Love at First Sight (Harry Potter)

The Writing on the Wall

|ALEXANDRIA WEASLEY'S P.O.V|

"What's going on here? What's going on?"

Attracted no doubt by Draco Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch — the owner of the cat hung on the wall — approached, shouldering his way through the packed crowd of students. When he saw Mrs. Norris, he fell back even more dramatically than I had — clutching his wrinkled, dirty face in horror.

"My cat!" He shrieked, his popping eyes looking around wildly for a culprit. "My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" He found Harry, and the screech that followed was almost ear-piercing, "You! You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll —"

"Argus!"

The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore, had arrived on the scene. He was followed by a number of other teachers, all of whom swept passed Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I without a glance. Dumbledore detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket, and then turned back to Mr. Filch.

"Come with me, Argus," said Dumbledore, voice still wise and kind — despite the situation. "You, too, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, Mr. and Miss Weasley."

Professor Lockhart, our second year's joke of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, stepped forward eagerly.

"My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free —"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore.

The silent, stunned crowd of students parted to let us all pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, was the first to hurry after Dumbledore; he was followed by Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As we entered Lockhart's darkened office, there was a flurry of movement across the walls; in several of the self-portraits, the Lockharts were dodging out of sight with their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit candles on his desk and then stood back, so that Professor Dumbledore could lay Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and begin to examine her. I exchanged tense glances with Hermione; the two of us sank into chairs directly outside the pool of candlelight, watching silently with heavy hearts.

The tip of Professor Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's disheveled fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his wrinkled fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her sharp eyes narrowed. Professor Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow as per usual and wearing a peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile, which was somehow more sinister than the entire situation. Lockhart was hovering over them all, making suggestions that no one seemed to be listening to.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her.  .  .  ."

Lockhart was interrupted by Filch's dry, racking sobs. The poor man was slumped in a chair by the desk with his face buried in his dirty hands, for he was unable to look at Mrs. Norris. I frowned in pity, forcing my eyes away from the caretaker and down toward my feet.

Mr. Filch only had one friend in the entire school; one friend that has been by his side, no matter the students that tormented him — and now that one friend was cold and lifeless on a desk that he would have to polish in a couple of hours.

Professor Dumbledore was now muttering words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand, but nothing happened. She stayed in the same, stiff position that made her look as though she had been stuffed.

". . . I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou," started Lockhart once again, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut to keep them from rolling, "a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once. . . ."