CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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, soar-
ing 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. Af-
ter a minute’s weaving about through the whirl o f rainbow feathers,
he noticed a large silver key that had a bent wing, as if it had al-
ready 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 crum-
pled 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
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