THE ROGUE BLUDGER
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 hospi-
tal 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 carry-
ing 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 night-
dress. He heard a sharp intake of breath.
“What happened?” Madam Pomfrey whispered to Dumbledore,
bending over the statue on the bed.
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