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When they stepped into Lockhart's dimly lit office, the photos on the walls suddenly stirred. Harry saw a few portraits of Lockhart frantically diving out of view—some of them still had curlers in their hair. The real Lockhart lit a candle on his desk and quickly backed away.
Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris gently onto the smooth tabletop and started examining her carefully. Augustus scanned the room, while Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense glances and sat down on a few chairs just outside the candlelight, watching closely.
Dumbledore's long, hooked nose was practically touching Mrs. Norris's fur as he peered at her through his half-moon glasses.
His slender fingers poked and prodded gently. Professor McGonagall bent down too, face nearly pressed to the cat's, eyes narrowed as she examined her. Snape stood just behind them, half his body hidden in shadow, looking as grim as ever.
His expression was strange—like he was fighting the urge to laugh. Meanwhile, Lockhart was pacing around, constantly throwing in his "expert" advice.
"It's definitely a curse—probably a Transfiguration Torture Curse. I've seen others use it loads of times. What a shame I wasn't there—I actually know the counter-curse! Could've saved her, really..." Lockhart boasted to everyone around, looking proud of himself.
A flicker of amusement crossed Augustus's eyes. This Lockhart guy was definitely something—still going on with all that useless blabber at a time like this without batting an eye. Gotta admit, when it comes to shameless confidence, he really does have a gift.
"I remember a very similar case in Wagadu," Lockhart went on. "A whole series of attacks. I've got it detailed in my autobiography. I handed out all kinds of protective charms to the locals—solved the problem in no time..."
At that moment, Dumbledore muttered some strange incantations under his breath and tapped Mrs. Norris with his wand—but nothing happened. She stayed stiff and frozen, like a freshly stuffed taxidermy display.
Augustus listened closely to Dumbledore's incantation—it was probably Ancient Runes. Maybe a technique for curing curses or soul damage. But clearly, whatever hit this cat wasn't something within Dumbledore's ability to heal.
Finally, Dumbledore stood up.
"She's not dead, Filch," he said quietly.
Lockhart had just been counting off how many murder attempts he'd personally foiled when he stopped mid-sentence. "Not dead?"
Filch croaked through his fingers, peeking at Mrs. Norris. "Then why is she—why is she all stiff, like she's frozen solid?"
"Finally figured it out?" Augustus thought silently with a nod. This legendary wizard really was thorough—he'd taken his time sorting through all the possibilities before reaching a conclusion.
"She's been Petrified," Dumbledore said. ("Ah! That was my theory too!" Lockhart chimed in.) "But as for how exactly... I'm not sure."
"Ask him!" Filch suddenly shrieked, turning his tear-streaked, blotchy face toward Harry. "A second-year couldn't possibly do this!" Dumbledore said firmly. "This would take extremely advanced Dark Magic—"
"It was him! It was him!" Filch shouted, spitting with rage. His pudgy, sagging face turned purple. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He was in my office—he found out—I'm a—I'm a—" His face twitched horribly. "He found out I'm a Squib!"
"Filch," Augustus said calmly, "even if Harry did know you're a Squib, why would he go to all this trouble just to curse your cat? If he had that kind of magic, he could've just Petrified you instead. No offense, but planning a whole terrifying attack just for a cat? Seems pointless.
And like Dumbledore said, there's no way a second-year could use such advanced Dark Magic."
"Mr. Augustus is absolutely right. There's no way Harry is the attacker," Dumbledore said, his glasses flashing as he spoke with unshakable certainty.
"If I may, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows.
Harry's stomach sank—he had a bad feeling about whatever Snape was going to say next.
"Perhaps Potter and his friends simply shouldn't have been at that part of the castle at that time," Snape said, his lips twisting into a smug little smirk, like he didn't believe a word of what he was saying. "But there are a lot of suspicious details. Why were they in the upper corridor? Why didn't they attend the Halloween feast?"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione all started talking at once, explaining that they'd gone to Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party.
"...There were hundreds of ghosts there! They can all confirm we were there—"
"But then what?" Snape interrupted. "Why didn't you go to the feast afterward? Why go up to that corridor?"
Ron and Hermione both turned to look at Harry.
"Because—because—" Harry stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. "Because we were tired. We wanted to go to bed early," he finally said.
Snape's twisted smile grew wider.
"My opinion, Headmaster," he said smoothly, "is that Potter isn't telling the whole truth. Perhaps some privileges should be suspended until he does. Personally, I think he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team—at least until he starts being honest."
"Oh, come now, Severus," Professor McGonagall cut in sharply. "There's no reason to stop this boy from playing Quidditch. The cat didn't get hit by a broomstick, after all. And there's no evidence Harry's done anything wrong."
"It was him—it must have been him!" Filch suddenly shouted again, this time pointing straight at Augustus. "He had to be involved! He and Harry are working together! I've heard the rumors about the Chamber! With his place and power in Slytherin, he could totally be the Heir—and look at his abilities! He could easily have Petrified my cat!"
Augustus didn't get angry—he laughed.
"You think someone from the House of Julius would care about some old secret chamber built by Salazar Slytherin? Historically speaking, this school isn't even as old as my family. And even if we forget about that, I've never been interested in any sort of 'legacy'."
A flash of fear crossed Filch's eyes. Only then did he realize what a huge mistake he'd just made—accusing this particular student. Not only was Augustus terrifyingly gifted, but his family name alone made him way out of Filch's league.
"We can cure her, Filch," Dumbledore said gently. "Professor Sprout has just gotten some Mandrakes. Once they've matured, I'll be able to make a potion to revive Mrs. Norris."
"I'll brew it!" Lockhart cut in quickly. "I've made that potion at least a hundred times—I could do it in my sleep!"
"Pardon me," Snape said coldly, "but I believe I'm still the Potions Master at this school."
A painfully awkward silence followed.
"You may go," Dumbledore said to Augustus, Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
The four of them filed out of the office. As the last door closed behind them, the light faded away. The hallway outside was dim, and the torches flickered.
Augustus's face looked complicated. A gust of wind blew through the corridor from the windows, making their robes billow and sending his golden hair into a wild mess.
Another stormy season begins, Augustus thought silently, standing there motionless.
"....."