The Hollow Beneath Hogwarts

31. Night Prowler

In the entrance hall, the great oak doors rattled faintly in the wind outside, the sound echoing through the cavernous space like distant thunder. Most of the students had already disappeared toward their common rooms, their voices fading into nothing until only silence remained behind.

And waiting in the middle of that silence was Filch.

He stood rigidly beneath the torchlight with Mrs Norris curled around his ankles like a shadow. His yellowed eyes locked onto Sloane the moment she stepped down the marble staircase. A slow sneer spread across his face, stretching the wrinkles around his mouth.

"Ah... Miss Sage, is it?" he said in that raspy voice that always sounded as though he had been breathing dust for decades. "You are early."

Mrs Norris hissed softly, her lamp-like eyes narrowing at Sloane.

"Punctuality is a good quality," Filch continued, clasping his bony hands together. "Very rare these days." His smile widened unpleasantly. "Now..." He turned sharply on his heel. "Come with me."

Sloane followed him reluctantly across the entrance hall. The sound of Filch's uneven footsteps scraped against the stone floor while Mrs Norris padded silently behind them. The castle already felt different at night. Colder. Larger somehow. Every corridor seemed too dark, every flickering torch casting long skeletal shadows across the walls.

She folded her arms tightly as they descended toward the dungeons.

Not a single student passed them.

The air became colder with every staircase they took. Dampness clung to the walls, and the faint smell of mildew crept into her lungs. Filch seemed perfectly at home down there.

"You know," he began conversationally, though there was something deeply unsettling in the way he spoke, "detentions used to be cleaning trophies or cauldrons in classrooms." His lips twisted with disgust. "Boring work. Pointless work."

Sloane stayed quiet.

"Then we had Professor Umbridge become Headmistress," he continued almost dreamily. "Now that was discipline. Lines with a special quill. Students crying into their sleeves. Blood on parchment." He let out a wheezing little chuckle. "Brilliant woman."

Sloane's stomach turned.

Then his expression darkened with nostalgia. "And then the Carrows covered detention..." he whispered. "Students screaming. Curses. Punishments that meant something." His eyes gleamed strangely in the torchlight. "Those were the days."

A chill crawled up Sloane's spine.

"And now that they're gone," Filch muttered bitterly, "I promised myself I would keep up the admirable work they were doing."

"Sounds..." Sloane hesitated carefully, unsure whether sarcasm was wise. "...interesting."

"It was glorious," Filch hissed.

They continued farther down the corridor until they reached a dead end. Or what looked like a dead end.

Sloane frowned as Filch shuffled toward the wall. He pressed one grimy hand against a diamond-shaped stone embedded in the rock.

For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then came a deep grinding noise. Stone groaned against stone. The wall ahead of them slowly shifted backwards before sliding sideways with a horrible scraping sound that echoed through the corridor. Dust rained from the ceiling as darkness revealed itself beyond the hidden entrance.

A staircase spiralled downward into blackness.

Cold air rushed upward from below. Not normal cold. Wet cold. Ancient cold.