The tobacco in the pipe ignited on its own, without flame.
Under the astonished gazes of the headmaster and professors, Louis bit down on the pipe, his expression thoughtful and distant.
Harry and Ron were dumbfounded.
"Mr. Wilson, what exactly are you doing?" Professor McGonagall, ever the one to worry, was the first to break the silence.
"Oh, pardon me, Professor. This is just a little tool that helps with inspiration. I happen to have a few ideas I'd like to confirm with everyone."
Louis exhaled a puff of white smoke, his eyes gleaming with intellect.
"With all due respect, Headmaster Dumbledore," he began, "among everyone here, you're probably the most senior. Could you tell us—what exactly is this 'Chamber of Secrets'?"
"The Chamber…" Dumbledore's eyes glimmered with meaning. "It refers to Salazar Slytherin's Chamber. He believed that Muggle-born children were unworthy of studying magic. After quarreling with the other founders, he left the school. But before he did, he left behind a chamber—one that contained a monster."
"He said that his true heir would one day open the Chamber and release the creature to purge the school of all unworthy students."
"That sounds like a joke," Ron blurted out—then immediately regretted it as every professor in the room turned to stare at him. He quickly ducked his head, sneaking a glance at Louis, unable to understand how the boy could remain so calm, puffing his pipe under the scrutiny of all the teachers.
"Yes, a joke indeed," Louis picked up Ron's words smoothly. "If not for the existence of Muggle-borns, the wizarding world would've gone extinct long ago."
"But that's not what matters right now." His tone shifted before any of the pure-blood professors (namely Snape) could retort. "What matters is motive—reason."
"If the monster's supposed goal is to attack Muggle-born wizards, then why begin with a cat?" Louis pointed out.
"To set an example?" Professor McGonagall was already drawn into his reasoning.
"If it were meant as a warning, then surely the target would've been someone more significant than a cat. No offense, but besides Mr. Filch, who else truly cares for that creature? If the one petrified had been a Muggle-born wizard—say, me—the 'warning effect' would've been much greater, wouldn't it?"
"And another thing: why petrification? Petrification can be reversed. Why not kill outright?"
Louis continued, absently holding back an indignant Hastur in his arms.
"Then what are you suggesting, Mr. Wilson?" Dumbledore asked.
"My suggestion is simple." Louis put away his pipe. "The culprit was forced to attack Filch's cat. We all know Mrs. Norris is clever—she helps Filch catch students wandering at night. So the culprit must've been caught by her, panicked, and struck. But the attack failed—only petrifying her instead of killing."
"And at the scene, there was a mysterious puddle of water…"
"That was from the old girls' bathroom pipes," Filch interrupted hotly. "That ghost—Moaning Myrtle—she does that all the time."
"Not tonight," Louis corrected, wagging a finger. "Myrtle was invited to Sir Nicholas's five-hundredth Deathday Party tonight. She wouldn't have had time to flood the place."
At the mention of Myrtle, a thoughtful look appeared on Dumbledore's face.
"Ah, I see the Headmaster noticed it too," Louis said with a faint smile. "The reason that bathroom was abandoned is precisely because Myrtle died there. So… could her death be connected to Mrs. Norris's petrification?"
"The same place. Similar incident. In the supposedly safest school in the world… isn't that highly suspicious?"
"Excellent deduction, Mr. Wilson." Dumbledore applauded lightly. "A brilliant piece of reasoning. For that, I believe Slytherin deserves fifty points."
At that, Snape—hidden in the shadows—couldn't help but smile broadly.
Harry and Ron, on the other hand, looked at Louis with open admiration—and no small amount of envy. Compared to his composed, eloquent performance, their earlier panic seemed downright embarrassing.
"These are merely my personal observations. I hope they're of help," Louis said, bowing politely.
"Yes, yes, exactly what I was thinking!" Lockhart suddenly jumped in to steal the spotlight, utterly oblivious to how unnecessary he was.
"Alright, this matter is concluded for now. We have things to investigate," Dumbledore said seriously. "Argus, send your cat to Madam Pomfrey. Professor Sprout has been cultivating Mandrakes—once they mature, we can brew a restorative potion."
"Oh, I could brew ten vials with my eyes closed! Nobody knows potions better than I!" Lockhart chirped obnoxiously, earning a sharp glare from Snape.
"I believe I'm the Potions Master of this school," Snape said coldly, his glance clearly meaning you amateur.
Lockhart flushed—his pride wounded—and his look toward Snape turned venomous.
"Wait, Headmaster, their suspicions haven't been cleared yet!" Filch suddenly interjected. He clearly wasn't ready to let the trio go—or perhaps, he'd never intended to.
After all, everyone knew Filch was a Squib.
"No, Mr. Filch, quite the opposite." Louis smiled mildly. "It's because the three of us were together and witnessed the first crime scene that we can be ruled out entirely."
"There can only be one Heir. If three appeared at once, the so-called 'Heir of Slytherin' would be rather cheapened, wouldn't it?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded gravely. "This matter has nothing to do with Mr. Wilson and his friends. They simply appeared at the wrong place at the wrong time."
"But why were they even there? After the Deathday Party, they should've gone to the Hall or back to their dormitories—why the third floor?" Filch pressed on.
"That's because I heard my cat cry out," Louis replied smoothly, patting Hastur. "He must have sensed Mrs. Norris was in danger and ran to help her. You probably noticed the rope around Mrs. Norris—Hastur was the one who bit through it."
"Yes… that makes perfect sense," Dumbledore nodded, concluding the meeting.
---
"Louis, thank you."
After leaving the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, Harry and Ron turned to him gratefully.
"Thanks to your deduction, we weren't suspected."
"Suspected?" Louis chuckled. "As long as Headmaster Dumbledore doesn't doubt you, you'll be fine—with or without me. And Dumbledore," he added, eyes glinting, "would never suspect you, Harry."
"Never? Why?" Harry asked curiously.
Louis didn't answer. He simply stroked Hastur's head and said, "Sorry, I should get going. My cat's probably frightened."
"Frightened?"
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, then looked down at the yawning Hastur. Frightened was the last word they'd use to describe him.
But before they could say anything, Louis was already walking away, leaving no chance for further questions.
---
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