The Legend of the Chamber

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The group of people hurried toward Lockhart's office, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. Sargeras was the last to step inside, and he closed the door behind him as he entered.

Mrs. Norris was lying stiffly atop Lockhart's overly flamboyant golden desk — gently placed there by Dumbledore himself. Several signed, hardcover copies of Magical Me were still scattered across the desktop, and the smiling portrait of Lockhart on the cover shone brightly beneath the candlelight, so bright it almost stung the eyes.

Several professors gathered around the desk, looming like a circle of vultures scrutinizing their 'prey.' Professor McGonagall reached out and ran her hand over the cat's rigid fur. Snape rapped his knuckles against her little head. Dumbledore, in turn, gave her raised tail a small, thoughtful prod.

And Lockhart? He was behind them all, pacing back and forth, muttering incessantly as he made sure his opinions were heard.

"This looks like the work of an extraordinarily vicious curse," he declared in an overly dramatic tone. "And as it happens, I know one that fits the bill — Transmogrifian Torture Curse. I'm absolutely certain that's what it was. What a shame I wasn't there when it happened. I might have had a chance to save her…"

At those words, Filch let out a sudden, choked sob. The sound cut through the room, sharp and ragged. His bloodshot eyes locked furiously onto the trio of students, and his bony, skeletal fingers dug into the edge of the desk, leaving behind several pale, trembling scratch marks.

Sargeras bit down hard on the impulse to hex Lockhart silent on the spot. He could barely stop himself from casting a Tongue-Tying Curse straight into the man's open mouth. Instead, he just rolled his eyes in exasperation — though unfortunately, that very expression didn't go unnoticed by Dumbledore.

"And what do you think, Sargeras?"

"Petrification," Sargeras replied expressionlessly. The cause was obvious; anyone with even a modest amount of experience dealing with the Dark Arts would have spotted it in an instant.

"Looks like we're in agreement," Dumbledore said with a nod.

"Oh? Oh! Yes, yes, of course, I thought so too—petrification," Lockhart quickly chimed in, nodding vigorously as though the idea had just occurred to him. "Heh, funny how those of us with experience always tend to reach the same conclusion, don't you think?"

The room fell abruptly into a heavy silence.

Professor McGonagall raised a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, her brows drawn together in a long-suffering expression. Snape's lip twitched, just barely. Even Dumbledore discreetly adjusted the position of his spectacles, as if trying to shield himself from the secondhand embarrassment radiating through the room.

Sargeras couldn't help but feel genuinely curious. What puzzled him wasn't Lockhart's behavior—he had long since accepted that the man was a walking spectacle. What truly confounded him was how everyone else in the room managed to tolerate this clown's ridiculous buffoonery without losing their composure.

At the same time, he couldn't help but reflect inwardly. Perhaps he really wasn't as composed as he liked to think. Just look at the others…. why could they all sit through Lockhart's nonsense without batting an eye, while he felt ready to scream?

The odd silence was broken by the faint sound of sobbing.

Filch, the caretaker who normally sent students running with a single glare, now hunched over like a weathered willow, his back bowed and trembling. With his gnarled, calloused hands, he gently stroked his beloved cat.

In this vast castle overflowing with magic and wonder, she had been the only one who never laughed at his Squib status, never turned up her nose at his lack of magic. While he cleaned armor in silence, she would curl quietly at his feet, offering company without judgement. And no matter the hour or the place, she would always stand by his side.

"She's not dead, Argus…" Dumbledore's voice was soft, almost like a warm wind brushing against a wound. His hand came to rest lightly on Filch's quivering shoulder. "She's only been petrified. As soon as Professor Sprout's Mandrakes reach maturity, we'll be able to brew the antidote. When that time comes, Madame Nora will return to your side, safe and sound."

"But what about the one who did it?" Filch suddenly jerked his head up. Tears, thick and cloudy with age, traced slow paths down the deep creases of his weathered face. "Is my dear Nora supposed to suffer for nothing?"

His bony finger pointed straight at Harry and his two friends standing nearby, and this time he made no attempt to hide the hatred burning in his eyes.

"It wasn't them, Argus…" Dumbledore said firmly, his voice cutting through the air with quiet authority. "Second-year students aren't capable of something like this. They couldn't possibly wield a curse of such dark power."

"Then who was it?" Filch demanded, his voice raw and trembling. "Who did this to my sweetheart? Are you telling me no one will be punished tonight?"

"We will find out the truth," Dumbledore said gently but with unmistakable resolve. "And I give you my word — as soon as the Mandrakes mature, we'll begin brewing the cure without delay."

