As they entered Lockhart's dimly lit office, the walls seemed alive with motion. Harry noticed that several photographs of Lockhart hastily scurried away, their heads still adorned with curlers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stepped back. Dumbledore placed Mrs. Norris on the polished tabletop and began to inspect her carefully. Augustus glanced around the room while Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged nervous looks and sank into chairs beyond the reach of the candlelight, their eyes fixed on the scene.
Dumbledore's long, hooked nose nearly touched Mrs. Norris's fur as he examined her through his half-moon glasses. His slender fingers gently poked and prodded. Professor McGonagall leaned in, her face almost brushing the cat's fur, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. Snape stood behind them, half-shrouded in shadow, his expression strange, as though suppressing a laugh. Meanwhile, Lockhart bustled around, offering a constant stream of unsolicited advice.
"It must have been a spell—likely a Transfiguration Torture Curse. I've seen it used countless times. Such a shame I wasn't there! I know the counter-curse by heart; I could have saved her!" Lockhart boasted, a self-satisfied grin on his face.
A flicker of amusement crossed Augustus's eyes. Lockhart was indeed a fascinating individual. To speak so confidently about so many useless things, even in this situation, was undoubtedly a talent.
"...It reminds me of an incident in Ouagadougou," Lockhart continued, "A series of attacks—I wrote all about it in my autobiography. I handed out protective charms to the villagers, and the problem was resolved in no time..."
Dumbledore muttered strange incantations under his breath and tapped Mrs. Norris with his wand. Nothing happened. She remained stiff, like a freshly made taxidermy exhibit.
Augustus listened intently to the seemingly nonsensical syllables Dumbledore was uttering. Ancient magical scripts? A method to counter curses or soul-based attacks? Yet clearly, this cat was beyond the scope of such remedies.
Finally, Dumbledore straightened up.
"She isn't dead, Filch," he said softly.
Lockhart, in the midst of recounting the number of murders he had supposedly prevented, froze mid-sentence.
"Not dead?" Filch choked out, peering at Mrs. Norris through tear-streaked fingers. "Then why is she stiff—frozen like this?"
"Finally noticed, have you?" Augustus thought silently. Dumbledore's thoroughness in reaching his conclusions was impressive.
"She's been petrified," Dumbledore explained. ("Ah! That's what I thought!" Lockhart interjected proudly.) "However, I do not yet know the cause..."
"Ask him!" Filch shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Harry.
"Second-year students can't do this," Dumbledore stated firmly. "This requires dark magic of the highest order."
"It was him! It had to be him!" Filch spluttered, his round, tear-filled face flushed crimson. "You saw the writing on the wall! He found out—he found out from my office—he knows that I'm—I'm..." Filch's face contorted in agony. "He knows I'm a Squib!"
"Filch, even if Harry knew you were a Squib, it wouldn't justify targeting your cat. If he wanted to harm you, he could've petrified you directly. Why go to the trouble of orchestrating a terror attack over a cat? Besides, as Dumbledore mentioned, a second-year student couldn't perform magic this advanced," Augustus interjected calmly, articulating his reasoning with precision.
"Augustus is absolutely correct. Harry could not have done this," Dumbledore said with an unyielding tone, the light in his glasses momentarily brightening.
"Allow me to say something, Headmaster," Snape spoke from the shadows. Harry's sense of foreboding intensified; Snape's words rarely meant anything good for him.
"Perhaps Potter and his friends simply shouldn't have been in that corridor at that time," Snape suggested, a sneer curling his lips as though he doubted even his own words. "But we are left with some glaring questions. Why were they there instead of at the Halloween feast? And why did they go to that corridor afterward?"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stumbled over each other trying to explain their attendance at Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party.
"...There were hundreds of ghosts—they can confirm we were there..."
"And yet, why didn't you join the feast afterward?" Snape pressed, his dark eyes glinting ominously in the flickering candlelight. "Why head to that corridor?"
Ron and Hermione turned to look at Harry.
"Because—because—" Harry stammered, his heart pounding. "Because we were tired and wanted to go to bed early," he said quickly.
Snape's unpleasant smirk deepened.
"In my opinion, Headmaster, Potter isn't being entirely truthful," Snape said. "Perhaps we should strip him of certain privileges until he's willing to tell the whole story. Personally, I think barring him from the Gryffindor Quidditch team would be an appropriate measure."
"Really, Severus," McGonagall snapped, "I see no reason to prevent the boy from playing Quidditch. The cat wasn't hit on the head with a broomstick. And there's no evidence Potter has done anything wrong."
"It was him! It had to be him!" Filch suddenly exclaimed, pointing dramatically at Augustus. "He's Harry's accomplice! I've heard the rumors about the Chamber of Secrets. Given his status and prowess in Slytherin, he could very well be the heir of Slytherin! It's clear he has the power to petrify my cat!"
Augustus smirked, unperturbed. "You think a Julius family heir would concern himself with Slytherin's chamber? Historically speaking, this school is far younger than the Julius legacy. Even setting lineage aside, I have no interest in any 'heirlooms'."
Filch's eyes flickered with fear. He realized too late that accusing Augustus might have been a mistake. Beyond his extraordinary talent, Augustus's powerful family was not something to trifle with.
"We can restore her, Filch," Dumbledore said patiently. "Professor Sprout recently acquired some mandrakes. Once they mature, we'll be able to brew a potion to revive Mrs. Norris."
"I'll prepare it!" Lockhart declared eagerly. "I've made that potion a hundred times—I could do it in my sleep!"
"Excuse me," Snape interjected icily. "I believe I am this school's Potions Master."
An awkward silence followed.
"You may go," Dumbledore finally told Augustus, Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
The four left the office, the last door shutting behind them as the light faded. In the dimly lit corridor, Augustus's expression was unreadable. A gust of wind swept through, stirring his cloak and disheveling his golden hair. Another turbulent season lay ahead, he thought silently, standing still in the flickering light.
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