It seemed to Gabriel that Hogwarts was heading straight into a season of disasters.
Only a few days after Harry Potter had managed to earn himself a stay in the Hospital Wing with half a dozen broken bones, a new calamity struck: a first-year Gryffindor had been found petrified - just like Mrs. Norris.
Once again, it was Professor Dumbledore who discovered the victim. But unlike a cat, a petrified boy couldn't exactly be hidden or quietly brushed aside. And if the Headmaster had been right about the culprit's intentions - to spread fear through the castle - then they had certainly succeeded.
Colin Creevey, the boy in question, had been a small and overly enthusiastic Muggleborn with a mop of sandy hair and an old-fashioned camera he carried everywhere, determined to immortalize every moving stair and waving portrait. Now, that same camera lay cracked on the table beside his hospital bed, and Colin himself was frozen in a grotesque tableau - legs stiff, arms locked mid-gesture as if trying to snap one last picture, and his face twisted into a mask of pure dread.
The atmosphere in the school shifted immediately. Whispers filled the corridors, fear rode every conversation, and even the older students found excuses not to walk alone.
Dumbledore had made an announcement that same evening. He told the gathered students that someone inside the castle was either harboring a Dark creature or using a cursed artifact to terrorize others. He assured them that the faculty would take every measure to find the culprit - but he hadn't said what the punishment would be. That omission did more to inflame the students' imaginations than any threat could have.
Filch, standing by the wall during the announcement, had looked particularly savage - his eyes darting across the students with unrestrained suspicion, as if every single one of them might be the monster who had cursed his beloved partner.
Gabriel, however, knew more than most. He'd seen the first victim himself, and the message scrawled in blood on the wall. He knew that whoever was behind this nonsense styled themselves as the 'Heir of Slytherin', and that they hadn't given up after their first failure. The question that haunted him now was simple - and deeply frustrating.
Who would they target next?
It was precisely that worry which led him to insist that none of his friends sign up to stay behind for the Christmas holidays. It took some convincing - Hermione in particular, who had planned to make full use of the library and had already asked permission from her parents, had initially been reluctant - but he had a bad feeling, and everyone who knew Gabriel well enough had learned to take his instincts seriously.
And indeed, when the heaviest blizzard Gabriel had ever seen descended over the Scottish Highlands, two new victims were found: Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff second-year, and Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost himself.
That was what Gabriel was explaining to his mother the morning after the holidays began, speaking between mouthfuls of breakfast following an especially intense physical and mental training session.
-~=~-
"You're panicking," Eloá said calmly, raising a cup of steaming herbal tea to her lips. The scent of chamomile and mint filled the small kitchen, grounding the tension that had settled there like mist.
"I have good reason to panic," Gabriel retorted mildly before immediately wincing under her amused yet warning gaze. "Sorry," he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just… I'm worried."
"Some would say that the very act of worrying is useless," she replied, setting her cup down and rising to collect the dishes. "But I rather think that it's the taste of bitter emotions that brings about the salt of life."
He frowned. "Don't you mean sweetness?"
"Of course not." She dismissed the notion without hesitation. "Dreams are sweet - soft, comforting, but nauseating and lethal in excess. Life is salt - it enhances all other flavors, it nourishes body and mind, it is necessary. You can live without the bitter things, the sweet things, the sour things… but you will die without salt."
Gabriel blinked, struggling to follow the metaphor. "I mean, too much is also lethal, you know?"
She froze mid-motion, dishcloth in hand.
'Ah', he thought, a grin tugging at his lips. 'You didn't think that through, did you?'
"Yes, well," she said briskly, turning back to the sink, "all life leads to death anyway. One could even argue that cancer is an excess of life."
Gabriel snorted. "You definitely didn't think about that one."
Her glare shifted immediately into amusement, and she shook her head. "Don't presume to always know the reason someone does something, meu anjo," she murmured.
"Is that supposed to mean something," he teased, "or are you just trying to sound wise again?"
"Perhaps I am."
"You're being weird," he said, earning a quiet laugh from her.
"I believe you'll understand it someday," she said wistfully. With a flick of her hands, the water vanished from the cleaned dishes. Then she returned to the table, sitting beside him with an expression that had shifted from playful to pensive.
"I've been teaching you Occlumency for months," she began, taking his hand gently, her fingers tracing the faint blackened scars that ran across his skin. "But I realize now I may have made you think its lessons apply only inwardly - to your own mind. In truth, its discipline should extend to every part of life."
Her thumb brushed over the lines of his palm, grounding him as her gaze met his. "Tell me, Gabriel," she said softly, "what is the first lesson of Occlumency?"
He straightened slightly, answering by reflex. "Question everything."
"Then question everything," Eloá said firmly. One of her nails pressed lightly into the back of his hand, the skin beneath her touch paling to a faint grey. "A cat, two boys, and a ghost have been petrified. First question: what is petrification?"
Gabriel took a moment to tear his focus away from the creeping gray spreading across his hand, realizing what his mother was doing and scrambling to focus on the question instead.
"Petrification," he began quickly, "from the Medieval Latin petrificāre - formed by petra, meaning 'rock,' and facere, meaning 'to make' or 'to do.' Literally, it means 'to make into stone.' Magically speaking, the academic definition is any transfiguration, charm, curse or simillar that imposes the still and solid qualities of stone upon a living body."
