His hand lamp swung in his hand, its light skipping across the floor, stretching and shrinking his shadow, shrinking and stretching it again, like a monster in the darkness repeatedly contracting and expanding, unable to find an exit.
He started walking faster. Not running, but the kind of brisk walk that said, "I don't want to stop, but I don't want anyone to see that I'm in a hurry." The sound of his boots on the flagstones changed from dull to urgent, tap tap tap tap, like someone hammering nails, one blow after another, giving himself no chance to breathe.
The first howl came from behind an iron door on his left. It was not a human sound—or rather, it had once been human, but whoever made it had been locked up for too long. Their voice had gone hoarse, their vocal cords torn, and the sound forced from their throat was like the sharp, grating squeal of a rusted iron door being pried open. "Let me out—! I didn't kill anyone—! I didn't—!" The voice crashed back and forth through the corridor, striking the stone walls and shattering into pieces. Some flew left, some right, some over his head, like a flock of invisible wounded birds still desperately beating their wings.
Harry's pace quickened by a beat.
Laughter came from behind the iron door on his right. Not happy laughter, but dry and parched laughter, like two sheets of sandpaper grinding against each other. "Another one... another one... little runt... What did you do? Steal a wand? Or steal someone else's girlfriend? Hahahaha—" The laughter abruptly cut off, as though someone had seized the speaker by the throat, followed by a violent coughing fit, as though they were trying to cough up their lungs.
After the coughing stopped, the