extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,

"Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.--I entreat you
not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."

Mr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her
hand; but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all
shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.

"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me
the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
for one half hour."

"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.

"He is indeed--but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we
cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a
partner?"

Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,

"I can guess the subject of your reverie."

"I should imagine not."

"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the
nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people!--What would
I give to hear your strictures on them!"

"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you
joy?"

"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy."

"Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and
of course she will be always at Pemberley with you."

He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed long.




CHAPTER VII.


Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in
default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
had left her four thousand pounds.

She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their
father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
London in a respectable line of trade.

The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
head quarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting
intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the
officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret,
and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips
visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity
unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.
Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their
mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of
an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
Bennet coolly observed,

"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
I am now convinced."

Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and
her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
next morning to London.

"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so
ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
of any body's children, it should not be of my own however."

"If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible of it."

"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."

"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
foolish."

"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
their father and mother.--When they get to our age I dare say they will
not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I
liked a red coat myself very well--and indeed so I do still at my heart;
and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should
want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel
Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his
regimentals."

"Mama," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a
note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,

"Well, Jane, who is it from? what is it about? what does he say? Well,
Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love."

"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud.

     "My dear Friend,

     "If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and
     me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our
     lives, for a whole day's tête-à-tête between two women can never
     end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of
     this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.
     Yours ever,

     "CAROLINE BINGLEY."

"With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
_that_."

"Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."

"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.

"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
rain; and then you must stay all night."

"That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were sure that
they would not offer to send her home."

"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton;
and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."

"I had much rather go in the coach."

"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?"

"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."

"But if you have got them to-day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's purpose
will be answered."

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad
day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it
rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
Jane certainly could not come back.

"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet, more than
once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next
morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
brought the following note for Elizabeth:

     "My dearest Lizzy,

     "I FIND myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
     imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will
     not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on
     my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear
     of his having been to me--and excepting a sore-throat and head-ache
     there is not much the matter with me.

     "Yours, &c."

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she
should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."

"Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little
trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays
there, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the
carriage."

Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horse-woman, walking
was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.

"How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of such a
thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
there."

"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want."

"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father, "to send for the
horses?"

"No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing,
when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner."

"I admire the activity of your benevolence," observed Mary, "but every
impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion to what is required."

"We will go as far as Meryton with you," said Catherine and
Lydia.--Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set
off together.

"If we make haste," said Lydia, as they walked along, "perhaps we may
see something of Captain Carter before he goes."

In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within
view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.

She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of
surprise.--That she should have walked three miles so early in the day,
in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs.
Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her
in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them;
and in their brother's manners there was something better than
politeness; there was good humour and kindness.--Mr. Darcy said very
little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between
admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion,
and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The
latter was thinking only of his breakfast.

Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well
enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed
for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together,
could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the
extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
her.

When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
solicitude they shewed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a
violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice
was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were
the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact
nothing to do elsewhere.

When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go; and very
unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the
present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was
dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring
back a supply of clothes.




CHAPTER VIII.


At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past six
Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then
poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.

Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
eat, drink, and play at cards, who when he found her prefer a plain dish
to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.

When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst
thought the same, and added,

"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
looked almost wild."

"She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!"

"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
hide it, not doing its office."

"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was
all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat
quite escaped my notice."

"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am
inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such
an exhibition."

"Certainly not."

"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by
it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence,
a most country town indifference to decorum."

"It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said
Bingley.

"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper,
"that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine
eyes."

"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise."--A
short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.

"I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet
girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such
a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no
chance of it."

"I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in
Meryton."

"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside."

"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it
would not make them one jot less agreeable."

"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
consideration in the world," replied Darcy.

To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on
leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and
when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.

"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular."

"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great
reader and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am
_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and
I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well."

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table
where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
others; all that his library afforded.

"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
than I ever look into."

Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
in the room.

"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left
so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at
Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"

"It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many
generations."

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
books."

"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
these."

"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
half as delightful as Pemberley."

"I wish it may."

"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
finer county in England than Derbyshire."

"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."

"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."

"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."

Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little
attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near
the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest
sister, to observe the game.

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will
she be as tall as I am?"

"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
rather taller."

"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely
accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is
exquisite."

"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience
to be so very accomplished, as they all are."

"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"

"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net
purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I
never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
informed that she was very accomplished."

"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has
too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very
far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished."

"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.

"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your
idea of an accomplished woman."

"Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it."

"Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really
esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all
this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
will be but half deserved."

"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet
add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
extensive reading."

"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."

"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all
this?"

"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and
application, and elegance, as you describe, united."

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
room.

"Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is
one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other
sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."

"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
"there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
despicable."

Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for
immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so
unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to
his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.




CHAPTER IX.


Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

"Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be
moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
a little longer on your kindness."

"Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
sure, will not hear of her removal."

"You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
"that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she
remains with us."

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not
know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a
vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to
_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect
over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is
equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I
hope, though you have but a short lease."

"Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I
should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here."

"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth.

"You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her.

"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly."

"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
through I am afraid is pitiful."

"That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep,
intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours."

"Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in
the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."

"I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a
studier of character. It must be an amusing study."

"Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
least that advantage."

"The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for
such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined
and unvarying society."

"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
observed in them for ever."

"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a
country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
going on in the country as in town."

Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
victory over him, continued her triumph.

"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for
my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?"

"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and
when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."

"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing
at all."

"Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her
mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not
such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which
you must acknowledge to be true."

"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with
many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families."

Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards
Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.

"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so
genteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every
body.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy
themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the
matter."

"Did Charlotte dine with you?"

"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For
my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own
work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to
judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I
assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think
Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend."

"She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley.

"Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body
better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own
partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my
brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my
sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.
But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he
wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."

"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has
been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"

"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is
strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."

Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own
easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.

"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of
the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill."

Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to
wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she
added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not."

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.




CHAPTER X.


The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear.
Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by
messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness
of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
exactly in unison with her opinion of each.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the
year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her so once, by your desire."

"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
pens remarkably well."

"Thank you--but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp,
and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
Grantley's."

"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At
present I have not room to do them justice."

"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"

"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me
to determine."

"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with
ease, cannot write ill."

"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her
brother--"because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?"

"My style of writing is very different from yours."

"Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest."

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."

"Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
indirect boast."

"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?"

"The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think
at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with
quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any
attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?"

"Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the
foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I
believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies."

"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you
would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay
till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
go--and, at another word, might stay a month."

"You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did
not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much
more than he did himself."

"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my
friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a
circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
could."

"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention
as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"

"Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for
himself."

"You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but
which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand
according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that
the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the
delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one
argument in favour of its propriety."

"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
with you."

"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
either."

"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?"

"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange
with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
between the parties?"

"By all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not
forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
know a more aweful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening
when he has nothing to do."

Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
rather offended; and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
brother for talking such nonsense.

"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend.--"You dislike an
argument, and want to silence this."

"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."

"What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
Darcy had much better finish his letter."

Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to
the piano-forte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
the way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed
Elizabeth could not help observing as she turned over some music books
that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because
he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine however
at last, that she drew his notice because there was a something about
her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than
in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
him too little to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a
lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
Elizabeth, said to her--

"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
opportunity of dancing a reel?"

She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
surprise at her silence.

"Oh!" said she, "I heard you before; but I could not immediately
determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell
you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
you dare."

"Indeed I do not dare."

Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had
never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger.

Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane, received some
assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.

She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.

"I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the
next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
the officers.--And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses."

"Have you any thing else to propose for my domestic felicity?"

"Oh! yes.--Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be
placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great uncle
the judge. They are in the same profession, you know; only in different
lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not attempt to have it
taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"

"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
colour and shape, and the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be
copied."

At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and
Elizabeth herself.

"I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some
confusion, lest they had been overheard.

"You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away
without telling us that you were coming out."

Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness
and immediately said,--

"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
avenue."

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
laughingly answered,

"No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to
uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
fourth. Good bye."

She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.




CHAPTER XI.


When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister,
and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
at their acquaintance with spirit.

But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object.
Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had
something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst
also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness
and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to
the other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the
door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else.
Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
delight.

When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the
silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and
rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
Bennet.

Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was
perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it
is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a
book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
an excellent library."

No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing
her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
towards him and said,

"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not
some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
pleasure."

"If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses,
before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and
as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my
cards."

"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the
day."

"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
near so much like a ball."

Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about
the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at
whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation
of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to
Elizabeth, said,

"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting
so long in one attitude."

Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing,
that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and
down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them
would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could
be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand
him?

"Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe
on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing
about it."

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any
thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two
motives.

"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon
as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing
the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret
affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be
completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better
as I sit by the fire."

"Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so
abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?"

"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We
can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at
him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done."

"But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not
yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No,
no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose
ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr.
Darcy may hug himself."

"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an
uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a
laugh."

"Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The
wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions,
may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a
joke."

"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--"there are such people, but I hope I am
not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies
and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I
laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what
you are without."

"Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of
my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
understanding to ridicule."

"Such as vanity and pride."

"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss
Bingley;--"and pray what is the result?"

"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
himself without disguise."

"No"--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the
convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of
others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My
feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost
for ever."

"_That_ is a failing indeed!"--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment
_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I
really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

"And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body."

"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand
them."

"Do let us have a little music,"--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
conversation in which she had no share.--"Louisa, you will not mind my
waking Mr. Hurst."

Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was
opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for
it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.




CHAPTER XII.


In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on
her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive
them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very
well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively
resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,
she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at
length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.

The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was
said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on
Jane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was
then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike
of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself.
He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of
influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at
one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to
see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
tenderly, she even shook hands with the former.--Elizabeth took leave of
the whole party in the liveliest spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again.--But their
father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really
glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its
animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and
Elizabeth.

They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human
nature; and had some new extracts to admire, and some new observations
of thread-bare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had
information for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much
had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of
the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been
flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going
to be married.




CHAPTER XIII.


"I hope, my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
breakfast the next morning, "that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party."

"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming I am sure,
unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in, and I hope _my_ dinners
are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home."

"The person of whom I speak, is a gentleman and a stranger." Mrs.
Bennet's eyes sparkled.--"A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley
I am sure. Why Jane--you never dropt a word of this; you sly thing!
Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley.--But--good
lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia,
my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill, this moment."

"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley," said her husband; "it is a person whom I
never saw in the whole course of my life."

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained.
"About a month ago I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago I
answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring
early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,
may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."

"Oh! my dear," cried his wife, "I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
children; and I am sure if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
to do something or other about it."

Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail.
They had often attempted it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs.
Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail
bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet, "and
nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little
softened by his manner of expressing himself."

"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it was very impertinent of
him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father
did before him?"

"Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
head, as you will hear."

     _Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,

     15th October._

     DEAR SIR,

     The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
     father, always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the
     misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the
     breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing
     lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good
     terms with any one, with whom it had always pleased him to be at
     variance.--"There, Mrs. Bennet."--My mind however is now made up on
     the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been
     so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right
     Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh,
     whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable
     rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to
     demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, and be
     ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are
     instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I
     feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in
     all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds
     I flatter myself that my present overtures of good-will are highly
     commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the
     entail of Longbourn estate, will be kindly overlooked on your side,
     and not lead you to reject the offered olive branch. I cannot be
     otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your
     amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to
     assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends,--but
     of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me
     into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on
     you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and
     shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday
     se'night following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as
     Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a
     Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the
     duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to
     your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

     WILLIAM COLLINS."

"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,"
said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most
conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and I doubt not will
prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
indulgent as to let him come to us again."

"There is some sense in what he says about the girls however; and if he
is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
discourage him."

"Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean
to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
credit."

Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady
Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
his parishioners whenever it were required.

"He must be an oddity, I think," said she. "I cannot make him
out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he
mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he
would help it, if he could.--Can he be a sensible man, sir?"

"No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him."

"In point of composition," said Mary, "his letter does not seem
defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
think it is well expressed."

To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had
received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for
their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,
and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure, which
astonished her husband and daughters.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need
of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall,
heavy looking young man of five and twenty. His air was grave and
stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this
instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did
not doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage.
This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers, but
Mrs. Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,

"You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may
prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
oddly."

"You allude perhaps to the entail of this estate."

"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you
must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things
I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates
will go when once they come to be entailed."

"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins,--and
could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing
forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come
prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but perhaps
when we are better acquainted----"

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture were examined and praised;
and his commendation of every thing would have touched Mrs. Bennet's
heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and
he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its
cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured
him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good
cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged
pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a
quarter of an hour.




CHAPTER XIV.


During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to
shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his
comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a
person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself
experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of
preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many
people he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her.
She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she
made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or
two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had
once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly
approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs.

"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I
dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?"

"The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane
from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."

"I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?"

"She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
extensive property."

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than
many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?"

"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the
handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks
the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many
accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am
informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies."

"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
court."

"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived
the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased
with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to
ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her
charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most
elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and
it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
pay."

"You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you
that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
moment, or are the result of previous study?"

"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
give them as unstudied an air as possible."

Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in
his pleasure.

By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to
take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad
to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented,
and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced
it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging
pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and
Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation
he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and
before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she
interrupted him with,

"Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard,
and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so
herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,

"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books
of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes
me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to
them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin."

Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs.
Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's
interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would
resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his
young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any
affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared
for backgammon.




CHAPTER XV.


Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of
his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had
given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good
deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he
felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.

Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to
marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found
them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face
confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter
of an hour's tête-à-tête with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at
Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--"As to
her _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could
not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her
_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged."

Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.

Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
the day before, was now high in her good graces.

Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the
house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and
go.

In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes
were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers,
and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin
in a shop window, could recal them.

But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
they had never seen before, of most gentleman-like appearance, walking
with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very
Mr. Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire,
and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air,
all wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if
possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of
wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained
the pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same
spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to
introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day
before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in
their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted
only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was
greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine
countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction
was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a
readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the
whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,
when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were
seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group,
the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual
civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the
principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on
purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and
was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they
were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth
happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,
was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,
one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,
touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.
What could be the meaning of it?--It was impossible to imagine; it was
impossible not to long to know.

In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
Mr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.
Philips' throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the
invitation.

Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two eldest, from
their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly
expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own
carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if
she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had
told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield
because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed
towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with
her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more,
apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with
her, which he could not help flattering himself however might be
justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to
her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good
breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to
by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she
could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had
brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's
commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour,
she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham
appeared Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation,
but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the
officers, who in comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid,
disagreeable fellows." Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the
next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips
protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or
both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such
behaviour than her sister.

Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.
Philips's manners and politeness. He protested that except Lady
Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for
she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even
pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
utterly unknown to her before. Something he supposed might be attributed
to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much
attention in the whole course of his life.




CHAPTER XVI.


As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the
girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
the house.

When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour
at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings
was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the
description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
with the housekeeper's room.

In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the
improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive
listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantle-piece, the
interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last however. The
gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The
officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
gentleman-like set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips,
breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the
probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest,
dullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the
skill of the speaker.

With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the
officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the
young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a
kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most
abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.

When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her
in return, by sitting down to whist.

"I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall be glad
to improve myself, for in my situation of life----" Mrs. Philips was
very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in
particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was
therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to
hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to
be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly
relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

"About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
understand."

"Yes," replied Wickham;--"his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten
thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of
giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been
connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy."

