Jinx Not-So-Malfoy and the Heir of Slytherin

Chapter 8

VAS HAPPENIN?

I have nothing to say here. Let's see... what's happening with me right now... my bestie don't wanna go see THG with me over the Easter Break.

Ali, if you're reading this, I will PERSONALLY pay for you to see it with me if you come.

“What's going on here? What's going on?" Attracted no doubt by Draco'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.

"You!" he screeched. "You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll -- "

"Argus!" Dumbledore had swaggered onto the scene, followed by his posse, or if you prefer, the teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, Hermione and I, and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, Miss Malfoy."

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 Professors 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. Harry, Ron, Hermione, 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's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. 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 Transmogrifian 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 was 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 bit sorry for him. If I’d lost Pepsi… I mean, I’ve only know her for a short time, but I love my pussy cat more than anything. Except maybe llamas.

Dumbledore was now 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 Ouagadougou," said Lockhart, "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..."

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.

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. I had to resist yelling, “HA!”

"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. No you didn’t, thought I). "But how, I cannot say..."