By then, half the back of his hand had turned completely gray, and he could no longer feel it. Eloá took his other hand in hers, repeating the spell with unhurried precision.
"How is it achieved?" she asked, her tone calm and deliberate.
"The more esoteric methods," he said, "rely on imposing concepts - 'stillness,' 'imprisonment,' 'lifelessness,' or 'binding' - onto a target. More natural forms do it through the paralysis of muscles, interference with motion and inertia, or even manipulation of time within the body. Though that last one's rare - I've never actually seen a documented case even in your books, only passing mentions that it is possible."
"That's for good reason," Eloá said, her voice quiet but sharp. "There are magics you should never approach without decades of study and absurd levels of preparation. Time magic lies beyond even that."
By now, both his hands were entirely stone.
"You know what petrification is, and how it functions," she continued. "Now let's consider the cause. What can create it?"
"Charms, transfigurations, curses, potions and poisons, magical beasts, certain magical plants, and the waters of a Chinese river whose name I forgot."
"And what does that mean for you?" she prompted, one brow arched, ignoring the stone now crawling up his forearms.
"Ah - right. Dumbledore! If it had been a spell, he could've dispelled it. If it was a potion or poison, Snape would have identified it. It couldn't be a magical plant - every victim was reacting to something moving when they were struck. And the Chinese river's water loses its power when removed from its source."
"So it must be a creature," Eloá concluded, "which fits the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. Salazar Slytherin lived in the Isles between the tenth and eleventh centuries. Which magical beasts available to him possessed petrifying abilities?"
"Gorgons can petrify by sight, imposing the idea of being 'paralyzed by fear.' Cockatrices use venom to turn flesh to stone. And Basilisks - created by Herpo the Foul by blending traits of both - can kill with their gaze or venom. But if seen indirectly, through a reflection, the sight only petrifies because their power is a stronger version of the Gorgon's."
The petrification had reached his chest, constricting his lungs. Each breath came shallow and tight.
"Good," Eloá said. "All three are serpentine - and thus controllable by an Ofidioglota, a Parselmouth, as Salazar was. But which one is it?"
"The Basilisk! It has to be!"
"Yes - but why?"
"No bite marks, so not a Cockatrice," he said, forcing the words out as his chest stiffened. "And Colin saw it through his camera lens. That means a Gorgon's gaze wouldn't have worked at all, while a Basilisk's would only petrify!"
"Good," she said simply.
The gray overtaking him shattered like brittle clay, flaking away from his skin and vanishing before it could touch the floor. Eloá brushed his hands clean with casual ease, as though she had merely dusted him off.
Gabriel blew a raspberry. He knew she would never actually turn him to stone - his Mum was dramatic, but not cruel - yet the performance had done the trick; he always felt sharper and more focused when she placed him under some manner of pressure, be it real or imagined.
"So it is a Basilisk? That means whoever did this is Slytherin's heir, right? And the Chamber of Secrets must be real." He said it half as a statement, half as a question.
"Not necessarily," Eloá answered, amusement lacing her voice. Gabriel slapped his forehead and groaned at her relish for nuance. She chuckled and continued, "It could be that Salazar never built anything at all, only that a later descendant - or some fanatic of his legend - fashioned such a place because of his tale. It could also be that there is no Chamber: someone could have brought the creature into the school this past year, instead of it already being in there. If either of those is true, your neat shortlist of gorgon, cockatrice, and basilisk might be wrong; any creature with similar properties, from anywhere in the world, could be responsible."
"But you're the one who told me to think about which beasts Salazar might've had access to!" Gabriel protested.
"'Question everything,' meu anjo. Including the questions themselves." She pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, smoothing the furrows from his brow. "Still - the Basilisk is the likeliest culprit. I'll have a word with your Headmaster; by the time term resumes, I'll make sure the grounds are positively overrun with roosters." She paused, thinking. "I vaguely recall a scandal decades ago that sounds similar. I'll look into it."
"Thanks," Gabriel said, relief softening his smile.
"There's nothing to thank me for. I'm your mother. Keeping you safe is one of my most basic duties." Her voice turned serious, then warm as she hugged him tight. "I'm glad you came to me. I don't know how I'd cope if you were the sort to try and shoulder everything alone."
"That sounds very tiring," he murmured, eyes closed against her neck.
"You have no idea," she agreed with a groan.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the small kitchen soaked in the quiet warmth of a mother and son finally at ease.
"Mum?"
"Yes, dear?"
"How do Basilisks taste?" he asked, very much in earnest.
Eloá laughed into his shoulder. "Like all wyrms, wyverns, drakes, dragons and other filthy serpentine creatures: the flesh is rubbery, the smell is as rank as rotting meat, the juices burn like acid, and they carry every manner of disease. If you ever try to eat one, I'll thrash you so thoroughly you'll only be able to sit again in the next century."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh."
They both laughed, the sound easing something that had been taut in Gabriel since the first petrification - and for a few minutes longer the world outside could remain exactly as uncertain as it was, while inside, at least, nothing worse than bad metaphors or worse-tasting dragons awaited them.