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Lockhart seemed utterly thrilled to finally be "taking charge." He practically skipped to the front of the group to lead the way, his mouth running a mile a minute.
"I have a few highly prized defensive artifacts in my office, as well as a restorative draught of my own invention that works wonders for shock! Oh, right this way, mind the stairs—"
Lockhart's office was crammed floor-to-ceiling with his own books and portraits. Yet, the atmosphere right now was the exact opposite of the owner's "glamorous" aesthetic. A heavy, suffocating blanket of dread hung in the air.
From dozens of frames, young, handsome, smiling versions of Lockhart struck various dashing poses. Utterly oblivious to the crushing tension in the room, they continued winking and combing their hair, making the scene feel completely absurd.
The air was thick with the cloying, overly sweet scent of Lockhart's signature cologne, mixed with a faint, indescribable icy chill radiating from Mrs. Norris's stiff body.
A large desk had been hurriedly cleared and draped with a dark velvet cloth. Mrs. Norris lay silently on top of it, looking like a poorly carved stone statue of a cat.
Her body was still locked in the terrified posture she had been in when attacked. Every puffed-up hair was frozen in place, and her dilated amber eyes seemed to still be reflecting whatever horror she had witnessed in her final moments.
Tom stood guard by the desk. He was no longer pacing anxiously; he simply sat there, perfectly still. The emerald eyes that had sparkled so brightly on stage were entirely dim, locked unblinkingly on Mrs. Norris.
Using a white-gloved paw, he gently and repeatedly wiped at imaginary tears in the corners of his eyes, letting out tiny, suppressed whimpers.
Headmaster Dumbledore leaned in incredibly close, his long silver beard practically brushing against Mrs. Norris's fur.
His deep blue eyes, magnified by his half-moon spectacles, scrutinized every detail with absolute focus. His long fingers gently peeled back the cat's eyelids, then slowly pressed down along her rigid spine.
His brow was slightly furrowed, his expression more severe and concentrated than anyone had ever seen it. His crooked nose was almost touching the cat's body as he seemingly sniffed for any trace of lingering magic.
Professor McGonagall stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Dumbledore, her lips pressed into a grim line. The tip of her wand emitted a steady, soft white light, illuminating the microscopic textures and blood vessels beneath Mrs. Norris's fur. Her gaze was as sharp as a scalpel, refusing to miss a single anomaly.
Professor Snape stood like a dark shadow near a bookcase in the corner. His arms were crossed, and his black robes blended almost seamlessly into the gloom.
His obsidian eyes swept coldly over the people gathered around the desk. When his gaze landed on the Golden Trio, the sneer on his lips deepened significantly, silently blaming them for the mess.
Viktor stood on the other side of Dumbledore. Moving his wand with extreme, steady precision, he slowly swept it back and forth over Mrs. Norris's spine, limbs, and head.
His brow was tightly knit. Tiny, barely visible ripples of magic pulsed between the tip of his wand and the cat's stiff body.
The feedback traveling up his wand didn't feel like the soft, warm biology of a living creature. Instead, it was an absolute, bone-deep, freezing hardness—like running his hand over a slab of granite freshly pulled from an icehouse.
He could clearly sense the residue of a sinister, ancient, and bitterly cold curse. Like a parasite clinging to a bone, it was wrapped tightly around Mrs. Norris's life force, forming an impenetrable stone cage that had completely frozen her vitality in place.
But... it wasn't death.
Deep within the absolute center of her life force, a microscopic spark of vitality still flickered, like a candle fighting against the wind. It was securely protected within the eye of the petrification curse, refusing to go out.
Viktor let out a slow breath and lowered his wand. Turning his head, he spoke softly to Tom, who was staring at him intensely.
"Don't worry, Tom. She's only been petrified. It's a remarkably powerful curse, but she's still alive."
Tom's head snapped up, his ears twitching. The profound sorrow in his eyes was instantly replaced by a glimmer of hope. He reached out a paw, looking as though he wanted to touch Mrs. Norris again, but he held himself back. Instead, he gave a firm nod and let out a short, incredibly grateful "Meow."
Almost at the exact same moment, Dumbledore straightened up. The usual spark of wisdom in his blue eyes was now weighed down by a heavy, grim understanding.
He turned to Filch, who was practically collapsed in a chair. Though Dumbledore's voice remained gentle, it carried unquestionable certainty.
"Argus, I have some good news for you. Mrs. Norris is not dead."
Filch's milky eyes snapped wide open, a sliver of light piercing through his bottomless despair.
"She has been petrified," Dumbledore continued. "It is the result of an exceptionally ancient and powerful curse. It is absolute... but it is reversible."