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"

"As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--"I have spent
four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
disagreeable."

"I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being
agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to
be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family."

"Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the
neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
him more favourably spoken of by any one."

"I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short
interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen."

"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head.

"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is
likely to be in this country much longer."

"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."

"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of
very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is.
His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be
in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a
thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every
thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory
of his father."

Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he
had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but
very intelligible gallantry.

"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added,
"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a
most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.
Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
were speaking of just now."

"Indeed!"

"Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
elsewhere."

"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could
his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?"

"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing.
Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I
was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I
may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too
freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very
different sort of men, and that he hates me."

"This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced."

"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_."

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
ever as he expressed them.

"But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what
can have induced him to behave so cruelly?"

"A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not
a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of
preference which was often given me."

"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be
despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
this!"

After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember
his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his
resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must
be dreadful."

"I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can
hardly be just to him."

Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To
treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his
father!"--She could have added, "A young man too, like _you_, whose very
countenance may vouch for your being amiable"--but she contented
herself with "And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from
childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest
manner!"

"We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest
part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips,
appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use
to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the
Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance,
and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself."

"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very
pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better
motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for
dishonesty I must call it."

"It _is_ wonderful,"--replied Wickham,--"for almost all his actions may
be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has
connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none
of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger
impulses even than pride."

"Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?"

"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his
money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve
the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what
his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to
degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful
guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the
most attentive and best of brothers."

"What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?"

He shook his head.--"I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain
to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very,
very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and
extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her
amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about
fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her
father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her,
and superintends her education."

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
help reverting once more to the first, and saying,

"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you
know Mr. Bingley?"

"Not at all."

"He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
Darcy is."

"Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not
want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a
very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride
never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing
something for fortune and figure."

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were
made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point;
but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured
her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance,
that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not
make herself uneasy.

"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a
card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I
am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters."

Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a
living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
notice, but he certainly has not known her long."

"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy."

"No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
yesterday."

"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."

This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
self-destined to another.

"Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman."

"I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have
not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who
chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of
the first class."

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put
an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of
Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every
body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as
they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and
Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.




CHAPTER XVII.


Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr.
Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she
knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The
possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to
interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be
done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and
throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be
otherwise explained.

"They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or
other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
without actual blame on either side."

"Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in
behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
somebody."

"Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not laugh me out of my
opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light
it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a
manner,--one, whom his father had promised to provide for.--It is
impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his
character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
excessively deceived in him? oh! no."

"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than
that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me
last night; names, facts, every thing mentioned without ceremony.--If it
be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his
looks."

"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing.--One does not know what to
think."

"I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think."

But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr.
Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when the
affair became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery where this
conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom
they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their
personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was
fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see
their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and
repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their
separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention;
avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth,
and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from
their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and
hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by
receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the
society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and
Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of every thing in Mr. Darcy's
looks and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia,
depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though
they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr.
Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and
a ball was at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family
that she had no disinclination for it.

"While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough.--I
think it no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who
consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for every
body."

Elizabeth's spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did
not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking
him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he
did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's
amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke
either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to
dance.

"I am by no means of opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a ball of
this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can
have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself
that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins
in the course of the evening, and I take this opportunity of soliciting
yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,--a
preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right
cause, and not to any disrespect for her."

Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
engaged by Wickham for those very dances:--and to have Mr. Collins
instead! her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help
for it however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own was per force
delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as
good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his
gallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more.--It now first
struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of
being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.
The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than
gratified herself, by this effect of her charms, it was not long before
her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage
was exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth however did not chuse to
take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the
consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and
till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time,
for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was
such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No
aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after;--the very shoe-roses
for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some
trial of her patience in weather, which totally suspended the
improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than
a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday and
Monday, endurable to Kitty and Lydia.




CHAPTER XVIII.


Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield and looked in
vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a
doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of
meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than
usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all
that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than
might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the
dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's
pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this
was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and
who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business
the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant
smile,

"I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if
he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here."

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
Elizabeth, and as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling
of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to
make.--Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to
Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and
turned away with a degree of ill humour, which she could not wholly
surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality
provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to
the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of distress;
they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
him was ecstacy.

She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
were over she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took
her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without
knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
mind; Charlotte tried to console her.

"I dare say you will find him very agreeable."

"Heaven forbid!--_That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all!--To
find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate!--Do not wish me
such an evil."

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper not to be a
simpleton and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it.
They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent.
After a pause of some minutes she addressed him a second time with

"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.--_I_ talked about
the dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of
the room, or the number of couples."

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
said.

"Very well.--That reply will do for the present.--Perhaps by and bye I
may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public
ones.--But _now_ we may be silent."

"Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?"

"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of
_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the
trouble of saying as little as possible."

"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
imagine that you are gratifying mine?"

"Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a great
similarity in the turn of our minds.--We are each of an unsocial,
taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,"
said he. "How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say.--_You_
think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."

"I must not decide on my own performance."

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down
the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often
walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist
the temptation, added, "When you met us there the other day, we had just
been forming a new acquaintance."

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his
features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
constrained manner said,

"Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his
_making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them,
is less certain."

"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship," replied Elizabeth
with emphasis, "and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all
his life."

Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At
that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass
through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
Darcy he stopt with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his
dancing and his partner.

"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear Sir. Such very
superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the
first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, (glancing
at her sister and Bingley,) shall take place. What congratulations will
then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you,
Sir.--You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching
converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me."

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,
he turned to his partner, and said,

"Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of."

"I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for
themselves.--We have tried two or three subjects already without
success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."

"What think you of books?" said he, smiling.

"Books--Oh! no.--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
feelings."

"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
no want of subject.--We may compare our different opinions."

"No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
something else."

"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?" said he,
with a look of doubt.

"Yes, always," she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared
by her suddenly exclaiming, "I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,
that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being
created_."

"I am," said he, with a firm voice.

"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"

"I hope not."

"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,
to be secure of judging properly at first."

"May I ask to what these questions tend?"

"Merely to the illustration of _your_ character," said she, endeavouring
to shake off her gravity. "I am trying to make it out."

"And what is your success?"

She shook her head. "I do not get on at all. I hear such different
accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."

"I can readily believe," answered he gravely, "that report may vary
greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either."

"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
opportunity."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied.
She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for
in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her,
which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
another.

They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with
an expression of civil disdain thus accosted her,

"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George
Wickham!--Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a
thousand questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you,
among his other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the
late Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend,
not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr.
Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he
has been always remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has
treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the
particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to
blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that
though my brother thought he could not well avoid including him in his
invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had
taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all, is a
most insolent thing indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it.
I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt;
but really considering his descent, one could not expect much better."

"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same," said
Elizabeth angrily; "for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse
than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can
assure you, he informed me himself."

"I beg your pardon," replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
"Excuse my interference.--It was kindly meant."

"Insolent girl!" said Elizabeth to herself.--"You are much mistaken if
you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see
nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
Darcy." She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make
inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of
such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently
marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the
evening.--Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment
solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and every thing
else gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for
happiness.

"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
sister's, "what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
you may be sure of my pardon."

"No," replied Jane, "I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his
history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have
principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,
the probity and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
received; and I am sorry to say that by his account as well as his
sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am
afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's
regard."

"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?"

"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton."

"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
perfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?"

"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard
them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to
him _conditionally_ only."

"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity," said Elizabeth warmly;
"but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
Bingley's defence of his friend was a very able one I dare say, but
since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of
both gentlemen as I did before."

She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of
Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence
in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew
to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them and
told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to
make a most important discovery.

"I have found out," said he, "by a singular accident, that there is now
in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
this house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother
Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would
have thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh in this assembly!--I am most thankful that the discovery is made
in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do,
and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
ignorance of the connection must plead my apology."

"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?"

"Indeed I am. I shall intreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'night."

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him
that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as
an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it
was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance.--Mr. Collins listened to her
with the determined air of following his own inclination, and when she
ceased speaking, replied thus,

"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your
excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your
understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference
between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those
which regulate the clergy; for give me leave to observe that I consider
the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank
in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the
same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates
of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look
on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your
advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though
in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and
habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like
yourself." And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose
reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at
being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with
a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if
hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words "apology,"
"Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine de Bourgh."--It vexed her to see him
expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained
wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied
with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not
discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed
abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the
end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth.

"I have no reason, I assure you," said he, "to be dissatisfied with my
reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying,
that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him."

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley, and the
train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,
made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in
that very house in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
could bestow; and she felt capable under such circumstances, of
endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts
she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to
supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,
openly, and of nothing else but of her expectation that Jane would be
soon married to Mr. Bingley.--It was an animating subject, and Mrs.
Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of
the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living
but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation;
and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of
Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger
daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be
able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that
she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was
necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
Bennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She
concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally
fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no
chance of it.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible
whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the
chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her
mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am
sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say
nothing _he_ may not like to hear."

"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower.--What advantage can it be to you
to offend Mr. Darcy?--You will never recommend yourself to his friend by
so doing."

Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother
would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed
and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
steady gravity.

At length however Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken.
Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she
had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of
complaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an
opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song.
Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations; and she
watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience
which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving
amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be
prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute
began another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display;
her voice was weak, and her manner affected.--Elizabeth was in agonies.
She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly
talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making
signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued however
impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,
and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,

"That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough.
Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit."

Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
Elizabeth sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
her anxiety had done no good.--Others of the party were now applied to.

"If I," said Mr. Collins, "were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
compatible with the profession of a clergyman.--I do not mean however to
assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to
music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
rector of a parish has much to do.--In the first place, he must make
such an agreement for tythes as may be beneficial to himself and not
offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time
that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care
and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance
that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every
body, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot
acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should
omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards any body connected
with the family." And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech,
which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room.--Many
stared.--Many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet
himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having
spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that
he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.

To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to
expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would
have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or
finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister
that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he
must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should
have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough, and
she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or
the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teazed by
Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he
could not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her
power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
He assured her that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
her, and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.

She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy's farther notice;
though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in
it.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a
manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriages a quarter of
an hour after every body else was gone, which gave them time to see how
heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and
were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing, threw a
languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the
long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his
sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and
politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the
rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too
much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of "Lord,
how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and
addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy
he would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time,
without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful
pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of
waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to
go the next day for a short time.

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the
delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
settlements, new carriages and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
see her daughter settled at Netherfield, in the course of three or four
months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each
was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.




CHAPTER XIX.


The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the
moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding
Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon
after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,

"May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
course of this morning?"

Before Elizabeth had time for any thing but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet instantly answered,

"Oh dear!--Yes--certainly.--I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am
sure she can have no objection.--Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs." And
gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth
called out,

"Dear Ma'am, do not go.--I beg you will not go.--Mr. Collins must excuse
me.--He can have nothing to say to me that any body need not hear. I am
going away myself."

"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy.--I desire you will stay where you are."--And
upon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about
to escape, she added, "Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing
Mr. Collins."

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried
to conceal by incessant employment the feelings which were divided
between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as
soon as they were gone Mr. Collins began.

"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected
mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport
of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my
future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for
marrying--and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of
selecting a wife, as I certainly did."

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not
use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and
he continued:

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add
very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought to have
mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation
of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.
Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this
subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left
Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry.--Chuse properly, chuse a
gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and
kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond any
thing I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must be
acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect
which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
father, (who, however, may live many years longer,) I could not satisfy
myself without resolving to chuse a wife from among his daughters, that
the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be
for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I
flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
in the 4 per cents. which will not be yours till after your mother's
decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

"You are too hasty, Sir," she cried. "You forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for
the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline
them."

"I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a
third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."

"Upon my word, Sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is rather an
extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.--You could not make _me_
happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
would make _you_ so.--Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
situation."

"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said Mr. Collins
very gravely--"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of
seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty,
economy, and other amiable qualifications."

"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must
give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of
believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be
considered, therefore, as finally settled." And rising as she thus
spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus
addressed her,

"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject I
shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the
first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
female character."

"Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth, "you puzzle me
exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
may convince you of its being one."

"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
believing it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand
is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into farther
consideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the
effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I
shall chuse to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females."

"I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to that kind
of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the
truth from her heart."

"You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
being acceptable."

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no
reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he
persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.




CHAPTER XX.


Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the
door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.

This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet;--she would have been
glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe
it, and could not help saying so.

"But depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be
brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is
a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but
I will _make_ her know it."

"Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she
is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to
force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity."

"Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is
only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as
good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure."

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library,

"Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar.
You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will
not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and
not have _her_."

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
her communication.

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had
finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"

"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."

"And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business."

"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
marrying him."

"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
library.

"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for
you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was.
"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"

"I have, Sir."

"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?"

"Yes, or I will never see her again."

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you
again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
if you _do_."

Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning;
but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.

"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me
to _insist_ upon her marrying him."

"My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request.
First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
library to myself as soon as may be."

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in
her interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined
interfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and
sometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner
varied however, her determination never did.

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin
could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such
fun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has
made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him."

Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone,
"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves."

Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

"Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned
as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
she can have her own way.--But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take
it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead.--_I_ shall not be able to keep
you--and so I warn you.--I have done with you from this very day.--I
told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you
again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in
talking to undutiful children.--Not that I have much pleasure indeed in
talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints
can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I
suffer!--But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never
pitied."

Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any
attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation.
She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till
they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately
than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,

"Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and
let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together."

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected
conversation.--"Oh! Mr. Collins!"--

"My dear Madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point.
Far be it from me," he presently continued in a voice that marked his
displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to
inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man
who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I
trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my
positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I
have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the
blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation.
You will not, I hope, consider me as shewing any disrespect to your
family, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your
daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf.
My conduct may I fear be objectionable in having accepted my dismission
from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to
error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object
has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise."




CHAPTER XXI.


The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother.
As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not
by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by
stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to
her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
himself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
civility in listening to him, was a seasonable relief to them all, and
especially to her friend.

The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill
health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their
aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was
well talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed.

"I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet
Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
might arise unpleasant to more than myself."

She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her.
His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a
sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's
fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as
she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages.
Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to
join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but
Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention
even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave,
than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they
had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,

"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a
good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are
on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again.
You shall hear what she says."

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr.
Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to
regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my
dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many
returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean
while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most
unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high
flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of
distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she
saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon
cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.

"It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be
able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
them."

"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--

"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we
are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are
already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest
friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I
despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in
the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux
will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of
whom we shall deprive you."

"It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this
winter."

"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_."

"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master.
But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy
is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are
scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana
Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the
affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into
something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of
her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the
country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have
frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her
relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's
partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
of so many?"

"What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?"--said Jane as she
finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare
that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she
is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"

"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?"

"Most willingly."

"You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to
town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
does not care about you."

Jane shook her head.

"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you
together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is
not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy
for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is
this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the
more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that
when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in
achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I
dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of
being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend."

"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your
representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the
foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any
one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived
herself."

"That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means.
You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."

"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
elsewhere?"

"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature
deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
all means to refuse him."

"How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that
though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
not hesitate."

"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider
your situation with much compassion."

"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
required. A thousand things may arise in six months!"

The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
so totally independent of every one.

She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on
the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking
that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn,
and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though
he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have
two full courses.




CHAPTER XXII.


