THE WRITING ON THE WALL
“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel
free —”
“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.
The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking ex-
cited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors
McGonagall and Snape.
As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of
movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in
the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real
Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore
laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into
chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.
The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch
from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was looking at her closely through his
half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking.
Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed.
Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most pecu-
liar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile.
And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making sugges-
tions.
“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Trans-
mogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I
wasn’t there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved
her. . . .”
Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking
sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs.
Norris, his face in his hands. Much as he detested Filch, Harry
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