"We will need a Mandrake Restorative Draught. Once Professor Sprout's current crop of Mandrakes reaches maturity, Severus will be able to brew the antidote. She will make a full recovery."
"P-Petrified?"
Filch mumbled the word, his bony fingers twisting together. His gaze darted frantically between Dumbledore's calm face and the stiff cat on the desk.
Hope had been reignited, but trailing right behind it was a massive, violent surge of rage and terror that desperately needed an outlet.
He whipped around, his eyes locking onto Harry, who was shrinking against the wall. The caretaker's glare was like a poisoned blade.
"It was you! It had to be you!" Filch shrieked, his voice cracking from emotion and his constant yelling. "You hate her! You hate that she always catches you breaking the rules! You hate me! I know you do! You—you—"
He seemed to be searching for the most vile insult possible, but his rage was making him unintelligible.
"You filthy, rotten, despicable little—!"
"Mr. Filch," Professor McGonagall cut in sharply, her voice like cracking ice. "Calm yourself! Hurling baseless accusations achieves absolutely nothing!"
"Baseless?! He was right there! And those two as well!" Filch spat, pointing a shaking finger at Ron and Hermione. "They're in it together! They—"
"Argus," Dumbledore said. He didn't raise his voice, yet it carried a strange, piercing resonance that instantly completely completely overpowered Filch's screaming.
"To petrify a cat to this absolute degree... as you can see, there is no sign of a struggle or a gradual turning to stone. It was an instantaneous, total solidification. Performing magic of that caliber requires the highest level of Dark Arts knowledge. It is entirely beyond the capabilities of a second-year student."
His gaze swept over the pale, terrified faces of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "I do not believe they could have done this."
Filch's face flushed a deep, blotchy purple. His lips trembled. Gripped by overwhelming despair and powerlessness, he began to scream, the words tearing out of him unfiltered.
"Then who else could it be?! Huh?! I know how you all look at me! A useless Squib who can't even do magic! Supposed to guard this castle, and I can't even protect my own cat! My sweet Mrs. Norris... my..."
He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently. His rage had completely collapsed into a profound, heartbreaking display of agony and deep-seated inadequacy.
An incredibly uncomfortable silence filled the office.
Lockhart opened his mouth, clearly intending to offer some "expert insight" to lighten the mood or show off his deep understanding of "psychological trauma."
But caught between Professor McGonagall's lethal glare and Snape's undisguised look of pure contempt, he wisely shut his mouth, settling for awkwardly adjusting his flashy collar instead.
---
### The Legend Returns
The writing on the wall. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. The phrase hovered in the minds of everyone in the room like a ghost.
Watching Filch break down, and remembering those sticky, ominous words, a sudden jolt of memory hit Viktor like a lightning bolt.
He subconsciously scratched the back of his head, a strange, complicated expression crossing his face.
"The Chamber of Secrets..." he muttered under his breath. It wasn't loud, but in the dead silent office, it was crystal clear.
Seeing everyone turn to look at him, Viktor cleared his throat, looking slightly exasperated.
"Speaking of that... I just remembered something. Many years ago, when I was still a student here... well, I got into a bit of a 'physical disagreement' with a Slytherin."
"After I rearranged his face a bit, he got completely hysterical. Started screaming about how Salazar Slytherin had left a hidden Chamber of Secrets inside the castle. He said it held a terrifying monster that only Slytherin's true heir could control, and it would be used to purge the school of anyone unworthy of studying magic."
He paused, glancing at Dumbledore's thoughtful expression and McGonagall's suddenly furrowed brow.
"At the time, I just figured he was being a sore loser—making up ghost stories to scare people, or just bragging about his House founder's 'grand legacy.' It's been so long, I practically forgot about it. But looking at things now..."
He looked back down at Mrs. Norris's stiff body, and then at the empty space in the room that still felt thick with dark magic.
"...Maybe that little brat wasn't entirely full of it?"
"The Chamber of Salazar Slytherin..." Professor McGonagall inhaled sharply, the color draining from her face. "Is it... is it truly real? The legend..."
"Legends rarely spring from nothing, Minerva," Dumbledore said slowly. His fingers unconsciously stroked the tip of his beard, the light in his blue eyes dark and unreadable.
"The myth of the Chamber has indeed been passed down through Slytherin's descendants and several ancient families for centuries. 'Purging the unworthy'... it certainly aligns with the warning on the wall."
He cast a meaningful glance at Filch, who was still lost in his grief. "And Mrs. Norris is not a witch."
---
### The Inquisition
Snape let out a soft, barely audible scoff, shattering the momentary silence.
His pitch-black eyes, looking like bottomless pools of freezing water, locked onto the pale faces of the Golden Trio. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, slow, and dripping with malice.