The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the
chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good
humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express."
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
had any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her
from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.
But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost
secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His
reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived
him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly
set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared
to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.

In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every
thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they
entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was
to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be
waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his
happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must
guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and
disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
establishment were gained.

Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor
agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be
imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly
either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it
was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small
fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their
pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now
obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable
circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to
Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other
person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though
her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such
disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and
therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner,
to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise
of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept
without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst
forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some
ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great
self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.

As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said
how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his
other engagements might allow him to visit them.

"My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly
gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you
may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
possible."

They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
so speedy a return, immediately said,

"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of
offending your patroness."

"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you
for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
material a step without her ladyship's concurrence."

"You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her
displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence."

"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of
your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins,
though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall
now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting
my cousin Elizabeth."

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished
to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of
her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a
solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and
improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very
agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from
possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her
astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the
bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,

"Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!"

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon
regained her composure, and calmly replied,

"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza?--Do you think it incredible
that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?"

But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect
of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished
her all imaginable happiness.

"I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte,--"you must be
surprised, very much surprised,--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to
marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you
will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic you know. I
never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on
entering the marriage state."

Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;"--and after an awkward pause,
they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It
was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
of marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being
now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony
was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it
possible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every
better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins,
was a most humiliating picture!--And to the pang of a friend disgracing
herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction
that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot
she had chosen.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it,
when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to
announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
houses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering,
but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than
politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia, always
unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,

"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?--Do not you know
that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?"

Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters,
by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.

Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy
together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole; one, that
Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that
she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two
points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
console and nothing appease her.--Nor did that day wear out her
resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
could at all forgive their daughter.

Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
more foolish than his daughter!

Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and
Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.

Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on
Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
enough to drive happiness away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no
real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as
Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their
father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary she was as much disposed to
complain of it as her husband.--It was very strange that he should come
to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
and exceedingly troublesome.--She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they
gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
falsehood.

Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she
was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for
the strength of his attachment.

As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspence was, of course, more
painful than Elizabeth's; but whatever she felt she was desirous of
concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an
hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
did not come back, she should think herself very ill used. It needed all
Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
tranquillity.

Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his
reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of any
thing concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill humour, and
wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of
Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
them she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
complained bitterly of all this to her husband.

"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that Charlotte
Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!"

"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor."

This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore, instead of
making any answer, she went on as before,

"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
not for the entail I should not mind it."

"What should not you mind?"

"I should not mind any thing at all."

"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility."

"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the entail.
How any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate from
one's own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr.
Collins too!--Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?"

"I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.


END OF VOL. I.




[Illustration: A VICARAGE HOUSE.]




PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:

A Novel.

In Three Volumes.

By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."

VOL. II.







London:
Printed for T. Egerton,
Military Library, Whitehall.
1813.




PRIDE & PREJUDICE.




CHAPTER I.


Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
the country.

Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of
the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures, some plans of
the latter with regard to new furniture.

Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
for her sister, and resentment against all the others. To Caroline's
assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
of temper, that want of proper resolution which now made him the slave
of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to
the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been
the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in what
ever manner he thought best; but her sister's was involved in it, as she
thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on
which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
could think of nothing else, and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he
had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
Elizabeth; but at last on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
not help saying,

"Oh! that my dear mother had more command over herself; she can have no
idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I
will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
all be as we were before."

Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
nothing.

"You doubt me," cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed you have no
reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
little time therefore.--I shall certainly try to get the better."

With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this comfort immediately,
that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
has done no harm to any one but myself."

"My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Your sweetness
and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to
you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
deserve."

Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
the praise on her sister's warm affection.

"Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of any body. _I_ only
want to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be
afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
privilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people
whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit
or sense. I have met with two instances lately; one I will not mention;
the other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it
is unaccountable!"

"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of
situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
Charlotte's prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a
large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
ready to believe, for every body's sake, that she may feel something
like regard and esteem for our cousin."

"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost any thing, but no one else
could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
understanding, than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is
a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well
as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries
him, cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her,
though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one
individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor
endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and
insensibility of danger, security for happiness."

"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both," replied
Jane, "and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy
together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I intreat
you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
it does."

"And men take care that they should."

"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine."

"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,"
said Elizabeth; "but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
will do the business."

"And do you impute it to either of those?"

"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can."

"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him."

"Yes, in conjunction with his friend."

"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
only wish his happiness, and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
secure it."

"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
connections, and pride."

"Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to chuse Miss Darcy," replied Jane;
"but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
affection, you make every body acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of
what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it
in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood."

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it
with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what
she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely
the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw
her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
comfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. "So, Lizzy," said he one day,
"your sister is crossed in love I find. I congratulate her. Next to
being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.
It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction among
her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be
long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at
Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably."

"Thank you, Sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane's good fortune."

"True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of
that kind may befal you, you have an affectionate mother who will always
make the most of it."

Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom,
which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and every body was
pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
had known any thing of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any
extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of
Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.




CHAPTER II.


After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr.
Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
side, by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason
to hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day
would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave
of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished
his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father
another letter of thanks.

On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her
brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at
Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentleman-like man, greatly
superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by
trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well
bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than
Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular
regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.

The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival, was to
distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
done, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing
in it.

"I do not blame Jane," she continued, "for Jane would have got Mr.
Bingley, if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think
that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had not it
been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as
much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
long sleeves."

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in
the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
sister a slight answer, and in compassion to her nieces turned the
conversation.

When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. "It
seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane," said she. "I am
sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent."

"An excellent consolation in its way," said Elizabeth, "but it will not
do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often happen
that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
independent fortune to think no more of a girl, whom he was violently in
love with only a few days before."

"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
often applied to feelings which arise from an half-hour's acquaintance,
as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
love?"

"I never saw a more promising inclination. He was growing quite
inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance, and I
spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?"

"Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
would be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of
service--and perhaps a little relief from home, may be as useful as
anything."

Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
of her sister's ready acquiescence.

"I hope," added Mrs. Gardiner, "that no consideration with regard to
this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all,
unless he really comes to see her."

"And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a
part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would
hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
never stirs without him."

"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
correspond with the sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling."

"She will drop the acquaintance entirely."

But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends
successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
attractions.

Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the time, than as she
hoped that, by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
seeing him.

The Gardiners staid a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses,
the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing
them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she
resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
an attachment.

To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part
of Derbyshire, to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since
the death of Darcy's father, five years before, it was yet in his power
to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends, than she had
been in the way of procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley, with the
minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her
tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was
delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the
present Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember something of
that gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad, which might agree
with it, and was confident at last, that she recollected having heard
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured
boy.




CHAPTER III.


Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on
the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after
honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:

"You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you
are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve
yourself, or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of
fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against
_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he
ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you
must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all
expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father."

"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed."

"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise."

"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
can prevent it."

"Elizabeth, you are not serious now."

"I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with
Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
of it.--Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy!--My father's opinion of me does
me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are
seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune, from entering into
engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
of my fellow creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
I will do my best."

"Perhaps it will be as well, if you discourage his coming here so very
often. At least, you should not _remind_ your Mother of inviting him."

"As I did the other day," said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; "very
true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now, I hope you
are satisfied."

Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth having thanked her for
the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
being given on such a point, without being resented.

Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say in an ill-natured tone that
she "_wished_ they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day,
and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose
to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
out of the room. As they went down stairs together, Charlotte said,

"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza."

"_That_ you certainly shall."

"And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?"

"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire."

"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
come to Hunsford."

Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
visit.

"My father and Maria are to come to me in March," added Charlotte, "and
I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be
as welcome to me as either of them."

The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
the church door, and every body had as much to say or to hear on the
subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it
should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
for her own visit there, to know the rest.

Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or
hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
her last letter to her friend from Longbourn, had by some accident been
lost.

"My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the
town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor-street."

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
"I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very
glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her.
I enquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
engaged with Mr. Darcy, that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
soon see them here."

Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her, that
accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.

Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister, will
prove what she felt.

     "My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in
     her better judgment, at my expence, when I confess myself to have
     been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my
     dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me
     obstinate if I still assert, that, considering what her behaviour
     was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at
     all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me, but
     if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should
     be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday;
     and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the mean time. When
     she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it;
     she made a slight, formal, apology, for not calling before, said
     not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so
     altered a creature, that when she went away, I was perfectly
     resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I
     cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as
     she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on
     her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been
     acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her
     brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and
     though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she
     feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so
     deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may
     feel on his behalf, is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder,
     however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at
     all cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my
     being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and
     yet it should seem by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to
     persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot
     understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
     be almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of
     duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful
     thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection,
     and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear
     from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never
     returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not
     with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely
     glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at
     Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am
     sure you will be very comfortable there.

     "Your's, &c."

This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
even wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every
review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy's sister, as, by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
regret what he had thrown away.

Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had
such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
remarkable charm of the young lady, to whom he was now rendering himself
agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in his case than
in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
circumstances, she thus went on:--"I am now convinced, my dear aunt,
that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that
pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name,
and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think
her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more
interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love
with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways
of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to live on, as well as the
plain."




CHAPTER IV.


With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan,
and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was
novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
been very sorry for any delay. Every thing, however, went on smoothly,
and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of
spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
perfect as plan could be.

The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what
she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
opinion of her--their opinion of every body--would always coincide,
there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her
to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced,
that whether married or single, he must always be her model of the
amiable and pleasing.

Her fellow-travellers the next day, were not of a kind to make her think
him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good
humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that
could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight
as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had
known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the
wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn
out like his information.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
as to be in Gracechurch-street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her
for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her
sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
her minute enquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to
hope, that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch-street, and
repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
acquaintance.

Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
complimented her on bearing it so well.

"But, my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I
should be sorry to think our friend mercenary."

"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a
girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
mercenary."

"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
what to think."

"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."

"But he paid her not the smallest attention, till her grandfather's
death made her mistress of this fortune."

"No--why should he? If it was not allowable for him to gain _my_
affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
poor?"

"But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her, so
soon after this event."

"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
why should _we_?"

"_Her_ not objecting, does not justify _him_. It only shews her being
deficient in something herself--sense or feeling."

"Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish."

"No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."

"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all."

"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

"We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs.
Gardiner, "but perhaps to the Lakes."

No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "My dear, dear
aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me
fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men
to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And
when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without
being able to give one accurate idea of any thing. We _will_ know where
we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains,
and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when
we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling
about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less
insupportable than those of the generality of travellers."




CHAPTER V.


Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state for enjoyment; for she had
seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.

When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
The paling of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.

At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road,
the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, every
thing declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at
the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which led by a
short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole
party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the
sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest
pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming, when
she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her
cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility
was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate
to hear and satisfy his enquiries after all her family. They were then,
with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance,
taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he
welcomed them a second time with ostentatious formality to his humble
abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.

Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect
and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if
wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though
every thing seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him
by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend
that she could have so cheerful an air, with such a companion. When Mr.
Collins said any thing of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed,
which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on
Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general
Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every
article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to
give an account of their journey and of all that had happened in London,
Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large
and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself.
To work in his garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and
Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked
of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as
much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross
walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he
asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left
beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction,
and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But
of all the views which his garden, or which the country, or the kingdom
could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings,
afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly
opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well
situated on rising ground.

From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows,
but the ladies not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
probably, to have the opportunity of shewing it without her husband's
help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and every
thing was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of
which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by
Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
forgotten.

She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
in, observed,

"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when
service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will
include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to
walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several."

"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed," added
Charlotte, "and a most attentive neighbour."

"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference."

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and
telling again what had been already written; and when it closed,
Elizabeth in the solitude of her chamber had to meditate upon
Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
and composure in bearing with her husband, and to acknowledge that it
was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would
pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.

About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
confusion; and after listening a moment, she heard somebody running up
stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the
door, and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
agitation, cried out,

"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
haste, and come down this moment."

Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest
of this wonder; it was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
garden gate.

"And is this all?" cried Elizabeth. "I expected at least that the pigs
were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
daughter!"

"La! my dear," said Maria quite shocked at the mistake, "it is not Lady
Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The
other is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!"

"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
Why does she not come in?"

"Oh! Charlotte says, she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
when Miss De Bourgh comes in."

"I like her appearance," said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. "She
looks sickly and cross.--Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
make him a very proper wife."

Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in
conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high
diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the
greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh
looked that way.

At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
to dine at Rosings the next day.




CHAPTER VI.


Mr. Collins's triumph in consequence of this invitation was complete.
The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of
doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
Catherine's condescension as he knew not how to admire enough.

"I confess," said he, "that I should not have been at all surprised by
her Ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
(an invitation moreover including the whole party) so immediately after
your arrival!"

"I am the less surprised at what has happened," replied Sir William,
"from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the Court, such
instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon."

Scarcely any thing was talked of the whole day or next morning, but
their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in
what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many
servants, and so splendid a dinner might not wholly overpower them.

When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth,

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us, which
becomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion
for any thing more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for
being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
preserved."

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
objected to be kept waiting for her dinner.--Such formidable accounts of
her Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas,
who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
introduction at Rosings, with as much apprehension, as her father had
done to his presentation at St. James's.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile
across the park.--Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
cost Sir Lewis De Bourgh.

When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly
calm.--Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of
Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank, she
thought she could witness without trepidation.

From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed
the servants through an anti-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine,
her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting.--Her Ladyship, with great
condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it
with her husband that the office of introduction should be her's, it was
performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks
which he would have thought necessary.

In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely
awed, by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
composedly.--Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with
strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air
was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them, such as to
make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered
formidable by silence; but whatever she said, was spoken in so
authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr.
Wickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the
day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had
represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment, at her
being so thin, and so small. There was neither in figure nor face, any
likeness between the ladies. Miss De Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
her eyes.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows,
to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its
beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much
better worth looking at in the summer.

The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants,
and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he
had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by
her ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
nothing greater.--He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him, and then by Sir
William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son in law
said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
between Charlotte and Miss De Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
dinner time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
Miss De Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she
were indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be
done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have
her judgment controverted. She enquired into Charlotte's domestic
concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice,
as to the management of them all; told her how every thing ought to be
regulated in so small a family as her's, and instructed her as to the
care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
beneath this great Lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with
Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel,
pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times, how many sisters
she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her
mother's maiden name?--Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her
questions, but answered them very composedly.--Lady Catherine then
observed,

"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
sake," turning to Charlotte, "I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
occasion for entailing estates from the female line.--It was not thought
necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family.--Do you play and sing, Miss
Bennet?"

"A little."

"Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
some day.--Do your sisters play and sing?"

"One of them does."

"Why did not you all learn?--You ought all to have learned. The Miss
Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as
your's.--Do you draw?"

"No, not at all."

"What, none of you?"

"Not one."

"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters."

"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London."

"Has your governess left you?"

"We never had any governess."

"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
without a governess!--I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
have been quite a slave to your education."

Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not
been the case.

"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess you must
have been neglected."

"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
wished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
idle, certainly might."

"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
it was but the other day, that I recommended another young person, who
was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe's
calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?"

"Yes, Ma'am, all."

"All!--What, all five out at once? Very odd!--And you only the
second.--The younger ones out before the elder are married!--Your
younger sisters must be very young?"

"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much
in company. But really, Ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
amusement because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
marry early.--The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of
youth, as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive!--I think it
would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of
mind."