"That's right! I'll handle the brewing myself," Lockhart jumped in without hesitation, puffing up with pride. "Truth be told, I could probably make this potion with my eyes closed. I've brewed it at least a hundred times — maybe even two hundred, who knows…"

"Forgive me…" came a silky voice at just the right moment.

Snape spoke at last, his tone mild but laced with steel. "But perhaps I am the Potions Master at this school?"

Once again, the room plunged into a silence so awkward it was almost suffocating.

In truth, Sargeras had a powerful healing potion right in his pocket — one that Nightingale had given him after the last time they'd dealt with that Nundu leopard. It was a high-grade concoction, brewed from none other than Mandrake root and phoenix tears… a rare and potent combination.

But he had no intention of bringing it out. It would be a complete waste—especially when the patient in question was just a cat.

"Go on back for now, Argus," Dumbledore said gently, turning toward the still-bowed caretaker. "Try not to worry too much. Madam Norris will be just fine."

Filch's hunched figure slowly shuffled toward the door, his thin, brittle fingers pausing for a moment on the cold metal of the doorknob.

When he turned back around, his murky, tear-swollen eyes gleamed with a look so chilling it sent a quiet shiver through the room. "If I ever find out who did this…"

Sargeras gave a subtle flick of his fingers.

With a loud bang, the door slammed shut, and whatever words Filch had been about to say were cut off mid-sentence — swallowed by the sudden impact and the echoing silence that followed.

The tension in the air seemed to lift all at once, like a held breath finally released.

Dumbledore turned to the others with his usual calm, composed voice. "Does anyone have any thoughts?"

Snape was the first to speak, his slow drawl unfurling like a bat catching the scent of blood. "What's most interesting," he began, his voice smooth and measured, "is that once again… our famous Mr. Potter just so happened to be the first to appear at the scene of the crime."

His drawn-out tone sent a ripple down the spines of the trio. All three of them instantly tensed, the hair on their arms rising.

"Of course," Snape continued, "I'm not saying they're the culprits. Clearly, they lack the skill for such advanced dark magic. Still… there are far too many unanswered questions."

"We were at Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party!" Harry blurted out, and the other two quickly joined in, speaking over each other in their eagerness to explain. "Ask the ghosts, they saw us there!"

But Snape didn't look the least bit interested in letting them off the hook.

Just then, the door opened again.

Filch had returned, this time holding something in his hand… a single shoe.

"I found this at the scene," he announced, holding it up for all to see. "I believe it may have been left behind by the culprit."

Ron took one look at the shoe and immediately recognized it. His eyes widened in alarm. "That's Ginny's shoe! She must've dropped it in the chaos just now. She's only been at school a little over a month. There's no way she's the attacker!"

Dumbledore, hearing this, gently took the shoe from Filch's hands. "Thank you, Argus," he said calmly. Then, turning toward Ron, he passed it to him with quiet gravity. "I imagine Miss Weasley will want this back."

The door closed once again with a soft thud, and just like that, the focus of suspicion shifted right back to the trio.

"Now then, let's return to the matter at hand," Snape said, his cold gaze fixed on them. His voice carried no warmth. "I firmly believe that until we get to the bottom of this incident, Harry Potter should be forbidden from playing Quidditch matches."

"Absurd!" Professor McGonagall snapped, her voice rising with indignation. "That cat wasn't knocked out by a stray Bludger from his broomstick… so what possible reason could you have to bar him from the matches?"

In the end, it was Professor McGonagall's unyielding defense, driven by logic and a fierce sense of fairness, that finally turned the tide. Only then were the three allowed to leave the office, spared from further immediate consequences.

"I still don't believe they're telling the truth, Headmaster," Snape muttered, clearly unwilling to let the matter rest.

"But there isn't a single shred of evidence tying them to the attack!" Professor McGonagall shot back, equally unwilling to abandon her defense of her House's students.

"What do you think, Sargeras?"

Sargeras tapped his long, slender fingers lightly against Lockhart's ostentatious golden desk. Beneath everyone's watchful gaze, he finally began to speak, his tone composed yet carrying a weight that drew the room into silence.

"Rather than fixating on who did it… what concerns me more is how they did it."

He began to pace slowly toward the window, his voice thoughtful. "To turn someone to stone with such powerful effect… it would require not only strong magical energy, but also an incredibly precise execution. If a student really was behind this… then we're talking about a level of dark magic that matches NEWT-standard mastery at the very least. And not just any student — this would have to be someone trained at Durmstrang."

"So I believe…"

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