The professors leaned back in their chairs, conversing in low voices, enjoying a moment of peace after the chaotic holiday feast.
The house-elves had silently begun clearing away the mountains of plates and food scraps from the long tables.
Viktor stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. He was just preparing to go track down Tom—who was likely accepting an invitation to the skeletons' "after-party"—when it happened.
"P-Professor! Professor Dumbledore!"
A pale-faced third-year Gryffindor boy sprinted through the Great Hall doors, panting heavily and nearly tripping over his own robes. His voice pitched into a shrill shriek of pure terror.
Almost simultaneously, the faint sounds of more screams, crying, and panicked disbelief echoed from the corridor outside. Like a boulder dropped into a calm lake, the chaotic shockwave rapidly approached.
The relaxed atmosphere at the High Table froze instantly.
The smile vanished from Dumbledore's face; the blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles turned as sharp as a hawk's.
Professor McGonagall shot to her feet, her wand already drawn. Snape's thin lips pressed into an even colder, harder line.
Viktor's heart tightened. Tom, seemingly sensing the shift in the air, darted back from the stage in a flash, landing lightly on Viktor's shoulder. His emerald eyes stared warily toward the entrance. The joyful expression from his performance was completely gone, replaced by hyper-focused vigilance.
"What is the meaning of this?" Professor McGonagall demanded sharply.
"O-Outside—the third floor—Mrs. Norris—and the writing—it's awful—"
Faced with McGonagall's questioning, the boy babbled incoherently, his trembling finger pointing out the doors.
No more needed to be said.
Dumbledore was already striding swiftly down from the High Table, his robes billowing behind him. The other professors, Viktor included, followed without a second thought.
Professors Flitwick and Sprout exchanged a look and silently agreed to stay behind, moving quickly to soothe the panicked students who hadn't yet left the Hall.
---
### The Scene of the Crime
The faculty hurried toward the source of the commotion. Rounding a corner, a normally deserted third-floor corridor came into view.
The sight made their hearts sink.
The corridor was already packed with students drawn by the noise. Most wore expressions of horror, confusion, and intense curiosity. They stood on their tiptoes trying to peer inside, whispering urgent questions to each other. The buzzing voices formed a thick, uneasy background noise.
At the very front of the crowd, near a damp wall, the scene was jarring and deeply unsettling.
Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger stood there alone, looking pale and completely shell-shocked. Ron's freckles stood out starkly in the dim light, and Hermione was biting her lower lip hard.
The caretaker, Argus Filch, was practically lunging at Harry. His bony fingers were clutching the front of Harry's robes, his entire body shaking with extreme rage and grief. Spit flew into Harry's face as Filch's hoarse voice spat accusations.
"You! It was you! I know it! You hate her! You hate my cat! You—!"
And directly above them, hanging rigidly from the cold iron bracket of a torch, was Mrs. Norris.
She usually strutted around the corridors, full of self-importance with her tail held high. But right now, she looked like a tattered fur rag. Her limbs were stretched out stiffly, her eyes wide and dilated, locked in a final moment of absolute terror. Her fur was puffed up entirely, and her tail pointed straight down.
The most chilling part, however, was on the damp stone wall next to her.
In the flickering light of the torch, a dark, viscous substance gleamed, spelling out a massive message. The words looked as though they had been smeared on with some thick, wet liquid, snaking through the cracks in the stonework:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Below the writing lay a small puddle of water, reflecting an ominous sheen in the gloom.
---
### Uninvited Expertise
"Meow..." A heartbreaking, crying sound came from Viktor's shoulder.
Tom sprang down, moving as fast as a black bolt of lightning. He landed lightly beneath the bracket where Mrs. Norris hung. Staring up at the stiff body of his former playmate and snack-trading partner, his emerald eyes filled with disbelief, sorrow, and raw anger.
With a powerful kick of his hind legs, Tom scrambled nimbly up the wall, hooking one paw onto the bracket. With his other paw, he swiftly but gently unhooked Mrs. Norris's rigid body, pulled her close to his chest, and slowly dropped back down to the floor.
Tom laid Mrs. Norris flat on the freezing stone. He reached out a paw, gently and hesitantly tapping her nose, then leaned down to listen to her chest.
Immediately after, he looked up at Viktor and Dumbledore, letting out a rapid, anxious string of meows. He gestured at Mrs. Norris with his paws, seemingly trying to urgently explain her condition.
Viktor's heart sank. He stepped forward quickly, crouching down to inspect her closely.
Dumbledore approached as well. The gaze behind his half-moon spectacles was profound and solemn as it swept over the cat's stiff body, then slowly moved up to the writing on the wall. Finally, it settled on Harry, who was still being gripped by Filch, looking terrified and wrongfully accused.
"Mr. Filch," Dumbledore said softly, yet with undeniable authority. "Please release Mr. Potter."
Filch looked like he wanted to argue, but under Dumbledore's calm stare, he reluctantly let go. Still, his red, swollen eyes glared at Harry with pure hatred.
Right at that moment, a voice cut through the tension—a voice attempting to sound composed but dripping with eager opportunism.
"Ah! A terrible attack! But fear not, Headmaster Dumbledore! This is the perfect moment to showcase the expertise of none other than myself—Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, and Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League!"
Lockhart had somehow squeezed his way to the front of the crowd. Wearing extravagantly flashy magenta robes, the smile plastered on his face was incredibly inappropriate for the situation—almost comical.
"I've studied these sorts of dark incidents extensively," Lockhart beamed. "In my books Voyages with Vampires and Wanderings with Werewolves, I cover exactly how to handle sudden dark attacks in great detail! Perhaps we should move to my office? It is much more... ah... private, and it will be the perfect setting for us to strategize and unmask the culprit!"
He clearly viewed this as just another stage to flaunt his "heroism" and "professional expertise."
Dumbledore gave Lockhart a single, completely placid look. Yet, something in that look made Lockhart's voice trail off involuntarily.
"Very well," Dumbledore nodded. "Minerva, Severus, Viktor, Mr. Filch, and you three." He gestured toward Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "We will continue this discussion in Professor Lockhart's office. Filius, Pomona, please take charge here. Escort the students back to their common rooms immediately, and tighten patrols for the night."
Professors Flitwick and Sprout, having just arrived on the scene, nodded immediately. They began directing the gathered students away with tones that were comforting but brooked no argument.
Though terrified and dying of curiosity, the students slowly began to disperse under the professors' orders. Still, anxious whispers and fearful glances continued to echo down the hallway.
Dumbledore turned and led the way toward Lockhart's office. Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Viktor followed close behind.
Filch trailed after them, still muttering venomous curses under his breath.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a look of pure dread. Met with Professor McGonagall's stern glare, they had no choice but to lower their heads and bring up the rear of the procession.
---