"Upon my word," said her Ladyship, "you give your opinion very
decidedly for so young a person.--Pray, what is your age?"

"With three younger sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth smiling, "your
Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it."

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not
conceal your age."

"I am not one and twenty."

When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables
were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
down to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
was employed in agreeing to every thing her Ladyship said, thanking her
for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
and noble names.

When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
the tables were broke up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the
arrival of the coach, and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
Collins's side, and as many bows on Sir William's, they departed. As
soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her
cousin, to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which,
for Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But
her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means
satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship's
praise into his own hands.




CHAPTER VII.


Sir William staid only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long enough
to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of
her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met
with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his mornings
to driving him out in his gig, and shewing him the country; but when he
went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and
Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin
by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and
dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in reading
and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, which
fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
pleasanter aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.

From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
along, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had
a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
prevailed on to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
hours. Now and then, they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.

Elizabeth soon perceived that though this great lady was not in the
commission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate
in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by
Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be
quarrelsome, discontented or too poor, she sallied forth into the
village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
them into harmony and plenty.

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card
table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of
the first. Their other engagements were few; as the style of living of
the neighbourhood in general, was beyond the Collinses' reach. This
however was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
comfortably enough; there were half hours of pleasant conversation with
Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she
had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where
she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.

In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it, was to bring an
addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy
was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were
not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would
furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined
by Lady Catherine; who talked of his coming with the greatest
satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
Miss Lucas and herself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage, for Mr. Collins was walking
the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
in order to have the earliest assurance of it; and after making his bow
as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
his uncle, Lord ---- and to the great surprise of all the party, when
Mr. Collins returned the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,

"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
never have come so soon to wait upon me."

Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual
reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her
friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
curtseyed to him, without saying a word.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to any body.
At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to enquire of
Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
way, and after a moment's pause, added,

"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
happened to see her there?"

She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the
Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he
answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
away.




CHAPTER VIII.


Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the parsonage,
and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of
their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called
at the parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had
only seen at church.

The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them
civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
much more than to any other person in the room.

Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; any thing was a
welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as
well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship after a
while shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
scruple to call out,

"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is."

"We are speaking of music, Madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid
a reply.

"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music.
There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I
should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"

Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.

"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," said Lady
Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel,
if she does not practise a great deal."

"I assure you, Madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice.
She practises very constantly."

"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired,
without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that
she will never play really well, unless she practises more; and though
Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often
told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the piano-forte in
Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that
part of the house."

Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill breeding, and made
no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from
her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the piano-forte,
stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said,

"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well.
There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at
the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to
intimidate me."

"I shall not say that you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could
not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I
have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you
find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact
are not your own."

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a
part of the world, where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree
of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention
all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me
leave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate,
and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear."

"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.

"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."

"You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
only four dances! I am sorry to pain you--but so it was. He danced only
four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge,
more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr.
Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
beyond my own party."

"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."

"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an
introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers."

"Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still
addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to
him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy,
"of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
concerns, as I often see done."

"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the
masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
capable as any other woman's of superior execution."

Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your
time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can
think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."

Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
to Darcy,

"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss, if she practised more, and
could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."

Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.

Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
them with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the
gentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship's carriage was
ready to take them all home.




CHAPTER IX.


Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane,
while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be
Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
when the door opened, and to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr.
Darcy only, entered the room.

He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to
be within.

They then sat down, and when her enquiries after Rosings were made,
seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling
curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
departure, she observed,

"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London."

"Perfectly so--I thank you."

She found that she was to receive no other answer--and, after a short
pause, added,

"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
returning to Netherfield again?"

"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is
at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
increasing."

"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the
neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr. Bingley did
not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
for his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same
principle."

"I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up, as
soon as any eligible purchase offers."

Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
trouble of finding a subject to him.

He took the hint, and soon began with, "This seems a very comfortable
house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
Collins first came to Hunsford."

"I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
kindness on a more grateful object."

"Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife."

"Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of
the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest
thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her."

"It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a
distance of her own family and friends."

"An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."

"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance."

"I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins
was settled _near_ her family."

"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Any thing beyond
the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far."

As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered,

"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expence of
travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
the present distance."

Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, "_You_ cannot
have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
been always at Longbourn."

Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and,
glancing over it, said, in a colder voice,

"Are you pleased with Kent?"

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
and her sister, just returned from their walk. The tête-à-tête surprised
them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
much to any body, went away.

"What can be the meaning of this!" said Charlotte, as soon as he was
gone. "My dear Eliza he must be in love with you, or he would never have
called on us in this familiar way."

But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,
even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
the difficulty of finding any thing to do, which was the more probable
from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be
always within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
she believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it
seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to
propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of
love, and the object of that love, her friend Eliza, she sat herself
seriously to work to find it out.--She watched him whenever they were at
Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
seemed nothing but absence of mind.

She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.

In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the pleasantest man; he
certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.




CHAPTER X.


More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly
meet Mr. Darcy.--She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that
should bring him where no one else was brought; and to prevent its ever
happening again, took care to inform him at first, that it was a
favourite haunt of hers.--How it could occur a second time therefore was
very odd!--Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful
ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not
merely a few formal enquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he
actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never
said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of
listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre
that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her pleasure in
being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr.
and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her
not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever
she came into Kent again she would be staying _there_ too. His words
seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts?
She supposed, if he meant any thing, he must mean an allusion to what
might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was
quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the
Parsonage.

She was engaged one day as she walked, in re-perusing Jane's last
letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not
written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy,
she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting
away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said,

"I did not know before that you ever walked this way."

"I have been making the tour of the Park," he replied, "as I generally
do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
you going much farther?"

"No, I should have turned in a moment."

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.

"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.

"Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
arranges the business just as he pleases."

"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know any body who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."

"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
"But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than
many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence."

"In my opinion, the younger son of an Earl can know very little of
either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
wherever you chose, or procuring any thing you had a fancy for?"

"These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry
where they like."

"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do."

"Our habits of expence make us too dependant, and there are not many in
my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
money."

"Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what is
the usual price of an Earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
she soon afterwards said,

"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her."

"No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must
divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."

"Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age, are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
may like to have her own way."

As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly, and the manner
in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,

"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."

"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentleman-like
man--he is a great friend of Darcy's."

"Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily--"Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."

"Care of him!--Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."

"What is it you mean?"

"It is a circumstance which Darcy of course would not wish to be
generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family,
it would be an unpleasant thing."

"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."

"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
Bingley. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself
on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him
the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."

"Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?"

"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady."

"And what arts did he use to separate them?"

"He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam smiling. "He
only told me, what I have now told you."

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.

"I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your
cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"

"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"

"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of
his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy." "But,"
she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the
particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case."

"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is
lessening the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."

This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of
Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and,
therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent
matters till they reached the parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
could not exist in the world _two_ men, over whom Mr. Darcy could have
such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she
had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and
arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,
_he_ was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause of all that
Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a
while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart
in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have
inflicted.

"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words, and these strong objections probably were, her
having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
business in London.

"To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of
objection. All loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could
any thing be urged against my father, who, though with some
peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain,
and respectability which he will probably never reach." When she thought
of her mother indeed, her confidence gave way a little, but she would
not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr.
Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from
the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want
of sense; and she was quite decided at last, that he had been partly
governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of
retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much
as possible prevented her husband from pressing her, but Mr. Collins
could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
displeased by her staying at home.




CHAPTER XI.


When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly
disposed towards every one, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a
keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to
think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next,
and a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be
with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her
spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent, without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to enquire particularly after her. But
this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an enquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said
not a word. After a silence of several minutes he came towards her in an
agitated manner, and thus began,

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement,
and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her,
immediately followed. He spoke well, but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which judgment had
always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed
due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to
recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost
all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of
all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of
a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his
countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only
exasperate farther, and when he ceased, the colour rose into her
cheeks, and she said,

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be
felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any
one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of
short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the
acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming
it after this explanation."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his eyes fixed
on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of
his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
appearance of composure, and would not open his lips, till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well enquire," replied she, "why with so evident a design of
offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided
against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept
the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the
happiness of a most beloved sister?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued.

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied, "I have no wish of denying
that I did every thing in my power to separate my friend from your
sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
kinder than towards myself."

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike
is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was
decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy in
a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty, comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for
him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence
which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and
yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and
ridicule."

"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
"is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I
thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his
walk, and turning towards her, "these offences might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy
concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being
impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by every thing. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.
Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?
To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life
is so decidedly beneath my own?"

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said,

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the
concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a
more gentleman-like manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued,

"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way
that would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on.

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my
acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the
feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of
disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness."

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half an
hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was
increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for
so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all
the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her
sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case,
was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously
so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his
shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his
unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it,
and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his
cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the
pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady
Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter
Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.




CHAPTER XII.


Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of any thing
else, and totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after
breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
she turned up the lane, which led her farther from the turnpike road.
The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed
one of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent, had
made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
edged the park; he was moving that way; and fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced, was now
near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
her name. She had turned away, but on hearing herself called, though in
a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
gate. He had by that time reached it also, and holding out a letter,
which she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty composure, "I
have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?"--And then, with a
slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of
sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder,
perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written
quite through, in a very close hand.--The envelope itself was likewise
full.--Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--

     "Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the
     apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments,
     or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to
     you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling
     myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both,
     cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation,
     and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been
     spared, had not my character required it to be written and read.
     You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your
     attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
     demand it of your justice.

     "Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
     magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned
     was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached
     Mr. Bingley from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in
     defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity,
     ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr.
     Wickham.--Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of
     my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who
     had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who
     had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity,
     to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could
     be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison.--But
     from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally
     bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in
     future secured, when the following account of my actions and their
     motives has been read.--If, in the explanation of them which is
     due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
     may be offensive to your's, I can only say that I am sorry.--The
     necessity must be obeyed--and farther apology would be absurd.--I
     had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
     others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister, to any other
     young woman in the country.--But it was not till the evening of the
     dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a
     serious attachment.--I had often seen him in love before.--At that
     ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made
     acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information, that
     Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general
     expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event,
     of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I
     observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then
     perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had
     ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched.--Her look and
     manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any
     symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the
     evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with
     pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
     sentiment.--If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have
     been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make
     the latter probable.--If it be so, if I have been misled by such
     error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been
     unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity
     of your sister's countenance and air was such, as might have given
     the most acute observer, a conviction that, however amiable her
     temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.--That I was
     desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,--but I will
     venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually
     influenced by my hopes or fears.--I did not believe her to be
     indifferent because I wished it;--I believed it on impartial
     conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.--My objections to
     the marriage were not merely those, which I last night acknowledged
     to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my
     own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to
     my friend as to me.--But there were other causes of
     repugnance;--causes which, though still existing, and existing to
     an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to
     forget, because they were not immediately before me.--These causes
     must be stated, though briefly.--The situation of your mother's
     family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that
     total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed
     by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by
     your father.--Pardon me.--It pains me to offend you. But amidst
     your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your
     displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you
     consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to
     avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally
     bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to
     the sense and disposition of both.--I will only say farther, that
     from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was
     confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me
     before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
     connection.--He left Netherfield for London, on the day following,
     as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon
     returning.--The part which I acted, is now to be explained.--His
     sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our
     coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible
     that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly
     resolved on joining him directly in London.--We accordingly
     went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to
     my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.--I described, and
     enforced them earnestly.--But, however this remonstrance might have
     staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it
     would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
     seconded by the assurance which I hesitated not in giving, of your
     sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
     affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.--But Bingley has
     great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment
     than on his own.--To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived
     himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against
     returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given,
     was scarcely the work of a moment.--I cannot blame myself for
     having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the
     whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is
     that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to
     conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as
     it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant
     of it.--That they might have met without ill consequence, is
     perhaps probable;--but his regard did not appear to me enough
     extinguished for him to see her without some danger.--Perhaps this
     concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.--It is done, however,
     and it was done for the best.--On this subject I have nothing more
     to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's
     feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which
     governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have
     not yet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more
     weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only
     refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my
     family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but
     of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one
     witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very
     respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the
     Pemberley estates; and whose good conduct in the discharge of his
     trust, naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on
     George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore
     liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and
     afterwards at Cambridge;--most important assistance, as his own
     father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
     been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not
     only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always
     engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the
     church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it.
     As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think
     of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities--the
     want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge
     of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man
     of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of
     seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have.
     Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you only can tell.
     But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a
     suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his
     real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father
     died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to
     the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it
     to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his
     profession might allow, and if he took orders, desired that a
     valuable family living might be his as soon as soon as it became
     vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own
     father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these
     events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally
     resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it
     unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary
     advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be
     benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,
     and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
     be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than
     believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to
     accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a
     clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all
     claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could
     ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three
     thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I
     thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his
     society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his
     studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all
     restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For
     about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
     incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied
     to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he
     assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were
     exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study,
     and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would
     present him to the living in question--of which he trusted there
     could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other
     person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered
     father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to
     comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition of it.
     His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his
     circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
     to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every
     appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But
     last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I
     must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget
     myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce
     me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no
     doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my
     junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel
     Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from
     school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last
     summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;
     and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there
     proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs.
     Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by
     her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
     whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his
     kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe
     herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but
     fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her
     imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to
     herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the
     intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea
     of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
     a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt
     and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings
     prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left
     the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from
     her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my
     sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot
     help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a
     strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
     This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we
     have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject
     it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty
     towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of
     falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to
     be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of every thing
     concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and
     suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly
     wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then
     master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.
     For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more
     particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our
     near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of
     the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
     with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of
     _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented
     by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may
     be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find
     some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course
     of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.

     "FITZWILLIAM DARCY."




CHAPTER XIII.


If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
and steadfastly was she persuaded that he could have no explanation to
give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against every thing he might say, she began his account of
what had happened at Netherfield. She read, with an eagerness which
hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing
what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the
sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's
insensibility, she instantly resolved to be false, and his account of
the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have
any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had
done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It
was all pride and insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham, when
she read with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events, which,
if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself, her feelings
were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false!
This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"--and when she had
gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing any thing of the
last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
regard it, that she would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family, was exactly
what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy,
though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his
own words. So far each recital confirmed the other: but when she came to
the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
not err. But when she read, and re-read with the closest attention, the
particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
to the living, of his receiving in lieu, so considerable a sum as three
thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the
letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on.
But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent, as to
render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life,
nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to
his real character, had information been in her power, she had never
felt a wish of enquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had
established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to
recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class, what Mr. Darcy
had described as the idleness and vice of many years continuance. But no
such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
read. But, alas! the story which followed of his designs on Miss Darcy,
received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin's corroboration.

She perfectly remembered every thing that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Philips's.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
the very next week. She remembered also, that till the Netherfield
family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
herself; but that after their removal, it had been every where
discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr.
Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the
father, would always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did every thing now appear in which he was concerned!
His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at any thing.
His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
incautiously shewn. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
acquaintance, an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways, seen any thing
that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--any thing that spoke him
of irreligious or immoral habits. That among his own connections he was
esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of
his sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling. That had
his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
every thing right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself.--Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial,
prejudiced, absurd.

"How despicably have I acted!" she cried.--"I, who have prided myself on
my discernment!--I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my
vanity, in useless or blameable distrust.--How humiliating is this
discovery!--Yet, how just a humiliation!--Had I been in love, I could
not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my
folly.--Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself."

