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The group hurried to Lockhart's office. Sagres was the last to enter, closing the door behind him.
Mrs. Norris was gently placed by Dumbledore onto Lockhart's flamboyant golden desk—which was cluttered with several signed, hardcover editions of Magical Me, Lockhart's grinning face on the covers glaring under the candlelight.
Several professors gathered around, inspecting the cat like vultures around a carcass. Professor McGonagall stroked the stiff fur, Snape tapped the cat's head with his knuckles, and Dumbledore prodded its rigid tail.
Lockhart, meanwhile, paced behind them, chattering nonstop with his commentary:
"It appears to be the work of an extremely vicious spell. I happen to know one—the Transfiguration Torture Curse. I'm sure it was that. What a shame I wasn't there at the time… I might've had a chance to save her…"
At those words, Filch's sobbing grew louder. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Harry and his friends, his bony fingers gripping the edge of the desk so tightly they turned white.
Sagres suppressed the urge to hit Lockhart with a Tongue-Tying Curse, rolling his eyes in exasperation. At that moment, Dumbledore happened to catch his expression.
"What do you think, Sagres?"
"Petrification," Sagres replied flatly. It was an obvious conclusion—for anyone with real knowledge of the Dark Arts.
"It seems we share the same view," Dumbledore nodded.
"Ah? Oh, yes, I thought so too—petrification…" Lockhart added quickly. "See? Experienced people always agree, don't they?"
A heavy silence fell over the room. Professor McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, Snape's mouth twitched ever so slightly, and even Dumbledore quietly adjusted his glasses.
Sagres found himself genuinely curious—how could everyone present tolerate Lockhart's clownish behavior?
At the same time, he reflected inwardly. He still wasn't composed enough. He looked at the others, wondering how they could endure what he could not.
Filch's quiet whimpering broke the silence. The caretaker—who normally inspired dread among students—now stood hunched over, gently stroking his beloved cat with his rough, calloused hands.
In this castle brimming with magic, only this cat had never mocked his status as a Squib. She would silently curl at his feet while he polished armor and always stood loyally by his side.
"Mrs. Norris is not dead, Argus…" Dumbledore's hand came to rest gently on Filch's trembling shoulder. "She's only petrified. As soon as Professor Sprout's Mandrakes mature, we'll be able to brew the restorative potion. Mrs. Norris will return to you then."
"What about the culprit?" Filch suddenly looked up, tears streaming from his clouded eyes. "Will my Mrs. Norris suffer for nothing?"
His gnarled finger pointed at Harry and his two friends, raw hatred flickering in his eyes.
"It wasn't them, Argus," Dumbledore said firmly. "Second-year students aren't capable of such magic. They can't use advanced Dark Arts ."
"Then who was it? Who petrified my cat? Will no one be punished tonight?"
"We will find out the truth," Dumbledore said patiently. "And I promise you—once the Mandrakes are ready, we'll prepare the antidote immediately."
"Exactly, I'll prepare it," Lockhart interjected. "Honestly, I could brew this potion with my eyes closed. I've made it at least a hundred times—maybe even two hundred…"
"Excuse me…" Snape cut in at just the right moment. "But I believe I am the Potions Master at this school?"
Another wave of awkward silence swept through the room.
In truth, Sagres still had the healing potion Nightingale had given him after the incident with the Nangdu Leopard. It was a powerful concoction brewed primarily from Mandrake and Phoenix tears.
But he had no intention of using it—it would be far too wasteful, especially on a cat.
"Go on back, Argus," Dumbledore said gently. "Don't worry too much. Mrs. Norris will be fine."
Filch walked toward the door, hunched over, his withered fingers pausing on the doorknob.
When he turned back, a chilling glint flickered in his murky eyes. "If I find out who did it, I will—"
Sagres flicked his fingers, and the door slammed shut with a bang, cutting Filch off mid-sentence.
The atmosphere in the room immediately lightened. Dumbledore turned to the others. "Does anyone have any insights?"
Snape began slowly, like a bat drawn to the scent of blood. "It's… interesting…"
His drawn-out tone sent chills down Harry, Ron, and Hermione's spines.
"Our famous Mr. Potter has once again appeared at the scene of the crime. Naturally, I'm not accusing him—they clearly lack the ability to cast such spells—but there are, without question, several suspicious elements to this situation."
"We attended Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party! The ghosts can testify for us!" Harry and his two friends blurted out at once, scrambling to explain. But Snape clearly had no intention of letting them off the hook so easily.
Just then, Filch—who had only just left—returned, holding a single shoe.
"This was found at the scene. I think it's very likely the culprit left it behind!"
Ron recognized the shoe instantly. "That's Ginny's! It must've been torn off in the chaos. She's only been at school for just over a month—how could she be the culprit?"
Dumbledore took the shoe from Filch and nodded. "Thank you, Argus." Then he handed it gently to Ron. "I believe Miss Weasley will need this."
The door closed again, and all eyes returned to the trio.
"Now, back to the matter at hand," Snape said coldly, his gaze fixed on them. "I believe Harry Potter should be suspended from Quidditch until this issue is fully investigated."
"Ridiculous!" Professor McGonagall snapped. "The cat wasn't hit in the head by Harry's broomstick. What reason is there to bar him from playing?"
In the end, Professor McGonagall stood her ground, and the three were cleared of suspicion and permitted to leave the office.
"I still don't believe they've told the full truth, Headmaster," Snape said, unwilling to let it go.
"But there's no evidence to suggest they had anything to do with it," Professor McGonagall replied firmly, just as unwilling to back down in defense of her students.
"What do you think, Sagres?"
Sagres's long fingers lightly tapped Lockhart's flamboyant golden desk. Under everyone's gaze, he spoke slowly. "Rather than focusing on who the culprit is... I'm more concerned with how the perpetrator managed to do it."
He paced slowly toward the window. "Such a powerful petrification effect would require extremely advanced magic and refined technique. If it really were a student, they'd need at least NEWT-level Dark Arts proficiency—and they'd have to be trained at Durmstrang to pull it off."
"Oh Merlin! That means..."