THE WRITING ON THE WALL
had seriously considered putting him in Slytherin. He could re-
member, as though it were yesterday, the small voice that had spo-
ken 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 Creevey 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 won-
dered.
“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 stair-
case 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
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