No Turning Back Now.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?”

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs Norris?” He shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Harry and I.

“You!” he screeched, “You! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you both! I’ll –“
“Argus!”

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, Hermione and I and detached Mrs Norris from the torch basket.

“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You too, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Samuels, Miss Granger.”

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

“My office is nearest, Headmaster – just upstairs – please feel free –“

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let us pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professor McGonagall and Snape.

As we entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; I saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore lay Mrs Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Hermione, Ron, Harry and I exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs Norris’ fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and pocking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression; it was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.

“It was definitely a curse that killed her – probably the Trasmogrifian Torture. I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her...”

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. He ws slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs Norris, his face in his hands. Much as I detested Filch, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as I felt for myself. If Dumbledore believed Filch, Harry and I would be expelled for sure.

Dumbledore was no muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs Norris with his wand, but nothing happened; she continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

“... I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography. I was able to provide the townsfolk with carious amulets which cleared the matter up at once...”

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hairnet. At last, Dumbledore straightened up.

“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs Norris. “But why’s she all – all stiff and frozen?”

“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore, (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say...”

“Ask them!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tear-stained face to Harry and me.
“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced –“

“They did it, they did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what they wrote on the wall! She found – in my office – they know I’m a – I’m a –“ Filch’s face worked horribly. “They now I’m a Squib!” he finished.

“We never touched Mrs Norris!” Harry said loudly, and I was uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at us, including the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t even know what a Squib is.”

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “They saw my Kwikspell letter!”

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and my sense of foreboding increased; I was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do us any good. “Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it, “but we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren’t they at the Halloween feast?”

Harry, Ron, Hermione and I all launched into an explanation about the Deathday party, “... there were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there –“

“But why not join the feast afterwards?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go up to that corridor?”

Ron, Hermione and I looked at Harry.

“Because – because –“ Harry said, “because we were tired and wanted to go to bed.”
“Without supper?” said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.”

“We weren’t hungry,” I said, just as Ron’s stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape’s nasty smile widened.

“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest.”

“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, “I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter, or Samuels, has done anything wrong.”

Dumbledore was giving Harry and I a searching look. His twinkling light blue gaze made me feel as though I was being X-rayed.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes popping. “I want to see some punishment!”

“We will be able to sure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Madam Sprout recently managed to produce some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made which will revive Mrs Norris.”

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep –“

“Excuse me,” said Snape icily, “but I believe I am the Potions master at this school.”
There was a very awkward pause.

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Hermione, Ron and I.

We went, as quickly as we could without actually running. When we were a floor up from Lockhart’s office, we turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind us. I squinted at everyone’s darkened faces.

“D’you think I should have told them about that voice I heard,” Harry said.

“No,” I said, without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.”

“You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Course I do,” I said quickly. “But – you must admit it’s weird...”

“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber has been Opened... what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron slowly. “I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once... might’ve been Bill...”

“And what on earth’s a Squib?” said Harry.

To my surprise, Ron stifled a snigger.

“Well – it’s not funny really – but as it’s Filch...” he said. “A Squib is someone who was born into a wizarding family but hasn’t got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but Squibs are quite unusual. If Flich’s trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates students so much.” Ron gave a satisfied smile. “He’s bitter.”

A clock chimed somewhere.

“Midnight,” I said. “We’d better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else.”