From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
_there_, had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely
different was the effect of a second perusal.--How could she deny that
credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other?--He declared himself to have been totally
unsuspicious of her sister's attachment;--and she could not help
remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been.--Neither could she
deny the justice of his description of Jane.--She felt that Jane's
feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a
constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great
sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned, in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as
having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
than on hers.

The compliment to herself and her sister, was not unfelt. It soothed,
but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus
self-attracted by the rest of her family;--and as she considered that
Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond any thing she
had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
variety of thought; re-considering events, determining probabilities,
and reconciling herself as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her
at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of
appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.

She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes to take
leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
till she could be found.--Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in
missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
longer an object. She could think only of her letter.




CHAPTER XIV.


The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having
been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
hastened to console Lady Catherine, and her daughter; and on his return,
brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship,
importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
having them all to dine with her.

Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting, that had
she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her, as her
future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would she have said?--how
would she have behaved?" were questions with which she amused herself.

Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party.--"I assure
you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I believe nobody
feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to
me!--They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear
colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
seemed to feel it most acutely, more I think than last year. His
attachment to Rosings, certainly increases."

Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
spirits, and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that
she did not like to go home again so soon, she added,

"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you
may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
company, I am sure."

"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," replied
Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power to accept it.--I must be in town
next Saturday."

"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
spare you for another fortnight."

"But my father cannot.--He wrote last week to hurry my return."

"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can.--Daughters
are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
Dawson does not object to the Barouche box, there will be very good room
for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large."

"You are all kindness, Madam; but I believe we must abide by our
original plan."

Lady Catherine seemed resigned.

"Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always
speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling
post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send
somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of
thing.--Young women should always be properly guarded and attended,
according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to
Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men servants go
with her.--Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady
Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner.--I
am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with
the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention
it; for it would really be discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone."

"My uncle is to send a servant for us."

"Oh!--Your uncle!--He keeps a man-servant, does he?--I am very glad you
have somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change
horses?--Oh! Bromley, of course.--If you mention my name at the Bell,
you will be attended to."

Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk,
in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
recollections.

Mr. Darcy's letter, she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
studied every sentence: and her feelings towards its writer were at
times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or
feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
the unhappy defects of her family a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for
ever.

Anxiety on Jane's behalf, was another prevailing concern, and Mr.
Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good
opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was
proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame,
unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his
friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so
desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for
happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own
family!

When to these recollections was added the developement of Wickham's
character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
her stay, as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
there; and her Ladyship again enquired minutely into the particulars of
their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.

When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
and Miss De Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
hand to both.




CHAPTER XV.


On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.

"I know not, Miss Elizabeth," said he, "whether Mrs. Collins has yet
expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us, but I am very
certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know
how little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain
manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we
see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
and that we have done every thing in our power to prevent your spending
your time unpleasantly."

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had
spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling
solemnity replied,

"It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your
time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most
fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior
society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of
varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that
your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation
with regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of
extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on
what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In
truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble
parsonage, I should not think any one abiding in it an object of
compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
and truth in a few short sentences.

"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
thinking. There is in every thing a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
other."

Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
the case, and with equal sincerity could add that she firmly believed
and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
have the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from
whom they sprung. Poor Charlotte!--it was melancholy to leave her to
such society!--But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though
evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to
ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her
poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their
charms.

At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning
her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when
he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings.

"But," he added, "you will of course wish to have your humble respects
delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
while you have been here."

Elizabeth made no objection;--the door was then allowed to be shut, and
the carriage drove off.

"Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes silence, "it seems but
a day or two since we first came!--and yet how many things have
happened!"

"A great many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.

"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there
twice!--How much I shall have to tell!"

Elizabeth privately added, "And how much I shall have to conceal."

Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
within four hours of their leaving Hunsford, they reached Mr. Gardiner's
house, where they were to remain a few days.

Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt
had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort meanwhile that she could wait even for
Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
to openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision
in which she remained, as to the extent of what she should communicate;
and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into
repeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister
farther.




CHAPTER XVI.


It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch-street, for the town of ---- in Hertfordshire;
and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was
to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up
stairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily
employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on
guard, and dressing a sallad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
"Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?"

"And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia; "but you must lend us the
money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there." Then shewing
her purchases: "Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it
is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better."

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight."

"Are they indeed?" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.

"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme,
and I dare say would hardly cost any thing at all. Mamma would like to
go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
have!"

"Yes," thought Elizabeth, "_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed,
and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton."

"Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down to
table. "What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about
a certain person that we all like."

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he
need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,

"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it?
There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe."

"And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a connection
imprudent as to fortune."

"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."

"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side," said Jane.

"I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it he never cared
three straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled
thing?"

Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
was little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied
liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.

"How nicely we are crammed in!" cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my
bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all,
since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
She is almost three and twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
being married before three and twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to
get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes, on purpose to pass for a
lady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Col. and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
something, and then they soon found out what was the matter."

With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia,
assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
say voluntarily to Elizabeth,

"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
came to meet Maria and hear the news: and various were the subjects
which occupied them; lady Lucas was enquiring of Maria across the table,
after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was
doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present
fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other,
retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice
rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various
pleasures of the morning to any body who would hear her.

"Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
as we went along, Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended
there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if
Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we
behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest
cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have
treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought
we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter.
And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so
loud, that any body might have heard us ten miles off!"

To this, Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear sister,
to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with
the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms
for _me_. I should infinitely prefer a book."

But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to any
body for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.

In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to
Meryton and see how every body went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed
the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at
home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was
another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham again,
and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to _her_,
of the regiment's approaching removal, was indeed beyond expression. In
a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped there could be
nothing more to plague her on his account.

She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton
scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.




CHAPTER XVII.


Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no
longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular
in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised,
she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr.
Darcy and herself.

Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.

"His being so sure of succeeding, was wrong," said she; "and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment."

"Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?"

"Blame you! Oh, no."

"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham."

"No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."

"But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very
next day."

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear one, without involving the other.

"This will not do," said Elizabeth. "You never will be able to make both
of them good for any thing. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr.
Darcy's, but you shall do as you chuse."

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

"I do not know when I have been more shocked," said she. "Wickham so
very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only
consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of
his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
so."

"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
be as light as a feather."

"Poor Wickham; there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner."

"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it."

"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
used to do."

"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
opening for wit to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."

"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now."

"Indeed I could not. I was uncomfortable enough. I was very
uncomfortable, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to, of what I
felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and
vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!"

"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved."

"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness, is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is
one point, on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not to make our acquaintance in general understand
Wickham's character."

Miss Bennet paused a little and then replied, "Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?"

"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to
make his communication public. On the contrary every particular relative
to his sister, was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and
if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who
will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent,
that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to
attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham
will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anybody here,
what he really is. Sometime hence it will be all found out, and then we
may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will
say nothing about it."

"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now perhaps sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate."

The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
of which prudence forbad the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could
partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this
last incumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell
what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!"

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in
love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from
her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often
boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to
every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the
feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those
regrets, which must have been injurious to her own health and their
tranquillity.

"Well, Lizzy," said Mrs. Bennet one day, "what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I
cannot find out that Jane saw any thing of him in London. Well, he is a
very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his
coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have enquired of every
body too, who is likely to know."

"I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more."

"Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was
her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure
Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he
has done."

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
she made no answer.

"Well, Lizzy," continued her mother soon afterwards, "and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it
will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother,
she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say."

"No, nothing at all."

"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it
quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens."

"It was a subject which they could not mention before me."

"No. It would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt, they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."




CHAPTER XVIII.


The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in
the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.

"Good Heaven! What is to become of us! What are we to do!" would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?"

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five and twenty years
ago.

"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel
Millar's regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart."

"I am sure I shall break _mine_," said Lydia.

"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.

"Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable."

"A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever."

"And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,"
added Kitty.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn-house. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.

But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the Colonel of the
regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew
about the house in restless ecstacy, calling for every one's
congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate
in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,"
said she, "though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older."

In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense
for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,

"Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little
expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances."

"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage to
us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
imprudent manner; nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
would judge differently in the affair."

"Already arisen!" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away
some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity,
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows
who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."

"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia's character. Excuse me--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself and her family ridiculous. A flirt too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
youth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of
her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty
is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrouled! Oh! my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
disgrace?"

Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and
affectionately taking her hand, said in reply,

"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known,
you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three very silly
sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
object of prey to any body. At Brighton she will be of less importance
even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest
of her life."

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
in her nature, however, to increase her vexations, by dwelling on them.
She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over
unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
disposition.

Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw with the creative eye of
fancy, the streets of that gay bathing place covered with officers. She
saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at
present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp; its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and to complete the view, she
saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.

Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and
such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could
have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the
same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the
melancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there
himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
continued with little intermission to the very day of Lydia's leaving
home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her,
an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance, could only serve, after
what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified
and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining in Meryton, he dined
with others of the officers at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
enquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
him often; and after observing that he was a very gentleman-like man,
asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added, "How long did you
say that he was at Rosings?"

"Nearly three weeks."

"And you saw him frequently?"

"Yes, almost every day."

"His manners are very different from his cousin's."

"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance."

"Indeed!" cried Wickham with a look which did not escape her. "And pray
may I ask?" but checking himself, he added in a gayer tone, "Is it in
address that he improves? Has he deigned to add ought of civility to his
ordinary style? for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower and more
serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."

"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much
what he ever was."

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
and anxious attention, while she added,

"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that from
knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."

Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his
embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
accents,

"You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter
him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that
the sort of cautiousness, to which you, I imagine, have been alluding,
is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and
judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her, has always operated, I
know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his
wish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he
has very much at heart."

Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side,
of usual cheerfulness, but with no farther attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the
opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible; advice, which there
was every reason to believe would be attended to; and in the clamorous
happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus
of her sisters were uttered without being heard.




CHAPTER XIX.


Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour, which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind, had very early in
their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
esteem, and confidence, had vanished for ever; and all his views of
domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a
disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
strongly as now, the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils
arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents which rightly
used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters,
even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure, she found little
other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and
sister whose constant repinings at the dulness of every thing around
them, threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her
folly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a watering
place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been
sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked forward
with impatient desire, did not in taking place, bring all the
satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have
some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
for all the uncomfortable hours, which the discontentedness of her
mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in
the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight, can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
the defence of some little peculiar vexation."

When Lydia went away, she promised to write very often and very minutely
to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
always very short. Those to her mother, contained little else, than that
they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the
camp;--and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less
to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much
too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
humour and cheerfulness began to re-appear at Longbourn. Everything wore
a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
was restored to her usual querulous serenity, and by the middle of June
Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope, that by
the following Christmas, she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
mention an officer above once a day, unless by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the war-office, another regiment should be quartered in
Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their Northern tour was now fast
approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so
far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the
present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that
county, there was enough to be seen, to occupy the chief of their three
weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
her curiosity, as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.

Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was
impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county with impunity,
and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and
Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin
Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Gardiners staid only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next
morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One
enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a
suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, &c. are
sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
former residence, and where she had lately learned that some
acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen
all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of
Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It
was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an
inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.

"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so
much?" said her aunt. "A place too, with which so many of your
acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
know."

Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
must own that she was tired of great houses; after going over so many,
she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house
richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but the
grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
country."

Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and
thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run
such a risk. But against this, there were objections; and she finally
resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private enquiries as
to the absence of the family, were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its
proprietor, and with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
the summer. A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
to the scheme.

To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.


END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.




[Illustration: MATLOCK]




PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:

A Novel.

In Three Volumes.

By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."

VOL. III.







London:
Printed for T. Egerton,
Military Library, Whitehall.
1813.




[Illustration: DOVE-DALE]




PRIDE & PREJUDICE.




CHAPTER I.


Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high
woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that
to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
wonder at her being where she was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less
fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from
which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the
distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was
good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered
on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace
it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to
be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable
to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration
of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With
these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no,"--recollecting
herself,--"that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost
to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them."

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret.

She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really
absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was
asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds
replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a
large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw
the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a
young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been
brought up by him at his own expence.--"He is now gone into the army,"
she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.

"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other--about eight years ago."

"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not."

Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.

"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth coloured, and said--"A little."

"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?"

"Yes, very handsome."

"I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
be then. He was very fond of them."

This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.

"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner.

"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a
new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
comes here to-morrow with him."

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.

"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"

"Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."

"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."

"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."

"Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
good enough for him."

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is
very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."

"I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows
him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far;
and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,
"I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him
ever since he was four years old."

This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest
opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more,
and was grateful to her uncle for saying,

"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master."

"Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not
meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he
was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the
world."

Elizabeth almost stared at her.--"Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she.

"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.

"Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
as affable to the poor."

Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever
lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will
give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never
saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
away like other young men."

"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.

"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt, as they walked, "is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."

"Perhaps we might be deceived."

"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."

On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shewn into a very
pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but
just done, to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the
room, when last at Pemberley.

"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added.--"Whatever
can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There
is nothing he would not do for her."

The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were
all that remained to be shewn. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest
of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it
arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with
such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,
when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in
earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the
gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his
father's life time.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original, than she had ever felt in the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--How
much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!--How much of
good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned down stairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.

As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was
conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
of perfect civility.

She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she
returned to his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the
alteration in his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he
uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there, recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued together, were some of the most
uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he
spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his
enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay
in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.

At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his
figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own
feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and
vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged
thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a
disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if
she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come?
or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been
only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
discrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that
moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and
again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so
strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to
her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her
family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified,
never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting.
What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosing's Park, when
he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor how to
account for it.

They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed
to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in
what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing,
she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil, only because he
felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing
her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.

At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.

They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening
of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of
the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods
overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner
expressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be
beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten
miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed
circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among
hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts.
They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of
the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and
the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the
stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered
it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed
the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of
returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man
about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was
quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less
sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they
met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an
interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw,
that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour
changed, and she said no more.

Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and
she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the
acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had
revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought
she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of
fashion."

The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so
far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had
some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same
time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her
wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the
compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was
extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From
what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake
that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not
work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love
me."

After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the
brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in
Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to
know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
very unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in
the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."

Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned
between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was
not very differently engaged.

"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a
pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow
me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?"

The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her,
must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of
the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
mile behind.

He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that
she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with
great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience
and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tête-à-tête was over. On
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the
house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted
on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies
into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking
slowly towards the house.

The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected.
"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.

"There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her
aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,
_I_ have seen nothing of it."

"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."

"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham;
or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are
perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so
disagreeable?"

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.

"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied
her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and
warn me off his grounds."

Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said
nothing.

"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really
should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured
look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when
he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that
would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure,
the good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming
character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a
liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant
comprehends every virtue."

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as
guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his
relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of
any thing else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had
no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an
intercourse renewed after many years discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above
all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.




CHAPTER II.


Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her, the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own
arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the
place with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn
to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a
curricle, driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognising the
livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise
to her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she
expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt
that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such
a quarter, than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
Elizabeth's feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed
at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she
dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in
her favour; and more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.

She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks
of enquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt, as made every thing worse.

Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see, that her new
acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her, that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
her beyond a monosyllable.

Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there
was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
relieved by discerning such different feelings.

