And then Harry heard it.
§ Rip - tear - kill... §
It was the same voice, the same cold, murderous voice he had heard in dungeons.
He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway. § Sooo hungry - for so long... §
'What is that?' he thought.
§ Kill - time to kill... §
The voice was growing fainter. Harry was sure it was moving closer - moving upward. A mixture of fear and excitement gripped him as he stared at the floor. Was it a phantom, to whom stone floors didn't matter?
He began to run, down the stairs. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Harry sprinted down stairs to the first floor.
Stopping suddenly he strained his ears. Distantly, from the floor below, and growing fainter still, he heard the voice: § I smell blood - I SMELL BLOOD!§ His stomach lurched. 'It's going to kill someone!' he thought, taking the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps. Harry hurtled around the whole of the second floor, not stopping until he turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.
Something was shining on the wall ahead. He approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches. THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE.
As he edged nearer, he almost slipped there was a large puddle of water on the floor; eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath the torches. He realised what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash. Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.
For a few seconds, he didn't move. He knew he should run and get help; but, it was already too late for that.
A rumble told him that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where he stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were entering the passage from both ends.
The chatter, bustle and noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight. Then someone shouted through the quiet. "Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.
"So, this was you, Malfoy?" snarled Harry.
"What?" stammered the boy; the flush rapidly fading, again. "No! - I..."
"What's going on here? What's going on?" Attracted no doubt by Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.
"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked. And his popping eyes fell on Harry. "You!" he screeched. "You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll..."
"Argus!"
Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other Professors. In seconds, he had swept past Harry and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You, too, Mister Potter."
Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.
"My office is nearest, Headmaster - just upstairs - please feel free..."
"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore. The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape. Harry was joined by Daphne while his other friends hung back.
As they entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore lay Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry and Daphne exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.
The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.
"It was definitely a curse that killed her probably the Transmogrifian Torture - I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very counter curse that would have saved her."
Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs.
He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him; though, not nearly as sorry as he felt for himself if Dumbledore believed Filch. He would be expelled for sure. Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened. She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.
"... I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou," said Lockhart. "A series of attacks - the full story's in my autobiography - I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once."
The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.
At last Dumbledore straightened up. "She's not dead, Argus," he said softly.
Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented. "Not dead?" choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. "But why's she all - all stiff and frozen?"
"She has been Petrified," said Dumbledore "But how, I cannot say..."
"Ask him!" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry.
"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced..."
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