The person who left the writing and petrified Mrs. Norris had meticulously erased all traces of their presence.
Even the faintest magical aura was absent.
The Chamber of Secrets…
The phrase weighed heavily on Harry's mind.
Filch pushed through the crowd, stumbling to the scene.
When his eyes fell on his beloved cat, hanging stiffly from the torch bracket, his face froze in disbelief. The surrounding chatter faded into a high-pitched hum, sharp and deafening, as if the world itself were mocking him.
After a long moment, he staggered forward, his legs wobbling beneath him like worn hinges.
His left foot caught on his right, and he fell heavily into the puddle below the writing.
Filch didn't even try to get up.
He simply raised his head slightly, his eyes locking onto Mrs. Norris's lifeless, petrified pupils—still filled with frozen terror.
"Mrs. Norris!"
"Who did this?"
"Who hurt her?"
Filch's voice cracked as his gaze darted between the gathered students.
Hatred and suspicion burned in his eyes, his trembling hands clutching at the puddle beneath him.
To him, every face was guilty.
They all wanted me gone.
They all wanted to see her gone, too.
"She's been murdered," Filch croaked. "She's been killed…"
Lockhart, however, seemed rather invigorated by the chaos.
"This might be the result of a Transfiguration Torture Curse!" he exclaimed dramatically. "I've encountered such spells numerous times, but alas, I arrived too late to save her. If only I had been here, I could've undone it with ease—I know the perfect counter-curse—"
"Professor Lockhart," Harry interrupted, unable to contain himself, "perhaps you've been overworking your kidneys. It seems your eyesight is also failing."
Lockhart blinked, startled.
"This cat isn't dead."
For a moment, Filch's despair cracked, a flicker of hope flashing in his eyes. He turned to Harry with trembling lips.
"Mr. Potter… she… she's alive?"
"You can trust him, Argus," Professor McGonagall interjected briskly. She barely spared Lockhart a glance before waving her wand, tidying Filch's robes with a quick cleaning spell.
"Mrs. Norris is not dead."
Lockhart froze, his smug smile faltering.
"I… I was just about to say the same thing," he muttered, attempting to salvage his pride.
"Then why is she frozen like that? Why won't she move?" Filch's voice broke into sobs, his anger giving way to sheer desperation.
"Argus," Dumbledore said gently, stepping forward. "Perhaps we should discuss this in my office."
He waved his wand, gently lifting Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
"Minerva," he continued, "would you mind taking Mrs. Norris to Madam Pomfrey? Perhaps she can find a solution."
McGonagall nodded, her expression grave.
"You may use my office—it's just upstairs," Lockhart offered eagerly, practically bouncing on his heels.
Dumbledore gave a slight nod.
They began to ascend the staircase, Dumbledore leading the way.
Harry suddenly stepped forward.
"Harry?"
His unexpected action drew surprised looks from Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione, and even Snape, who had just been about to leave.
"I may know something," Harry said quietly.
Dumbledore paused, considering him carefully. "In that case, come along."
The crowd parted, allowing them to pass.
Lockhart strutted ahead, radiating smug self-importance, as though he were orchestrating the entire investigation. Snape followed silently, his expression darker than the storm clouds over the Forbidden Forest.
Lockhart's office was as garish as ever.
The pink walls were adorned with framed portraits and photographs of himself. As Dumbledore entered, the enchanted images scrambled in panic, hastily concealing themselves—some still wearing hair curlers or face masks.
Lockhart fumbled for matches to light the candles, but Snape waved his wand, instantly illuminating the room.
"Professor Dumbledore," Filch pleaded, his voice raw, "what's happened to her? What's wrong with my Mrs. Norris?"
"She's been petrified," Dumbledore explained gently. "A very advanced form of dark magic. I'll need time to undo it."
"But Harry is correct—she isn't dead."
"There may be hope with Madam Pomfrey," he continued. "And Professor Sprout has been growing mandrakes with her second-year students. Once they mature, we can brew a restorative potion capable of reversing nearly any magical affliction."
Lockhart seized the moment.
"I can assist!" he exclaimed. "I've brewed restorative potions well over a hundred times. Why, I could even do it in my sleep!"
Snape's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Planning to take over the Potions classroom, are we, Lockhart?"
Lockhart's grin stiffened. "Ah, no… of course not."
Turning to Harry, Snape sneered.
"So what brings you here, Potter? Finally grown so arrogant from McGonagall and Flitwick's praise that you think only you can solve Hogwarts' problems?"
"Do you consider all your professors imbeciles? Or is the 'Chosen One' the only one fit to act?"
Harry met his glare without flinching.
"Perhaps Professor Lockhart should escort Mr. Filch to the hospital wing. He seems like he needs rest."
Filch shook his head furiously.
"No, no—I need to know who did this! Whoever played this cruel trick on her must be punished!"
Harry offered a small, calming smile.
"I don't know yet, but you can trust Professor Dumbledore. If he hasn't been influenced by Professor Snape's... suggestions, he'll resolve this soon enough."
Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his temples.
"Harry, you shouldn't speak about an old man like that."
"And starting tomorrow, I'll make sure you're supplied with potions to help with digestion, Headmaster," Snape sneered.
Lockhart beamed, but Dumbledore cut him off.
"Lockhart, would you kindly escort Mr. Filch to Madam Pomfrey? He'll need some support."
Though phrased as a request, it left no room for argument.
Lockhart's smile faltered, but he nodded stiffly.
"Of course. Anything for you, Headmaster."
Once they were gone, Harry turned to the portraits on the walls.
"Professor Dumbledore," he said, "could you cast a spell on these?"
Understanding immediately, Dumbledore waved his wand, and a misty veil covered every frame and photograph.
"Now, Harry," Dumbledore said, "you can speak freely."
"I stole the painting from the Slytherin common room," Harry began bluntly.
Snape stiffened, narrowing his eyes.
"That's what you wanted to say?"
"There's more," Harry replied. "Be patient."
He continued, "It's part of Gryffindor's trial. The first task was to retrieve the painting."
Snape scoffed. "The stolen item was a landscape painting."
Harry nodded.
"The small snake in the painting—it's Slytherin's Animagus form."
"I can speak Parseltongue," he added, "because of Voldemort's soul fragment inside me."
Snape's face twisted in shock and fury.
Even Dumbledore leaned back slightly, his expression faintly alarmed.
Harry pressed on, ignoring their reactions.
"Gryffindor's trial was probably designed to make me figure out that the snake represented Slytherin."
"But he likely didn't anticipate that a Gryffindor would know Parseltongue. That made finding the painting much easier for me."
"And in Parseltongue," Harry concluded, "the snake spoke about the Chamber of Secrets."
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Powerstones?
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