"Two years," Ron answered honestly, though he wasn't sure why the question was being asked.
Hermione nudged his arm sharply.
Ron glanced at her, confused, not picking up on her signal.
Hermione, exasperated, was about to mouth a hint when Dumbledore spoke kindly, "Miss Granger, is there something you'd like to add?"
Hermione sat up straight, lifting her chin slightly, and answered earnestly, "Professor Dumbledore, Ron mentioned that Scabbers used to belong to his brother Percy. He's been with the Weasleys for over ten years."
Dumbledore nodded in understanding, the corners of his white beard twitching slightly. But instead of pursuing the topic, he shifted gears. "I have good news for you all—they're not dead."
"Not dead?" Ron and Filch blurted out in unison, incredulous. The pets were stiff as taxidermy—how could they not be dead?
Dumbledore, reading their unspoken shock, clarified, "Their bodies are so rigid because they've been petrified."
"Aha! Yes, petrified! Exactly as I deduced!" Lockhart couldn't resist jumping in, eager to steal the spotlight. "I know a counter-curse that can unpetrify them in an instant!"
Dumbledore ignored him completely, continuing as if Lockhart were invisible. "We still need to investigate the cause, but a Mandrake Restorative Draught will bring them back to normal. We'll have to wait for Professor Sprout to cultivate the Mandrakes to maturity."
"Investigate? The truth is obvious!" Ron jabbed an accusing finger at Draco Malfoy. "Malfoy's got it in for us, and since he couldn't get to us directly, he decided to kill my pet to vent his anger!"
Filch stayed silent. He didn't have any personal grudge with Malfoy, so he assumed Mrs. Norris had just been caught in the crossfire of whatever happened to Scabbers. Still, he shot Malfoy a venomous glare.
If the writing Peeves left on the wall had been a bit more serious, Filch might've suspected Malfoy targeted him for being a Squib.
Malfoy, trembling and backed into a corner, stammered, "It wasn't me! I was just passing by—I didn't touch them!"
Ron, unusually sharp for once, shot back, "Liar! You don't just 'pass by' Lockhart's office by accident, no matter where you're going!"
Hermione elbowed him again, her eyes darting toward Lockhart.
Luckily, Lockhart was too busy preening to notice Ron's less-than-respectful mention of his name. He struck a dramatic pose, one fist on his hip, the other at his waist, head held high with exaggerated confidence. "Mandrake Restorative Draught—brilliant choice! Why, I've brewed it a hundred times. Leave it to me, I can—"
"Sorry," Snape interrupted coldly, "but I'm the Potions professor."
Lockhart gave an awkward chuckle, his mouth twitching as he fell silent.
Snape finally stepped forward from the back of the room. "With all due respect, Headmaster, Malfoy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. A second-year student couldn't possibly perform such advanced Dark Magic."
Ron, caught up in the heat of the moment, shouted recklessly, "But Malfoy's got you as his lackey! With someone like you, a master of Dark Magic, teaching him, petrifying or liquefying something would be a piece of cake! Er—mmph!"
Harry quickly clamped a hand over Ron's mouth, stopping him from digging himself into an even deeper hole.
Ron, realizing his mistake, went pale and stared at the floor, too scared to meet Snape's eyes. He was probably imagining a storm of wrath brewing in Snape's expression.
And Snape's face was dark enough to drip ink. He'd never heard himself described as "Malfoy's lackey" before.
His connection with Lucius Malfoy went back to their Hogwarts days. As a first-year, Snape had been looked after by Lucius, who was a prefect at the time. Later, their relationship turned to business—Lucius had been selling Snape's potions for years, even up until Snape became a Potions Master. Sure, he looked out for Draco, but Malfoy's lackey? That was a new one.
The room fell silent as everyone clammed up.
Dumbledore studied Malfoy for a moment before saying calmly, "Until proven guilty, Mr. Malfoy is innocent."
Malfoy shot Dumbledore a grateful look. For the first time, he thought the old man wasn't half bad—at least he didn't jump to conclusions.
He decided he'd write to his father later, suggesting they hold off on trying to get Dumbledore sacked. For now.
Filch, however, wasn't having it. "Why not?! My cat's been petrified! Someone has to pay for this!"
Dumbledore patiently reassured him, "Argus, we can cure your cat. It'll just take a few months. In the meantime, they'll stay in the hospital wing, sustained by magic and under Madam Pomfrey's expert care. There won't be any lasting harm."
After much back-and-forth, Filch was grudgingly placated.
Everyone thought the matter was settled.
But then Dumbledore turned to Peeves, who was busy scrawling rude words on the blackboard. The more experienced professors had already noticed something: though the handwriting was slightly different, the words Peeves was writing matched the message left on the wall at the scene.
Dumbledore fixed Peeves with a grave stare, his blue eyes seeming to glint behind his spectacles. "Peeves, tell me—who put you up to this?"
"Say 'please,'" Peeves taunted, swaying mockingly.
Dumbledore just stared at him, unflinching.
Peeves, realizing he wasn't getting a rise, stuck out his tongue. "Fine, fine." He did a flip in midair. "It was Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
---
Harry, Hermione, and Ron didn't know what happened next. After Peeves pointed the finger at Malfoy, Dumbledore was convinced the poltergeist was either lying or had been misled by the real culprit.
Dumbledore dismissed everyone but kept Peeves behind for further questioning.
As Harry, Hermione, and Ron discussed the day's events on their way back to Gryffindor Tower, curious students swarmed them, eager for details. There was no point hiding anything—besides, the whole situation was so bizarre that sharing it might spark some new insights.
The trio took turns filling in the gaps, recounting everything that had happened.
Seamus Finnigan immediately shouted, "It's got to be Malfoy! What's there to investigate? It's obvious! He's got a grudge against Ron, so he went after Ron's pet."
"But Filch and Malfoy don't have any beef," Dean Thomas pointed out.
"Not necessarily," one of the Weasley twins chimed in.
"After all, Filch is a Squib," the other twin added.
"And Malfoy's a high-and-mighty pure-blood 'breed,'" they said in unison, drawing out the words mockingly, which made the three Chaser girls from the Quidditch team giggle.
"Killing a Squib's pet sounds like something Malfoy would do…" Neville mumbled, clutching his toad, Trevor, tightly, as if afraid Malfoy might strike again any second.
Colin turned to Leon and whispered, "Do you think Malfoy did it himself, or did he get Peeves to do it?"
Leon shook his head absently, barely listening.
He was fuming. His carefully laid plans had been ruined by Peeves, of all things. Not only had it drawn Dumbledore's suspicion, but further investigation might uncover something he'd rather keep hidden.
The group's discussion had veered away from the Chamber of Secrets entirely.
Thankfully, a friend came to his rescue. Ginny spoke up, "The writing on the wall was Peeves's doing, right? It sounded like a prank, but what does 'Chamber' mean? And who's the 'Heir'?"
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