"So, it would seem that our... celebrity, Mr. Potter, and his loyal friends just happening to be at the scene of the crime tonight was perhaps not a coincidence? A Deathday Party... what a perfectly inconspicuous alibi. Perhaps they know something we don't? About the Heir, or perhaps the entrance to this Chamber?"
"We didn't do anything!" Harry fired back instantly, his face flushing hot with anger and indignation. "We were just at Nick's party! We don't know anything about any of this! And we definitely didn't open a Chamber of Secrets!"
"We don't even know where it is!" Ron added frantically.
"Professor," Hermione said, forcing herself to sound calm, though her voice still shook. "We were at the Deathday Party the entire time. Dozens of ghosts can vouch for us. And how could we possibly know the kind of magic that could instantly petrify Mrs. Norris?"
Snape merely looked down his nose at them, his sneer broadcasting a massive 'likely story.'
"Severus," Dumbledore said calmly. "I believe they are telling the truth. At the very least, they lack the capacity and knowledge to execute dark magic of this magnitude. As for whether they accidentally saw something, or were inadvertently drawn into this..."
He paused, his tone softening slightly. "They have had a terrible shock tonight. Minerva, please escort them back to Gryffindor Tower. And remember," he said, looking directly at the three students. "Do not speak of what happened tonight to anyone until we have a clearer picture of the situation. Go straight to your dormitories. Understood?"
Professor McGonagall gave a stiff nod and gestured for the trio to follow her.
Looking as though they had just been handed a pardon from the executioner, Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept their heads down and practically bolted out of the suffocating office, eager to escape the creepy, smiling portraits of Gilderoy Lockhart.
---
### The Plan
Once they were gone, the tension in the room didn't lift in the slightest.
Filch eventually left as well, carrying Mrs. Norris's stiff body like a fragile porcelain doll, heading for the Hospital Wing.
The door clicked shut, sealing the remaining professors inside: Dumbledore, Snape, Viktor, and Lockhart.
"Well then," Dumbledore said, breaking the silence. His tone had returned to its usual calm, but his eyes were sharp. "Whether the legend is true or not, and regardless of who this 'Heir' claims to be, one fact remains: there is an incredibly dangerous, highly aggressive dark magic operating within Hogwarts. Mrs. Norris is the first victim, but she may not be the last."
"We must act immediately. We need to find the source of this power, and determine if this so-called 'Chamber of Secrets' actually exists," Professor McGonagall stated, her voice like iron.
"I suggest," Snape said coldly, "that we implement strict interrogations and surveillance on all students—particularly those whose... bloodlines might be considered questionable." He let the implication hang heavily in the air.
Viktor frowned deeply but stayed silent.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Without concrete evidence pointing to a specific demographic, Severus, sweeping interrogations will only breed unnecessary panic and division. Our immediate priority is ensuring the safety of the students and uncovering the truth as quickly as possible."
He looked at the group. "We need to conduct a thorough, exhaustive, grid-by-grid search of the castle. Start from the oldest, most abandoned corners. Look for any potential entrances, anomalous magical signatures, or... signs of further victims."
"Minerva, you will coordinate the patrol shifts and assign search sectors for the faculty. Severus, your expertise in potions may be crucial in analyzing the chemical composition of whatever was used to write that message on the wall. Viktor..."
He turned to Viktor. "Your knowledge of ancient magic and magical creatures, combined with Tom's unique... senses... may help us uncover clues the rest of us might miss."
Viktor gave a solemn nod. Tom lifted his head from Viktor's shoulder, his emerald eyes flashing with a steely resolve that clearly said, Leave it to me.
"And what about me, Headmaster?!" Lockhart practically shouted, puffing out his chest. That insufferable, self-important smile was back on his face. "I firmly believe my combat experience and mastery of the Dark Arts are exactly what this crisis demands! I am more than capable of leading a search team, or running emergency defense seminars for the students! Why, in my book Break with a Banshee, I explicitly detailed—"
"Gilderoy," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice gentle but leaving zero room for argument. "Your office is ideally located, with an excellent vantage point. I think it would be best if you remained here to act as our central communications hub. After all, we require a highly stable rear guard."
Lockhart's smile froze. He was obviously less than thrilled about being assigned to "sit in the back." But looking into Dumbledore's eyes, he didn't dare argue.
"Oh... well, yes, of course," Lockhart muttered, nodding awkwardly. "A stable rear guard is absolutely vital. I will ensure all communications run smoothly..."
No one paid any attention to his bruised ego. Dumbledore gave the final order.
"There is no time to lose. Increased patrols begin tonight. Tomorrow morning, we will finalize a comprehensive search grid. Until the truth is brought to light, I implore all of you to remain extremely vigilant. The safety of Hogwarts is in your hands."