" Mr. Filch."
A series of hurried footsteps came from the end of the corridor, and the crowd parted to reveal Dumbledore's tall figure walking through the archway.
His silvery-white beard gleamed in the candlelight, and he walked much faster than usual. His dark purple robe was not fully fastened, indicating that he had rushed over from somewhere.
Professor McGonagall stood behind him, her face ashen, while Snape followed behind, his gaze lingering for a moment on the blood-written words on the wall.
Lockhart walked at the back, with an expression that said, "I'm ready to help, but I still don't understand what's going on."
"Headmaster!" Filch's voice was hoarse and almost indistinct. "Look! My cat! My Mrs. Norris! This brat did it!"
Dumbledore walked up to the line of blood-written words, tilted his head slightly, and lingered for a moment on the deep red words.
His expression didn't reveal any obvious change in emotion, but Harry noticed that Dumbledore's brow furrowed very slightly, as if he felt a sense of helplessness at the fact that something he had long anticipated had finally come to pass.
" Mr. Filch, could you please help Mrs. Norris to that bench over there?" Dumbledore turned his head, his tone gentle.
Filch's lips twitched as if he wanted to argue, but under Dumbledore's gaze, he carried the cat to the bench on the side of the corridor and awkwardly laid the cat flat on the seat.
"She's dead..." Filch's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against wood, "She's really dead..."
"She's not dead." Dumbledore walked to the bench, bent down, and gently placed his right hand on Mrs. Norris's forehead.
His fingers lingered on the cat's stiff scalp for a few seconds, then he straightened up, his voice more relaxed than before:
"She's just petrified; her life isn't in danger. Once the Mandrake matures, the medicine can heal her."
Filch suddenly looked up, his wrinkled face initially blank, then bursting with ecstasy.
"Really?" he asked.
"I promise." Dumbledore nodded to him.
"Where is Professor Lockhart?" Dumbledore looked around.
"Here! Here!" An excessively loud voice squeezed through the crowd.
Lockhart pushed aside several Ravenclaw students blocking his way and jogged to the front.
He wore his signature sky-blue robe, his golden curls gleamed in the candlelight, and he wore a smile that was completely out of place with the atmosphere.
"I just heard a noise over here and rushed over. Good heavens—" He seemed to have just seen the words on the wall and the cat, "What happened? Is someone hurt?"
"No students were injured," Professor McGonagall replied briefly.
Lockhart breathed a sigh of relief, but he immediately put on a "I'll take over" expression, strode over to the bench, and bent down to examine Mrs. Norris for a moment:
"Hmm... this looks like some kind of advanced petrification technique. I wrote about a similar situation in ' Travels with Trolls '--"
"We don't need to hear about the Yeti right now, Gilderoy," Dumbledore interrupted him gently.
"Petrified?!" Filch paused for a moment, then his voice suddenly rose, "Petrified by what?! Who did it?!"
"That's exactly what we need to figure out." Dumbledore straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the pale-faced students in the corridor. "But this isn't the right place to discuss it."
He turned to Lockhart, tilting his head slightly. " Gilderoy, your office is the closest. I'd like to borrow it if it's alright."
Lockhart paused for a moment, then flashed what he considered his most charming smile, "Of course, Headmaster!"
"You're always welcome! My office isn't big, but it's big enough for all of us—and I always say, my sofa is incredibly comfortable—"
"Alright." Dumbledore interrupted him, not letting the conversation continue.
Snape stood to the side of the crowd, glanced at Lockhart with an almost pitying look, and then let out a very slight sneer.
The sound was so faint that only McGonagall, who was standing next to him, could hear it, but McGonagall pretended not to notice.
Dumbledore turned to face the professors and students crammed into the corridor, his voice steady and overpowering all the whispers:
"Dear students, tonight's Halloween celebration is ending early. Please return to your respective common rooms. Prefect will be responsible for taking attendance to ensure everyone returns safely."
He paused, then added, " Mr. Filch, you should also go back to your office and rest. Mrs. Norris has been taken to the Hospital Wing for now; Madam Pomfrey will take good care of her."
Filch, as if his last breath had been drained, followed Dumbledore and the crowd out of the corridor, clutching the cat.
The students' whispers didn't completely stop; they dispersed in twos and threes to both ends of the corridor, but almost everyone stopped to take another look at the words on the wall as they passed it.
Lockhart's office was on the second floor, and the nameplate on the door read in cursive script, " Gilderoy Lockhart, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class."
When the door was pushed open, a strong perfume scent wafted out, so sweet it was like someone had poured an entire bottle of floral spray into the ventilation vent.
The wall is covered with dozens of photos of Lockhart, large and small, each showing him with a carefully designed smile.
Above the fireplace hung a huge self-portrait, in which Lockhart was winking at everyone who entered the room.
McGonagall stood by the door, glanced at the wall covered in photos, and her lips twitched involuntarily.
Snape stood in the corner, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over Lockhart's row of gilded spines, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips, as if he were holding back something he hadn't said.
"You've all read that book, haven't you?" Dumbledore without any preamble.
There was a moment of silence in the office.
McGonagall nodded, Snape nodded as well with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, and Flitwick nodded as well.
Only Lockhart uttered a puzzled "What book?"
No one answered him, Lockhart seemed for a moment to feel excluded from a conversation that only he himself knew nothing about.
But he quickly adjusted his expression and put on that "I completely understand what you're talking about" smile again.
"I guessed it on the way here," he sighed dramatically, "You're talking about that book that's so popular in the Muggle world, aren't you?"
"I don't have time for that. My readers are urging me to write a new book; my schedule is packed—"
"What was written in that book has now happened," Professor McGonagall interrupted him.
" The Chamber of Secrets..." Flitwick repeated the word in a low voice, several octaves lower than usual.
"If what's written in the book is true, then what the child said is true; he heard the voices from inside the walls."