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Chapter 123
Hermione looked hesitant. She carefully scanned her surroundings, clearly unwilling to get involved in anything too dangerous. But her friends were here—so no matter what, she chose to stand with them.
In the distance, a wave of cheers rose—the feast had ended.
As soon as it was over, the sound of hundreds of students moving up and down the stairs echoed from both ends of the corridor. It was the usual post-dinner rush as everyone returned to their dormitories.
Full and satisfied, they chatted and laughed casually. As the excitement of the party faded, students streamed up from below, quickly filling the corridor.
But the moment they saw the horrifying sight of the cat hanging upside down, all the noise—cheers, laughter, conversation—vanished instantly.
Silence fell.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George stood in the middle of the corridor, guarding the scene, while students quietly crowded forward to stare at the terrifying sight.
Then, breaking the silence, a voice rang out:
"Enemies of the Heir, beware! Mudbloods—you're next!"
It was Draco Malfoy.
He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, his eyes cold and gleaming with malicious excitement. His pale face flushed red as he grinned at the stiff, hanging cat.
"Watch your words—unless you're looking for trouble," George said coldly, displeased by the panic Malfoy was spreading. Did this idiot really have to enjoy it this much?
Malfoy suppressed his cruel smile at once. He knew better than to provoke George over something trivial. Still, seeing others frightened gave him a twisted sense of satisfaction—a feeling of power, and a terrifying kind of intimidation.
"What's going on? What's happening here? Why are you all gathered?"
Filch came hurrying over, drawn by Malfoy's shouting. The sight of so many students crowded together immediately annoyed him. In his mind, whenever students gathered, trouble followed. In fact, just seeing students was enough to irritate him.
He shoved his way through the crowd, disgusted by the press of bodies, anger boiling inside him.
Then, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, he saw Mrs. Norris.
He staggered backward in horror, clawing at his face in disbelief.
"My cat! My cat! What's happened to my Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked. "What have you done to her?!"
His voice cracked, his eyes bloodshot—and suddenly, they locked onto Harry.
"You!" he screamed. "You did this! You killed my cat—you killed her! I'll kill you, I'll—"
"Stop it, Filch!"
Professor Dumbledore arrived just in time.
After the Halloween feast, he had been overseeing the cleanup of the Great Hall, but now he—and many other teachers—had hurried over.
As headmaster, everything in the school fell under his responsibility.
He walked straight past Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George, gently removing Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
"Come with me, Filch," he said calmly.
"And you as well—Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Soros, Miss Granger."
Lockhart immediately stepped forward.
"My office—it's right nearby, just upstairs. Please, by all means!"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said, accepting at once.
The silent crowd parted, allowing them to pass.
Lockhart was thrilled—almost glowing with excitement.
Something had finally happened at the school. Perhaps he could solve the mystery himself. If so, it would make a perfect bestseller—Travels with Hogwarts. Yes, that had a nice ring to it.
He had been frustrated lately. The other teachers didn't recognize his brilliance, and the students' admiration for him had begun to fade—the very admiration that once drove him to do extraordinary things.
With that thought, he hurried after Dumbledore, followed closely by Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape.
When they entered Lockhart's dim office, the photographs on the walls caused quite a stir.
Every inch of the wall was covered with portraits of Lockhart himself—different outfits, different poses, different scenes.
But now, the Lockharts in the pictures seemed aware that something was wrong. They looked frightened and hid themselves.
The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk, and the flickering light pushed back the darkness slightly.
Dumbledore placed Mrs. Norris carefully on the table and began to examine her.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged nervous glances.
George, however, was far more interested in Dumbledore's methods. He watched intently, focusing on every detail.
Dumbledore bent low, his long hooked nose nearly touching the cat's fur. Peering through his half-moon glasses, he examined her closely, prodding gently with his long fingers.
Professor McGonagall leaned in as well, her face almost level with the cat, squinting in concentration.
Snape stood behind them, half-hidden in shadow, his expression unreadable—though there was a strange hint that he might be suppressing a smile.
Lockhart, meanwhile, paced around them, pointing and gesturing constantly, offering all sorts of suggestions.
George eventually looked away.
Whether Dumbledore and McGonagall were putting on an act or not, their performance felt far from convincing. From what he had observed earlier in the corridor, the cat's suffering must have originated somewhere far away.
Dumbledore's inspection, to him, seemed almost careless—like a child playing rather than a master at work.
"I think it was a curse—one that twists and tortures. I've seen many such spells used before. Unfortunately, I wasn't there at the time. But I do happen to know how to break it—I could save her…" Lockhart rambled on endlessly.
In truth, he had no idea how to save the cat. He simply didn't want to lose the spotlight.
Filch let out a dry, broken wail and collapsed into a chair beside the table, covering his face. He couldn't bear to look at Mrs. Norris.
Harry, despite hating Filch, felt a flicker of sympathy—but mostly, he feared for himself. He just hoped Dumbledore wouldn't foolishly believe Filch's accusations.
Dumbledore murmured a few strange words—something like a spell, though not quite—and tapped Mrs. Norris lightly with his wand.
There was no response.
(To be continued…)