The dungeon was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of mold and decay. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shivered as they stepped into the chamber, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. Nearly Headless Nick greeted them with a mournful smile, his translucent form hovering above the ground.
"Welcome to my Deathday Party," he said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "It's not every day one celebrates five hundred years of being dead."
The trio forced smiles, trying to hide their discomfort. The room was filled with ghosts, their ethereal forms drifting through the air. A ghostly band played a haunting melody, the sound of musical saws filling the chamber. The feast laid out was equally unappetizing—moldy cheese, maggoty haggis, and a cake shaped like a tombstone.
After enduring the party for as long as they could, Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their excuses and left, eager to return to the warmth of the Gryffindor common room.
As they walked through the corridors, Harry suddenly stopped, his eyes narrowing.
"Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Hear what?" Ron replied, looking around nervously.
"That voice... it's coming from the walls."
Harry strained his ears, trying to catch the sound again. There it was—a low, hissing whisper, like the slithering of a snake.
"Kill... kill... time to kill..."
Without thinking, Harry took off down the corridor, following the voice. Ron and Hermione exchanged worried glances before chasing after him.
They ran through the empty halls, the voice growing louder with each step. Finally, they skidded to a halt in front of a message scrawled on the wall in what appeared to be blood:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Beneath the message hung Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, petrified and stiff as a board. Her eyes were wide open, her body suspended by her tail from a torch bracket.
"What's that thing—hanging underneath?" Ron asked, his voice trembling.
"It's Mrs. Norris," Hermione whispered, her face pale.
Before they could react, a crowd of students emerged from the Halloween feast, gasping and pointing at the scene. Filch pushed through the crowd, his eyes widening in horror as he saw his beloved cat.
"You've murdered my cat!" he screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Harry. "I'll kill you!"
Dumbledore arrived moments later, his expression grave. He gently detached Mrs. Norris from the bracket and examined her closely.
"She's not dead," he said softly. "She has been petrified."
Filch sobbed, his face buried in his hands. "It was him," he muttered. "He knows I'm a Squib."
Harry shook his head. "I didn't do it. I don't even know what a Squib is."
Snape loomed nearby, studying Harry with narrowed eyes. "Perhaps we should consider the possibility that Potter has developed an unusual ability."
McGonagall pursed her lips. "We must be cautious. Fear breeds false accusations."
Lockhart, ever eager, chimed in. "Clearly a dark curse—I've seen it before in the Banishing Banshee case of '82—"
Dumbledore raised a hand to silence them. "There will be no punishments until we understand what has occurred. Return to your dormitories. Professors, ensure the students are safe."
###############################################################################
In the quiet of the headmaster's office, the fire flickered low. The Sorting Hat stirred on its shelf, the seams of its brim twitching like a frown.
"So, he chooses to wait again," it muttered, voice rough like crumpled parchment.
The portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses came to life, some stretching, others turning toward the hat.
"He always waits," Phineas Nigellus sneered. "Even when action is required."
"Perhaps he fears what might awaken if he acts," muttered Dilys Derwent. "He forgets that there are older pacts than the Ministry's."x
"Foolishness," grumbled Armando Dippet. "Hogwarts protects itself—or did, before it was shackled by politics."
Fawkes sat on his perch, feathers glowing faintly, silent but attentive.
The Sorting Hat turned slightly, addressing him. "You know the wards feel it. The school remembers."
Fawkes blinked, a low trill building in his throat.
"The Guardian sleeps," the Hat continued. "And still, the children bleed. How many before the spell is broken?"
"Not many more," said Fawkes in songless thought. "The stone breathes again. I have felt it."
"We should prepare," said a portrait quietly.
"He will not like it," warned Phineas.
"He never did," the Hat rasped. "But we do not serve him. We serve the castle."
Fawkes extended his wings slowly. A soft pulse of magic flickered in the air.
Below the foundation stones, unseen and unfelt by most, ancient wards trembled.
The Guardian had not awakened.
Yet.
###############################################################################
The next morning, whispers buzzed through the Great Hall like angry bees. Every eye flicked toward Harry as he entered.
"Did you see the writing on the wall?" someone whispered.
"He must've done it—he was right there."
Hermione sat beside Harry and handed him toast he didn't touch. "Ignore them," she said firmly.
"I heard voices, Hermione," Harry muttered.
Her brow furrowed. "That's not normal, Harry. In the wizarding world… hearing voices no one else can hear, it's considered a sign of—well, dark magic."
Ron sat across from them, unusually quiet.
"You don't believe I did it, right?" Harry asked.
"No, mate," Ron said, but he didn't look up.
Hermione glanced toward the staff table. Dumbledore was unreadable. Snape stared directly at Harry.
"I'm going to the library," Hermione said suddenly. "There has to be something more on the Chamber of Secrets."
As she stood, Fawkes turned his head. His eyes followed her until she disappeared beyond the doors.
The castle held its breath. Magic old as the stones whispered again.