THE POLYJUICE POTION
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 sec-
onds 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 Cham-
ber 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.
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