They had not been long together, before Darcy told her that Bingley was
also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step
was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but, had she
still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the
unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself, on seeing her
again. He enquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family,
and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever
done.

To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards
each with an earnest, though guarded, enquiry; and they soon drew from
those enquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what
it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in
doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
evident enough.

Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
feelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to
make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh!
how ardently did she long to know, whether any of his were directed in a
like manner. Sometimes she could fancy, that he talked less than on
former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that
as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though
this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour
to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival of Jane. No look appeared
on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between
them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was
soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they
parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of
Jane, not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that
might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a
moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had
something of real regret, that it "was a very long time since he had had
the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply, he added, "It
is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when
we were all dancing together at Netherfield."

Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest,
whether _all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the
question, nor in the preceding remark, but there was a look and a manner
which gave them meaning.

It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but,
whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far
removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, however
temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the good opinion
of people, with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the change was so
great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at
Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence, or unbending reserve as now, when no importance could
result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw
down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
Rosings.

Their visitors staid with them above half an hour, and when they arose
to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however,
that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment, than
any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many enquiries to
make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and on
this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors
left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of enquiries or hints from her
uncle and aunt, she staid with them only long enough to hear their
favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.

But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
interest, but nothing to justify enquiry.

Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
not be untouched by his politeness, and had they drawn his character
from their own feelings, and his servant's report, without any reference
to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known,
would not have recognised it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible,
that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
hastily rejected. Neither had any thing occurred in the intelligence of
their Lambton friends, that could materially lessen its weight. They
had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if
not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small
market-town, where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged,
however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.

With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns, with the
son of his patron, were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well known
fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.

As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and
she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She
certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened
into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his
favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
there was a motive within her of good will which could not be
overlooked. It was gratitude.--Gratitude, not merely for having once
loved her, but for loving her still well enough, to forgive all the
petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the
unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been
persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this
accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without
any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where
their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion
of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a
change in a man of so much pride, excited not only astonishment but
gratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such
its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means
unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she
esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his
welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to
depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both
that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still
possessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses.

It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that
such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's, in coming to them on the very
day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late
breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by
some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it
would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
morning. They were, therefore, to go.--Elizabeth was pleased, though,
when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.

Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon.




CHAPTER III.


Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome
her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with
how much civility on that lady's side, the acquaintance would now be
renewed.

On reaching the house, they were shewn through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chesnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.

In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil; but attended with
all that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the
fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves
inferior, the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and
her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.

By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, they were noticed only by a curtsey; and
on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse, proved her to be more truly well bred than either of the
others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
short sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard.

Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss
Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
enquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.

The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a
significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected
them round the table.

While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.

He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely
resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more
necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he
was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded,
as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,

"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton?
They must be a great loss to _your_ family."

In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While
she spoke, an involuntary glance shewed her Darcy with an heightened
complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have
refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
Darcy's opinion, and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and
absurdities, by which some part of her family were connected with that
corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated
elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secresy was
possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections her
brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish
which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
for the welfare of his friend.

Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have
fixed them on her more, and more cheerfully.

Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer
above-mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their
carriage, Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on
Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join
her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour: his
judgment could not err, and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as
to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than
lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley
could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to
his sister.

"How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I
never in my life saw any one so much altered as she is since the winter.
She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we
should not have known her again."

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.

"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see
any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants
character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which
have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive any thing
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not
like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable."

Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent however; and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued,

"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time."

"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but _that_
was only when I first knew her, for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred, during
their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested
them both. The looks and behaviour of every body they had seen were
discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention.
They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of every
thing but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner
thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by
her niece's beginning the subject.




CHAPTER IV.


Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane, on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had
been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third, her repining was over, and her sister justified by the
receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her
uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
themselves. The one missent must be first attended to; it had been
written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

     "Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of
     a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming
     you--be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to
     poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were
     all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was
     gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth,
     with Wickham!--Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not
     seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a
     match on both sides!--But I am willing to hope the best, and that
     his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I
     can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it)
     marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least,
     for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother
     is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I,
     that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must
     forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as
     is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
     eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must
     have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason
     to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife,
     informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be
     long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make
     it out, but I hardly know what I have written."

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter, instantly seized the
other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

     "By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried
     letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not
     confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer
     for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would
     write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed.
     Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia
     would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for
     there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland.
     Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day
     before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
     letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to
     Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief
     that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which
     was repeated to Colonel F. who instantly taking the alarm, set off
     from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to
     Clapham, but no farther; for on entering that place they removed
     into a hackney-coach and dismissed the chaise that brought them
     from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen
     to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making
     every possible enquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into
     Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at
     the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success, no such
     people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he
     came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner
     most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and
     Mrs. F. but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my
     dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst,
     but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it
     more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to
     pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design
     against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely,
     can I suppose her so lost to every thing?--Impossible. I grieve to
     find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their
     marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he
     feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill
     and keeps her room. Could she exert herself it would be better, but
     this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in my life
     saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed
     their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence one cannot
     wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared
     something of these distressing scenes; but now as the first shock
     is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so
     selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu. I
     take up my pen again to do, what I have just told you I would not,
     but circumstances are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging
     you all to come here, as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and
     aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have
     still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to
     London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What
     he means to do, I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress
     will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest
     way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again
     to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle's advice and
     assistance would be every thing in the world; he will immediately
     comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."

"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a
moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was
opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself enough to
speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's
situation, hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you.
I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be
delayed; I have not an instant to lose."

"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute,
but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough;--you cannot go yourself."

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an
accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home, instantly.

On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
"Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take, to give you
present relief?--A glass of wine;--shall I get you one?--You are very
ill."

"No, I thank you;" she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There
is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well. I am only distressed by
some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length, she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from
Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from any one. My
youngest sister has left all her friends--has eloped;--has thrown
herself into the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together
from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no
money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for
ever."

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added, in a yet
more agitated voice, "that _I_ might have prevented it!--_I_ who knew
what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what
I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all, all too late now."

"I am grieved, indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved--shocked. But is it
certain, absolutely certain?"

"Oh yes!--They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland."

"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"

"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But
nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"

Darcy shook his head in silent acquiesence.

"When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character.--Oh! had I known what
I ought, what I dared, to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
much. Wretched, wretched, mistake!"

Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up
and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power
was sinking; every thing _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
him, as now, when all love must be vain.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
humiliation, the misery, she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up
every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
Elizabeth was soon lost to every thing else; and, after a pause of
several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the
voice of her companion, who, in a manner, which though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, "I am afraid you have been
long desiring my absence, nor have I any thing to plead in excuse of my
stay, but real, though unavailing, concern. Would to heaven that any
thing could be either said or done on my part, that might offer
consolation to such distress.--But I will not torment you with vain
wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This
unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure
of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."

"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible.--I know it cannot be long."

He readily assured her of his secrecy--again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting, look, went away.

As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had
marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of
contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a
first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill-success might perhaps authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go
with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of her feelings on this developement. While the contents of the first
letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl, whom it was impossible he could marry for
money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him, had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not
suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the
intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither
her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
prey.

She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him, but she was convinced that Lydia had
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to any body. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually
fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl.--Oh! how acutely did she now
feel it.

She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot, to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room, the misery of her impatience
was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing,
by the servant's account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill;--but
satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the
cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on
the postscript of the last, with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had
never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be
deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after
the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily
promised every assistance in his power.--Elizabeth, though expecting no
less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated
by one spirit, every thing relating to their journey was speedily
settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be
done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was
here when you sent for us;--was it so?"

"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
_That_ is all settled."

"That is all settled;" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth! Oh, that I knew how it was!"

But wishes were vain; or at best could serve only to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends in Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.




CHAPTER V.


"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely, that any young man should
form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
not adequate to the risk."

"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.

"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
him capable of it?"

"Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect
I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not
hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the
case?"

"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland."

"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into an hackney coach is such a
presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road."

"Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is
not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland."

"But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh! no, no, this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she
beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake,
forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehension of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no
brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter."

"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to every thing but love of him,
as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?"

"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year,
nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing
every thing in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman."

"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so ill of
Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt."

"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
sense of the word. That he has neither integrity nor honour. That he is
as false and deceitful, as he is insinuating."

"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

"I do, indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man, who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her."

"But does Lydia know nothing of this? Can she be ignorant of what you
and Jane seem so well to understand?"

"Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it
apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it
was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of
opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could
be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far
enough from my thoughts."

"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other."

"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
side; and had any thing of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
that ours is not a family, on which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in, or near Meryton, was out of her senses about him
for the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any
particular attention, and, consequently, after a moderate period of
extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others
of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her
favourites."

       *       *       *       *       *

It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.

They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on
the road, reached Longbourn by dinner-time the next day. It was a
comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.

The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the
carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.

Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them an hasty kiss,
hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down stairs
from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.

Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether any thing had been
heard of the fugitives.

"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
every thing will be well."

"Is my father in town?"

"Yes, he went on Tuesday as I wrote you word."

"And have you heard from him often?"

"We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write
again, till he had something of importance to mention."

"And my mother--How is she? How are you all?"

"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is up stairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven! are quite well."

"But you--How are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!"

Her sister, however, assured her, of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to, by the approach of
the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.

When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
had already asked, were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good,
however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
to explain their proceedings, and perhaps announce the marriage.

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villanous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill usage;
blaming every body but the person to whose ill judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must be principally owing.

"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point of going to Brighton,
with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had
been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have
the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor dear
child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight
Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is
to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold
in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what
we shall do."

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told
her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist
Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.

"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he, "though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we
may gain some news of them, and till we know that they are not married,
and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him
come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done."

"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I
could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chuses, to buy them,
after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from
fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in,--that I am frightened
out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me,
such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at
heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear
Lydia, not to give any directions about her clothes, till she has seen
me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother,
how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all."

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in
her hopes as her fears; and, after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the
housekeeper, who attended, in the absence of her daughters.

Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments, to make their
appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her
toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change
was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or
the anger which she had herself incurred in the business, had given
something more of fretfulness than usual, to the accents of Kitty. As
for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth
with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at
table,

"This is a most unfortunate affair; and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other, the balm of sisterly consolation."

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
"Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson; that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable--that one false
step involves her in endless ruin--that her reputation is no less
brittle than it is beautiful,--and that she cannot be too much guarded
in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to
make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.

In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an
hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the
opportunity of making many enquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible; the former continued
the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and every thing about it, which
I have not already heard. Give me farther particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of any thing before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever."

"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey."

"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"

"Yes; but when questioned by _him_ Denny denied knowing any thing of
their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."

"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"

"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains! I felt a
little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in
marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that, they only felt how
imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last
letter, she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems,
of their being in love with each other, many weeks."

"But not before they went to Brighton?"

"No, I believe not."

"And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he
know his real character?"

"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said, that he left Meryton greatly in
debt; but I hope this may be false."

"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
this could not have happened!"

"Perhaps it would have been better;" replied her sister. "But to expose
the former faults of any person, without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."

"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?"

"He brought it with him for us to see."

Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:

     "MY DEAR HARRIET,

     "You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
     laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
     missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with
     who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the
     world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without
     him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at
     Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the
     surprise the greater, when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia
     Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for
     laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt, for not keeping my
     engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will
     excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at
     the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my
     clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally
     to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown, before they are
     packed up. Good bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster, I hope you
     will drink to our good journey.

     "Your affectionate friend,

     "LYDIA BENNET."

"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. "What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment. But
at least it shews, that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey.
Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a
_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"

"I never saw any one so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
such confusion!"

"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it, who
did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"

"I do not know.--I hope there was.--But to be guarded at such a time, is
very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much
as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen,
almost took from me my faculties."

"Your attendance upon her, has been too much for you. You do not look
well. Oh! that I had been with you, you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone."

"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and lady
Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if
they could be of use to us."

"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she
_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too
little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence,
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."

She then proceeded to enquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.

"He meant, I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where
they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if any thing could
be made out from them. His principal object must be, to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another, might be
remarked, he meant to make enquiries at Clapham. If he could any how
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make enquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed: but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
out even so much as this."




CHAPTER VI.


The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent, but at such a time, they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send, but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to
the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.

Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to
her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them, in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up, though as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man, who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Every body declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
and every body began to find out, that they had always distrusted the
appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still
less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now
come, when if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before
entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some
news of them.

Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a
letter from him; it told them, that on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch street.
That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but
without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to enquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present, to leave London, and
promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this
effect.

"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections, who would be likely to
know in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there
were any one, that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining
such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we
have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do every
thing in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts,
perhaps Lizzy could tell us, what relations he has now living, better
than any other person."

Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for
her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any
information of so satisfactory a nature, as the compliment deserved.

She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and
mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however,
that some of his companions in the ----shire, might be able to give more
information; and, though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the
application was a something to look forward to.

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was
the first grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told, would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
follows:

     "MY DEAR SIR,

     "I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
     in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
     suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter
     from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear Sir, that Mrs. Collins and
     myself sincerely sympathise with you, and all your respectable
     family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest
     kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No
     arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe
     a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that
     must be of all others most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death
     of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this.
     And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to
     suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness
     of behaviour in your daughter, has proceeded from a faulty degree
     of indulgence, though, at the same time, for the consolation of
     yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own
     disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of
     such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you
     are grievously to be pitied, in which opinion I am not only joined
     by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by lady Catherine and her daughter,
     to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in
     apprehending that this false step in one daughter, will be
     injurious to the fortunes of all the others, for who, as lady
     Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves
     with such a family. And this consideration leads me moreover to
     reflect with augmented satisfaction on a certain event of last
     November, for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in
     all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you then, my dear Sir,
     to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy
     child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the
     fruits of her own heinous offence.

     "I am, dear Sir, &c. &c."

Mr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relation, with whom he kept
up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living.
His former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the
militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship
with any of them. There was no one therefore who could be pointed out,
as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own
finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to
his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired
that he had left gaming debts behind him, to a very considerable
amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would
be necessary to clear his expences at Brighton. He owed a good deal in
the town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr.
Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn
family; Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!" she cried. "This is
wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."

Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to
his brother-in-law's intreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do, whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.

"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia!" she cried. "Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?"

As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
and her children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.

Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world.
His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece;
and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of
their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing.
Elizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from
Pemberley.

The present unhappy state of the family, rendered any other excuse for
the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware,
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.

When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
it.

It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
and I ought to feel it."

"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.

"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to
fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
It will pass away soon enough."

"Do you suppose them to be in London?"

"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"

"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.

"She is happy, then," said her father, drily; "and her residence there
will probably be of some duration."

Then, after a short silence, he continued, "Lizzy, I bear you no
ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which,
considering the event, shews some greatness of mind."

They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
tea.

"This is a parade," cried he, "which does one good; it gives such an
elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in
my library, in my night cap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble
as I can,--or, perhaps, I may defer it, till Kitty runs away."

"I am not going to run away, Papa," said Kitty, fretfully; "if _I_
should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."

"_You_ go to Brighton!--I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne
for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house
again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely
prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are
never to stir out of doors, till you can prove, that you have spent ten
minutes of every day in a rational manner."

Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.

"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them."




CHAPTER VII.


Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon,
madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."

"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."

"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't you know
there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
this half hour, and master has had a letter."

Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room; from thence to the
library;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the
butler, who said,

"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
little copse."

Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more,
and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.

Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as
Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
came up with him, and eagerly cried out,

"Oh, Papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?"

"Yes, I have had a letter from him by express."

"Well, and what news does it bring? good or bad?"

"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the letter from
his pocket; "but perhaps you would like to read it."

Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.

"Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is
about."

     "Gracechurch-street, Monday,

     August 2.

     "MY DEAR BROTHER,

     "At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such
     as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after
     you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what
     part of London they were. The particulars, I reserve till we meet.
     It is enough to know they are discovered, I have seen them
     both----"

"Then it is, as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"

     Elizabeth read on; "I have seen them both. They are not married,
     nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are
     willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on
     your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is
     required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her
     equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your
     children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and,
     moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your
     life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions, which,
     considering every thing, I had no hesitation in complying with, as
     far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
     express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
     will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
     circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to
     be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to
     say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are
     discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune.
     If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act
     in your name, throughout the whole of this business, I will
     immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper
     settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming
     to town again; therefore, stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on
     my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can,
     and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best, that my
     niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will
     approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as any
     thing more is determined on. Your's, &c.

     "EDW. GARDINER."

"Is it possible!" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be
possible that he will marry her?"

"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him;" said her
sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."

"And have you answered the letter?" said Elizabeth.

"No; but it must be done soon."

Most earnestly did she then intreat him to lose no more time before he
wrote.

"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back, and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is, in such a case."

"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble
yourself."

"I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."

And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.

"And may I ask?" said Elizabeth, "but the terms, I suppose, must be
complied with."

"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."

"And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!"

"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money
your uncle has laid down, to bring it about; and the other, how I am
ever to pay him."

"Money! my uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, Sir?"

"I mean, that no man in his senses, would marry Lydia on so slight a
temptation as one hundred a-year during my life, and fifty after I am
gone."

"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me
before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."

"No," said her father, "Wickham's a fool, if he takes her with a
farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so
ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."

"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
repaid?"

Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the
library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.

"And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!"

"I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would
not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
thousand pounds, or any thing like it, has been advanced. He has
children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten
thousand pounds?"

"If we are ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said
Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be
requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as
years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
first sees my aunt!"

"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said
Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry
her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
time make their past imprudence forgotten."

"Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor
I, nor any body, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it."

It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
therefore, and asked their father, whether he would not wish them to
make it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head,
coolly replied,

"Just as you please."

"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"

"Take whatever you like, and get away."

Elizabeth took the letter from his writing table, and they went up
stairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one
communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation
for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly
contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's
being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence
added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from
delight, as she had ever been fidgetty from alarm and vexation. To know
that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no
fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.

"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried: "This is delightful indeed!--She will
be married!--I shall see her again!--She will be married at sixteen!--My
good, kind brother!--I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage
every thing. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how
much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
Lydia!--How merry we shall be together when we meet!"

Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.

"For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great
measure, to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself
to assist Mr. Wickham with money."

"Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but
her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
must have had all his money you know, and it is the first time we have
ever had any thing from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy.
In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
it sounds. And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you
write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."

She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait, till her
father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay she observed,
would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy, to be quite
so obstinate as usual. Other schemes too came into her head.

"I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on
Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An
airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do any
thing for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
all have a bowl of punch, to make merry at her wedding."

Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.

Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no
worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity,
could be justly expected for her sister; in looking back to what they
had feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they
had gained.




CHAPTER VIII.


Mr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that,
instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for
the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle, for whatever of
honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
her husband, might then have rested in its proper place.

He was seriously concerned, that a cause of so little advantage to any
one, should be forwarded at the sole expence of his brother-in-law, and
he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his
assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.

When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join
in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too
late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
income.

Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
latter, depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though
expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be
done with so little inconvenience to himself, as by the present
arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a-year the loser, by the
hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
allowance, and the continual presents in money, which passed to her,
through her mother's hands, Lydia's expences had been very little within
that sum.

That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present, was to
have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first
transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were
over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was
soon dispatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was
quick in its execution. He begged to know farther particulars of what he
was indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia, to send any
message to her.

The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate
speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
philosophy. To be sure it would have been more for the advantage of
conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farm
house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the
good-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before, from
all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit
in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband, her
misery was considered certain.

It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this
happy day, she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of
her wishes, since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
importance.

"Haye-Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings would quit it, or the
great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."

Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption, while the
servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, "Mrs.
Bennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and
daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
neighbourhood, they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage
the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn."

A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it
soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
affection whatever, on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
resentment, as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her
marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe
possible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which the want of new
clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
shame at her eloping and living with Wickham, a fortnight before they
took place.

Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper
termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
unfavourable beginning, from all those who were not immediately on the
spot.

She had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were
few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
but at the same time, there was no one, whose knowledge of a sister's
frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of
disadvantage from it, individually to herself; for at any rate, there
seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other
objection would now be added, an alliance and relationship of the
nearest kind with the man whom he so justly scorned.

From such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The
wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
she could have been happy with him; when it was no longer likely they
should meet.

What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal,
there must be a triumph.

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man, who, in
disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved,
and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must
have received benefit of greater importance.

But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.

How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to
promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with intreaties
that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
purport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved
on quitting the Militia.

     "It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as soon
     as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me,
     in considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both
     on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go
     into the regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still
     some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the
     promise of an ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in
     the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of
     the kingdom. He promises fairly, and I hope among different people,
     where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be
     more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of
     our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the
     various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with
     assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And
     will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances
     to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list,
     according to his information. He has given in all his debts; I hope
     at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and
     all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
     unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from
     Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all,
     before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully
     remembered to you and her mother.--Your's, &c.

     "E. GARDINER."

Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
from the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs.
Bennet, was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the
North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her
company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and besides, it was such a
pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
with every body, and had so many favourites.

"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite shocking
to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
regiment."

His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
admitted into her family again, before she set off for the North,
received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who
agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
urged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
mother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to shew
her married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to
the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he
sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon
as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth
was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme,
and, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him
would have been the last object of her wishes.




CHAPTER IX.


Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet
them at ----, and they were to return in it, by dinner-time. Their
arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets; and Jane more especially,
who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_
been the culprit, was wretched in the thought of what her sister must
endure.

They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room, to receive
them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to
the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.

Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to
Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an
alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.

Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was
shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and
fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
there.

Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
resolving within herself, to draw no limits in future to the impudence
of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of
the two who caused their confusion, suffered no variation of colour.

There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
with a good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her
replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
voluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for
the world.

"Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away;
it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
thought it would be very good fun if I was."

Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of
which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the
people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might
not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was
determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to
him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window
frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like
any thing."

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to
her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman."

It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment,
from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all
their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by
each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her
ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my
good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go."

"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"

"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."

"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother.

"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
winter is over."

"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not
particularly like your way of getting husbands."

Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
his regiment at the end of a fortnight.

No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and
she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and
having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
think, than such as did not.

Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to
find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring
for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
of having a companion.

Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
the first of September, than any body else in the country.

One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,

"Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were
not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?"

"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said
on the subject."

"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put
it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my
aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if
she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten,
for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to
know whether he would be married in his blue coat.

"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was
rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just
as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business
to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get
together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not
know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond
the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back
again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I
recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the
wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well."

"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.

"Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me!
I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"

"If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the
subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."

"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will
ask you no questions."

"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you
all, and then Wickham would be angry."

On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
power, by running away.

But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it
was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her
sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
intended.

"You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to
know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to
think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
ignorance."

"Not that I _shall_ though," she added to herself, as she finished the
letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
out."

Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of
it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.




CHAPTER X.


Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter, as
soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than
hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be
interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be
happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
contain a denial.

     "Gracechurch-street, Sept. 6.

     "MY DEAR NIECE,

     "I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole
     morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will
     not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself
     surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_.
     Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know,
     that I had not imagined such enquiries to be necessary on _your_
     side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my
     impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am--and nothing
     but the belief of your being a party concerned, would have allowed
     him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and
     ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming
     home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr.
     Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all
     over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked
     as _your's_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that
     he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that
     he had seen and talked with them both, Wickham repeatedly, Lydia
     once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
     after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting
     for them. The motive professed, was his conviction of its being
     owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well
     known, as to make it impossible for any young woman of character,
     to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his
     mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath
     him, to lay his private actions open to the world. His character
     was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step
     forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil, which had been brought on
     by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never
     disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to
     discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was
     more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this, was another
     reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a
     Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was
     dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though
     he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street,
     and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs.
     Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he
     went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But
     it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
     wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery
     and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be
     found. Wickham indeed had gone to her, on their first arrival in
     London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they
     would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our
     kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ----
     street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia.
     His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade
     her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her
     friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her,
     offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia
     absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none
     of her friends, she wanted no help of his, she would not hear of
     leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
     other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her
     feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a
     marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he
     easily learnt, had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself
     obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour,
     which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the
     ill-consequences of Lydia's flight, on her own folly alone. He
     meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future
     situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go
     somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
     nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your
     sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich,
     he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation
     must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to
     this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more
     effectually making his fortune by marriage, in some other country.
     Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof
     against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times,
     for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more
     than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable.
     Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was
     to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in
     Gracechurch-street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner
     could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further enquiry, that
     your father was still with him, but would quit town the next
     morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could
     so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed
     seeing him, till after the departure of the former. He did not
     leave his name, and till the next day, it was only known that a
     gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your
     father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they
     had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and
     then _I_ saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon
     as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor
     was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real
     defect of his character after all. He has been accused of many
     faults at different times; but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was
     to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do
     not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it,) your
     uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it
     together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman
     or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced
     to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece,
     was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
     which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your
     letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an
     explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give
     the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther
     than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose,
     what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid,
     amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds,
     another thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his
     commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him
     alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his
     reserve, and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character
     had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been
     received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in
     _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_
     reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this
     fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured, that
     your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit
     for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved
     on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at
     Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more
     when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to
     receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing.
     It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I
     hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to
     us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was
     exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I
     would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour
     while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter
     last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a
     piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you, can give you no
     fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner,
     representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and
     all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me,
     it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
     sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth
     and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was
     punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the
     wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again
     on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear
     Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
     enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
     in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire.
     His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but
     a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his
     wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever
     mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive
     me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so
     far, as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I
     have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
     pair of ponies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more.
     The children have been wanting me this half hour. Your's, very
     sincerely,

     "M. GARDINER."

The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the
trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with,
persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
heart did whisper, that he had done it for her. But it was a hope
shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her
vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for
her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to overcome a
sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham.
Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the
connection. He had to be sure done much. She was ashamed to think how
much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no
extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel
he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising
it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement,
she could, perhaps, believe, that remaining partiality for her, might
assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be
materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that
they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a
return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing
to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation
she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed
towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him.
Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get
the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him
again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even
sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how
steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and
confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.

She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.

"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he,
as he joined her.

"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow
that the interruption must be unwelcome."

"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends;
and now we are better."

"True. Are the others coming out?"

"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find from our uncle and aunt, that
you have actually seen Pemberley."

She replied in the affirmative.

"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."

"Yes, she did."

"And what did she say?"

"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
misrepresented."

"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,

"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."

"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said
Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this
time of year."

"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
understood from the Gardiners that you had."

"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."

"And do you like her?"

"Very much."

"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."

"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."

"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"

"I do not recollect that we did."

"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
me in every respect."

"How should you have liked making sermons?"

"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and
the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
quiet, the retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas
of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
circumstance, when you were in Kent?"

"I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron."

"You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
first, you may remember."

"I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so
palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
had been compromised accordingly."

"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."

They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
to get rid of him; and unwilling for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,

"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us
quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
mind."

She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.




CHAPTER XI.


Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he
never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
had said enough to keep him quiet.

The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was
forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
continue at least a twelvemonth.

"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"

"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years perhaps."

"Write to me very often, my dear."

"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to
do."

Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of
the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us
all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
himself, to produce a more valuable son-in-law."

The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.

"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with
one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."

"This is the consequence you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said
Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
single."

"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married;
but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If
that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."

But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into, was
shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by
an article of news, which then began to be in circulation. The
housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the
arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot
there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She
looked at Jane, and smiled, and shook her head by turns.

"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister," (for Mrs.
Philips first brought her the news.) "Well, so much the better. Not that
I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure
_I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to
come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?
But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"

"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in
Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks, just fit to be
killed."

Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming, without changing
colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,

"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt
that I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you, that the news does not
affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he
comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid
of _myself_, but I dread other people's remarks."

Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there, with no
other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming
there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come
without it.

"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man cannot come
to a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this
speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself."

In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
feelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
more unequal, than she had often seen them.

The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "you
will wait on him of course."

"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised if I
went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."

His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
Netherfield.

"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our society, let
him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in
running after my neighbours every time they go away, and come back
again."

"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not
wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine
here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon.
That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at
table for him."

Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her
neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley in consequence of it, before _they_
did. As the day of his arrival drew near,

"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her sister. "It
would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
but she does not know, no one can know how much I suffer from what she
says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"

"I wish I could say any thing to comfort you," replied Elizabeth; "but
it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual
satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because
you have always so much."

Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
and fretfulness on her side, might be as long as it could. She counted
the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window,
enter the paddock, and ride towards the house.

Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went
to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down
again by her sister.

"There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"

"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not
know."

"La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used to be with
him before. Mr. what's his name. That tall, proud man."

"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does I vow. Well, any friend of
Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here to be sure; but else I must
say that I hate the very sight of him."

Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little
of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time
after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable
enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their
mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be
civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either
of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and
whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
information, he was the person, to whom the whole family were indebted
for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as
what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his
coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,
was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered
behaviour in Derbyshire.

The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a
minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
her eyes, as she thought for that space of time, that his affection and
wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.

"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be early
enough for expectation."

She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her
sister, as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little
paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance.

Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and
she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
not an improbable, conjecture.

Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
Bennet with a degree of civility, which made her two daughters ashamed,
especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
her curtsey and address to his friend.

Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the
preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was
hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
applied.

Darcy, after enquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely any thing.
He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence;
but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her
friends, when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed,
without bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable
to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she
as often found him looking at Jane, as at herself, and frequently on no
object but the ground. More thoughtfulness, and less anxiety to please
than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed,
and angry with herself for being so.

"Could I expect it to be otherwise!" said she. "Yet why did he come?"

She was in no humour for conversation with any one but himself; and to
him she had hardly courage to speak.

She enquired after his sister, but could do no more.

"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said Mrs. Bennet.

He readily agreed to it.

"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say,
you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope
it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my
own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have
seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know;
though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing.
It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"

Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
not tell.

"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,"
continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very
hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to
stay, I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you
have heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the
regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
many as he deserves."

Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery
of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
done before; and she asked Bingley, whether he meant to make any stay in
the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.

"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said her mother,
"I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please, on Mr.
Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
will save all the best of the covies for you."

Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt,
that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends, for
moments of such painful confusion.

"The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be
in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure,
that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either
one or the other again!"

Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her
former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;
but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He
found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as
unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no
difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded
that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
that she did not always know when she was silent.

When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at
Longbourn in a few days time.

"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when
you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure
you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep
your engagement."

Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away.

Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine
there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did
not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a
man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and
pride of one who had ten thousand a-year.




CHAPTER XII.


As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.

"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she,
"did he come at all?"

