“You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found-in my office-he knows I’m a-I’m a-” Filch’s face worked horribly. “He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling.
“it would take Dark Magic of the most advanced-” “No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry. “She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But why’s she all-all stiff and frozen?” “Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net. The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked.
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“…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…” Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed. Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he felt for himself: If Dumbledore believed Filch, he would be expelled for sure.ĭumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs.
“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…” And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. He was looking at her closely through his half moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers.
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