Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J. K. Rowling Page A

“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.
          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