She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.

"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when
he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If
he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will
think no more about him."

Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach
of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her
better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.

"Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent
acquaintance."

"Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane,
take care."

"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now."

"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
you as ever."

       *       *       *       *       *

They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in
the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good
humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had
revived.

On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two,
who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as
sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take
the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to
invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was
decided. He placed himself by her.

Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He
bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that
Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes
likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing
alarm.

His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an
admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his
own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her, as the table
could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little
such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and
cold was their manner, whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;
and she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell
him, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of
the family.

She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, than
the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and
uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the
gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made her
uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all
her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.

"If he does not come to me, _then_," said she, "I shall give him up for
ever."

The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
in so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her,
which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,

"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
do we?"

Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
her eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience
enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself
for being so silly!

"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"

She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,

"Is your sister at Pemberley still?"

"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."

"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"

"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
these three weeks."

She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for
some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering
to Elizabeth again, he walked away.

When the tea-things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies
all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when
all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her
mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had
nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side
of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.

Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the
others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.

"Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What
say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat
a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the
Lucas's last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges
were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater
beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And
what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good
a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,
and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously."

Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at
not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.

"It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The
party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
may often meet again."

Elizabeth smiled.

"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I
assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
perfectly satisfied from what his manners now are, that he never had any
design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with
greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
pleasing than any other man."

"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and
are provoking me to it every moment."

"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"

"And how impossible in others!"

"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
acknowledge?"

"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your
confidante."




CHAPTER XIII.


A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably
good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.

"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky."

He should be particularly happy at any time, &c. &c.; and if she would
give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.

"Can you come to-morrow?"

Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
accepted with alacrity.

He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them
dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,

"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is
come.--He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
Lizzy's hair."

"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is
forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago."

"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
where is your sash my dear?"

But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
without one of her sisters.

The same anxiety to get them by themselves, was visible again in the
evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his
custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the
five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at
Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any
impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last
Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do
you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"

"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five
minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she
suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,

"Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room.
Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth, which spoke her distress at
such premeditation, and her intreaty that _she_ would not give into it.
In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,

"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."

Elizabeth was forced to go.

"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother as
soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in
my dressing-room."

Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
of countenance, particularly grateful to the daughter.

He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went
away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.
Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.

After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in
the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
concurrence.

Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the
morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
or folly in Bingley, that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him
into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric than the
other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;
and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get
every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;
for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be
wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.

But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
both as they hastily turned round, and moved away from each other, would
have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but _her's_ she
thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as
well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few
words to her sister, ran out of the room.

Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.

"'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!
why is not every body as happy?"

Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a
delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of
kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not
allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be
said, for the present.

"I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any
account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it
from any one but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to
know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"

She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the
card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.

Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
previous months of suspense and vexation.

"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!"

In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
father had been short and to the purpose.

"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.

"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment I dare say."

He then shut the door, and coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and
affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her
delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
great cordiality; and then till her sister came down, she had to listen
to all he had to say, of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
expectations of felicity, to be rationally founded, because they had for
basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of
Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
himself.

It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or
speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when
Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly shewed
how really happy he was.

Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
turned to his daughter and said,

"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."

Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
goodness.

"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in
thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
always exceed your income."

"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters, would be
unpardonable in _me_."

"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you
talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a-year, and very likely
more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
happy! I am sure I sha'nt get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
ever was seen!"

Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
which she might in future be able to dispense.

Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought
himself obliged to accept.

Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on any one else;
but she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those
hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane,
he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of
her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of
relief.

"He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling me, that
he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not
believed it possible."

"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for
it?"

"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,
as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will
learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
can never be what we once were to each other."

"That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever
heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."

"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,
he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being
indifferent, would have prevented his coming down again!"

"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
modesty."

This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and
the little value he put on his own good qualities.

Elizabeth was pleased to find, that he had not betrayed the interference
of his friend, for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving
heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice
her against him.

"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried
Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but
such another man for you!"

"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as
you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time."

The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and
_she_ ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her
neighbours in Meryton.

The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the
world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,
they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.




CHAPTER XIV.


One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the
lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
open, and their visitor entered. It was lady Catherine de Bourgh.

They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.
Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even
inferior to what Elizabeth felt.

She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
other reply to Elizabeth's salutation, than a slight inclination of the
head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her
name to her mother, on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
introduction had been made.

Mrs. Bennet all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,

"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady I suppose is your mother."

Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

"And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters."

"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a lady Catherine.
"She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all, is lately married,
and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man,
who I believe will soon become a part of the family."

"You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after a short
silence.

"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I
assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's."

"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in
summer; the windows are full west."

Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then
added,

"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
Mrs. Collins well."

"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."

Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.

Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
declined eating any thing; and then rising up, said to Elizabeth,

"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
will favour me with your company."

"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and shew her ladyship about the
different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage."

Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
attended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall,
Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent
looking rooms, walked on.

Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
conversation with a woman, who was now more than usually insolent and
disagreeable.

"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she looked in
her face.

As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
manner:--

"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
come."

Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.

"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
for the honour of seeing you here."

"Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you ought to
know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may
choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been
celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such
moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most
alarming nature, reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your
sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that
_you_, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood; though I would not injure him
so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on
setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
you."

"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring
with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming
so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"

"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted."

"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth,
coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
is in existence."

"If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
report is spread abroad?"

"I never heard that it was."

"And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it?"

"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. _You_
may ask questions, which _I_ shall not choose to answer."

"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"

"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."

"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his
reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
may have drawn him in."

"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."

"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."

"But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as
this, ever induce me to be explicit."

"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
engaged to _my daughter_. Now what have you to say?"

"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
make an offer to me."

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,

"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of
_his_ mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned
the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
be accomplished, in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
tacit engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his
earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?"

"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no
other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be
kept from it, by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry
Miss De Bourgh. You both did as much as you could, in planning the
marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by
honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make
another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"

"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss
Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him.
Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
by any of us."

"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr.
Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
to repine."

"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that
score?

"Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here
with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be
dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims.
I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."

"_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
but it will have no effect on _me_."

"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my
nephew are formed for each other. They are descended on the maternal
side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
honourable, and ancient, though untitled families. Their fortune on both
sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The
upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or
fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you
were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere,
in which you have been brought up."

"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
equal."

"True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who
are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
condition."

"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does
not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_."

"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"

Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
Catherine, have answered this question; she could not but say, after a
moment's deliberation,

"I am not."

Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"

"I will make no promise of the kind."

"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I
will ever recede. I shall not go away, till you have given me the
assurance I require."

"And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into
anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise, make
_their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to
me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand, make him wish to bestow it
on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with
which you have supported this extraordinary application, have been as
frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my
character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these.
How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs,
I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in
mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the
subject."

"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no
stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous
elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her, was a
patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is
_such_ a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is _her_ husband, is the son of
his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what
are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"

"You can _now_ have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered.
"You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to
the house."

And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned
back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you,
must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?"

"Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments."

"You are then resolved to have him?"

"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."

"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the
claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in
the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world."

"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any
possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either,
would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
the scorn."

"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I
shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point."

In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of
the carriage, when turning hastily round, she added,

"I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your
mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased."

Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady
Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.

"She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."

"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well.
She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so passing through
Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.




CHAPTER XV.


The discomposure of spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw
Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many
hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine it
appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,
for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
Darcy. It was a rational scheme to be sure! but from what the report of
their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;
till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,
and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
expectation of one wedding, made every body eager for another, to supply
the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her
sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at
Lucas lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the
Collinses, the report she concluded had reached lady Catherine) had only
set _that_ down, as almost certain and immediate, which _she_ had looked
forward to as possible, at some future time.

In revolving lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to
prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar
representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
was certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,
whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak
and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.

If he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often
seemed likely, the advice and intreaty of so near a relation might
settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy, as dignity
unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.

"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise, should come to
his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to
understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of
his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
at all."

       *       *       *       *       *

The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same
kind of supposition, which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and
Elizabeth was spared from much teazing on the subject.

The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her
father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.

"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my room."

She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell
her, was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might
be from lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the
consequent explanations.

She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He
then said,

"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
contents. I did not know before, that I had _two_ daughters on the brink
of matrimony. Let me congratulate you, on a very important conquest."

The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained
himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to
herself; when her father continued,

"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the
name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."

"From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?"

"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
which it seems he has been told, by some of the good-natured, gossiping
Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows. "Having thus
offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on
this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another:
of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate,
may be reasonably looked up to, as one of the most illustrious
personages in this land."

"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young
gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur, by a precipitate
closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
inclined to take immediate advantage of."

"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out."

"My motive for cautioning you, is as follows. We have reason to imagine
that his aunt, lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with
a friendly eye."

"_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within
the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more
effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in
his life! It is admirable!"

Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
little agreeable to her.

"Are you not diverted?"

"Oh! yes. Pray read on."

"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and
her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr.
Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad
business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
living together before the marriage took place, should be so generally
known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young
couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as
a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names
to be mentioned in your hearing." "_That_ is his notion of christian
forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's
situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you
look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _Missish_, I
hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we
live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our
turn?"

"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so
strange!"

"Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_
pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?"

To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his
repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she
would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by
what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but
wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of
his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_.




CHAPTER XVI.


Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's
visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to
tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in
momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five
set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to
outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy,
were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was
too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon
Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
high, she immediately said,

"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I
can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor
sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs.
Gardiner was so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to
me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
sake of discovering them."

"If you _will_ thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone.
That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other
inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought
only of _you_."

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence
me on this subject for ever."

Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone
so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The
happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never
felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
expression of heart-felt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of
feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his
affection every moment more valuable.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
be thought; and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that
such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from
her nephew, which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that,
had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of
my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
your relations."

"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour
to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was
unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."

"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
in civility."

"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a
more gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you
can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some
time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."

"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
a way."

"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
way, that would induce you to accept me."

"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."

Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it _soon_ make you
think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
contents?"

She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
former prejudices had been removed.

"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the
power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might
justly make you hate me."

"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies."

"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly
calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a
dreadful bitterness of spirit."

"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so
widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant
circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some
of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
pleasure."

"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of
ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will
intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a
selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a
child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my
temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride
and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only _child_)
I was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father
particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,
almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond
my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to
_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with
my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might
still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not
owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most
advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a
doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my
pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"

"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
wishing, expecting my addresses."

"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you.
I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong.
How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?"

"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take
a proper direction."

"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at
Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"

"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."

"Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.
My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I
confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due."

"My object _then_," replied Darcy, "was to shew you, by every civility
in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped
to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you
see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes
introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an
hour after I had seen you."

He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to
the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed
before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
comprehend.

She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
each, to be dwelt on farther.

After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
it was time to be at home.

"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which
introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with
their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of
it.

"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.

"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."

"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And
though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
the case.

"On the evening before my going to London," said he "I made a confession
to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of
all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs,
absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the
slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself
mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent
to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."

Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
friend.

"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him
that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?"

"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits
which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection."

"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
him."

"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess
one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not
allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months
last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
now."

Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it
was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley,
which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the
conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.




CHAPTER XVII.


"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question
which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and
from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in
reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing
else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.

The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The
acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy,
than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in
the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one
liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.

"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."

"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
engaged."

Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
you dislike him."

"You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these,
a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
remember it myself."

Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.

"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried
Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
happy with him?"

"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"

"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than
marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?"

"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
tell you all."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
afraid you will be angry."

"My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously.
Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell
me how long you have loved him?"

"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
at Pemberley."

Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of
attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
farther to wish.

"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I
always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I
must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
of it, to another, not to you."

Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to
mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
conceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
and half the night spent in conversation.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or
other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
way."

Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet.

As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mr. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"

"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk
to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
never seen the view."

"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am
sure it will be too much for Kitty. Wont it, Kitty?"

Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great
curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently
consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her,
saying,

"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to
him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
inconvenience."

During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to
her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the
first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means, that _she_,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he
wants you in the library." She was gone directly.

Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
"Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"

How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured him with some confusion, of
her attachment to Mr. Darcy.

"Or in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
But will they make you happy?"

"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your belief of my
indifference?"

"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
this would be nothing if you really liked him."

"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him.
Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
such terms."

"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind
of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he
condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your
disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
about."

Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply;
and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the
object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her
estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that
his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many
months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she
did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no more to
say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
you, my Lizzy, to any one less worthy."

To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.

"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."

He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men come
for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."

Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any
thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
would come in time.

When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
and made the important communication. Its effect was most
extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and
unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that
she could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to
credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the
shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to
fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless
herself.

"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted."

This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
her mother followed her.

"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten
thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
that I may have it to-morrow."

This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found, that though in the certain
possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak
to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark
her deference for his opinion.

Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
every hour in his esteem.

"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham, perhaps,
is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
as Jane's."




CHAPTER XVIII.


Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could
you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
place?"

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
knew that I _had_ begun."

"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
did you admire me for my impertinence?"

"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."

"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking
and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
amiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it;
and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
of _that_ when they fall in love."

"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was
ill at Netherfield?"

"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
to find occasions for teazing and quarrelling with you as often as may
be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?"

"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."

"But I was embarrassed."

"And so was I."

"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."

"A man who had felt less, might."

"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too
much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the
subject? This will never do."

"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us, were the means of
removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to
wait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me
hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."

"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
or had you intended any more serious consequence?"

"My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made."

"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine, what is to
befall her?"

"I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to
be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done
directly."

"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and
admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."

From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
long letter, but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find, that her uncle and aunt
had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
follows:

     "I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have
     done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but
     to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than
     really existed. But _now_ suppose as much as you chuse; give a
     loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible
     flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me
     actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very
     soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I
     thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I
     be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful.
     We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in
     the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one
     with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I
     laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world, that he can
     spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.

     Your's, &c."

Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine, was in a different style; and
still different from either, was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in
reply to his last.

     "DEAR SIR,

     "I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will
     soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as
     you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has
     more to give.

     "Your's sincerely, &c."

Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.

The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was
as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
being loved by her sister.

Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
to Elizabeth, from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
Collinses were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden
removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so
exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her
husband. He bore it however with admirable calmness. He could even
listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.

Mrs. Philips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater tax on his
forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in
too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could, to shield
him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him
to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to
either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
Pemberley.




CHAPTER XIX.


Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she
afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley and talked of Mrs. Darcy may be guessed.
I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment
of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children,
produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable,
well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was
lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in
so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
invariably silly.

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
drew him oftener from home than any thing else could do. He delighted in
going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
temper as Lydia, and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she
became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
ignorant, and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia's
society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
much reluctance.

As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
effect:

     "MY DEAR LIZZY,

     "I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
     Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you
     so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will
     think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very
     much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live
     upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four
     hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it,
     if you had rather not.

     "Yours, &c."

As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
her answer to put an end to every intreaty and expectation of the kind.
Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
herself were sure of being applied to, for some little assistance
towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
her soon sunk into indifference; her's lasted a little longer; and in
spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
reputation which her marriage had given her.

Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia was
occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to _talk_ of giving them a hint to be gone.

Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
to Elizabeth.

Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an
astonishment bordering on alarm, at her lively, sportive, manner of
talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in
her way. By Elizabeth's instructions she began to comprehend that a
woman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.

Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in
her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on
them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy,
as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's note:

Spelling and hyphen changes have been made so that there is consistency
within the book. Any other inconsistencies with modern spellings have
been left as printed.





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