Harry stepped into Gilderoy Lockhart's office, assaulted by walls plastered with enchanted photos of the professor striking heroic poses—winking, flexing, even one in curlers before bed. Every version of Lockhart zeroed in on Harry with unblinking stares, sending a shiver down his spine. He'd take another ghostly Deathday Party over this any day.
Ron shot Lockhart a disdainful look, lip curling at the man's golden curls. Hermione, though, fixated on Albus Dumbledore, gasping as he set Mrs. Norris's stiff form on the desk.
Harry and Ron snapped to attention, exchanging tense glances with her. Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall leaned in, scrutinizing the cat's petrified body with grave focus. The sight twisted Harry's gut with nerves and dread—especially amid Lockhart's blathering.
"The curse on this poor creature? Almost certainly a Transfiguration hex," Lockhart boasted. "I could break it in a heartbeat, but the delay was fatal. Such a shame..."
Filch's head jerked up at the promise of a cure, hope flickering—only to crumple into fresh sobs at the catch. Harry's chest tightened with pity for the caretaker, but his own dread overshadowed it. If Filch's wild accusations stuck, this could be his last night at Hogwarts.
As Harry's mind wandered and Lockhart prattled on, a sharp knock echoed. Severus Snape and Filius Flitwick entered. Dumbledore straightened. "Any findings?"
"Nothing," Flitwick replied, shaking his head. "Magical scans came up empty—no traces."
Snape nodded curtly, his gaze sliding to Harry with a predatory glint. Harry shrank back, unease prickling his skin. Snape sidled behind him, peering at Mrs. Norris from afar, and Harry felt another chill.
Dumbledore approached Filch kindly. "Fortunately, Argus, Mrs. Norris is merely petrified—not gone."
"This spell's potency suggests advanced dark magic," Dumbledore continued thoughtfully. "Something elusive... far beyond a second-year's grasp. Harry and his friends couldn't have managed it."
"I knew it!" Lockhart piped up, smug as ever. "Petrification, just like I thought."
Ron gawked at the beaming professor. "How's he so full of himself?" he muttered.
Hermione, usually quick to retort, stayed silent—the night's gravity weighing heavy. Filch exhaled shakily but still eyed Harry with venom, blurting that he was a Squib.
Harry blinked. "A what?"
Snape, lurking at the rear, cracked a rare, genuine smile—cold and triumphant. "Mr. Filch raises a valid point. Potter just happened to stumble upon it... that's all." He drawled the words, savoring them.
"Coincidentally learned Filch's secret last week. Coincidentally first on the scene. Coincidentally skipped the Halloween feast..."
Hermione and Ron broke into a sweat, hurriedly explaining their detour to the Deathday Party.
"Professor McGonagall?" Snape pressed silkily. "Did you know? They haven't learned—same as last Halloween..."
McGonagall shook her head with a sigh, her mind flashing to Vizette Lovegood's recent report.
Harry caught on. "Vizette and the others can vouch for us—we were at the Deathday Party!"
"Vizette..." Snape's eyes narrowed, voice dropping. "Then perhaps the feast wrapped early? You could've snagged some sky-fallen sweets for a snack."
"We're not hungry!" Ron snapped, though his stomach's loud growl betrayed him.
Snape's chuckle was icy. "Evidently. Off to the common room, then. No need for that corridor from the dungeons to Gryffindor Tower."
"How does he know the castle better than us?" Ron grumbled.
Snape's face twitched. "Headmaster, Potter's clearly withholding. Even without the feast excuse, why that corridor?"
McGonagall cut in sharply, expression thunderous. "Dumbledore's ruled out dark magic from Harry and company. If you've evidence, Professor Snape, share it—not baseless guesses. Hogwarts has endless paths to Gryffindor."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at her, gratitude swelling. Dumbledore turned. "Anything else? Odd shadows when you arrived?"
They shook their heads in sync—Hermione and Ron averting eyes first, then joining Harry. "No, Headmaster."
Dumbledore's lips quirked. "Then rest up."
Relief washed over them like a dodged hex. But Filch wailed, "They're off scot-free? What about my Mrs. Norris?"
"We've Mandrakes growing," Dumbledore soothed. "Once mature, we'll brew the Mandrake Restorative Draught to reverse the petrification."
Lockhart's hand shot up like a jack-in-the-box. "Mandrake Restorative Draught? Right up my alley! No one knows restorative potions like Gilderoy Lockhart!"
Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, and McGonagall arched brows in mild shock. Snape's scowl deepened. "As Potions Master, perhaps you'd like to swap roles? Or loan your wand to the brew? It seems... unreliable. Always clattering about."
…
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