Chapter VIII: Petrifelis Catus

Ginny flopped onto her bed, defeated. It had been hours since the quidditch tryout - since Harry beat her - and she was not getting over it. It might have been easier if she had an outlet, but try as she might she simply couldn't hate Harry for winning; of course he was amazing at flying, he was Harry Potter. And now they were going to spend time together training, and next year she would make the team so she could play alongside him. The silver lining in this case was almost as good as the cloud was bad.

No, the problem was she had no one to talk to about it. The girls in her dorm had little interest in quidditch; they swooned over the professional players well enough, but none of them actually wanted to play. The Gryffindor boys would already be rallying around Harry, so her grumblings about his victory had no audience there. Why couldn't they be more like Tom?

Ginny smacked her forehead and pulled the 'diary' from under her mattress. Tom wasn't really a 'person' to talk to, but he would listen. He always listened.

'Tom.' she wrote, stabbing at the page.

'Whatever is the matter?' the swirling script inquired.

Ginny paused as she went to write. It was hard putting what she felt into words.

'You can tell me, Ginny.' Tom urged when she didn't answer promptly.

'I don't know what to say.'

'Say whatever you feel. I want to listen.'

'No one else does.' she bitterly scratched.

'They do not appreciate you. They do not deserve to be trusted with your secrets. They would not keep them.'

'But you will?'

'I am a book, Ginny. I could not go behind your back if I wished to.'

Tom made a very good point - something he was rather good at actually.

'You really want to know?' she scrawled.

'I want to help.'

Ginny faltered again. How could a book help her with this?

'I cannot help if you do not tell me what is wrong.'

It was like Tom could read her mind. She didn't have that sort of connection with anyone; it felt special. It made her feel special.

'Ok. I guess I can trust you.'

'You can, Ginny. You can tell me all your secrets and they will be safe. You can bare your soul to me; I will cherish it as no other would.'

Monday morning of the second week, Hermione was walking back from the library with her bag laden with books. After a week of trying, she had finally prevailed upon Madam Pince to let her take additional books out for copying into braille. She clutched the bag under an arm, terrified that the strap might suddenly snap and a book become damaged as a result; if that happened after Pince had trusted her, the stern librarian would have her head as recompense.

Hermione was excited. She had found a book on healing magic that had escaped her searches last year, and checked out two more whose knowledge she was certain would not go over her head this time around. She couldn't wait to get through charms, back to the Gryffindor common room and started on them. What secrets they may hold! What revelations! Even if they proved fruitless, she would enjoy the particular scent of parchment that only the old tomes offered. It would be far more pleasant than the dank musk of Hogwarts' corridors, or the strange metallic tang growing in the air.

Metal? Most peculiar.

Hermione stopped and concentrated on the distant aroma. It wasn't only tangy, but sweet as well. Two contradictory scents that even her supersensory-charmed nose could not distinguish separate sources for. Then a waft of air brought more to her and she recognised it. Tasted it.

Blood.

She drew her wand and followed her nose, even daring to break into a jog; she knew this stretch of corridors well enough not to fear tripping hazards, but she had never run down it. Nineteen more steps to the corner if she was walking, but how many was that at a run? She held her arm out in front of her and bounced off the wall rather than slowing; if someone was in trouble she would do everything she could to get to them in time. To do any less was unconscionable. She knew all too well the consequences of help arriving seconds too late.

Her feet splashed suddenly in shallow water, which was obviously not supposed to be there. Why was there a puddle indoors; where could that much water have come from? She brought up her mental map of the castle and found the answer: Myrtle's bathroom was here somewhere.

In the bathroom. If this is a repeat of last year…

"Hello?" she called out. An echo was the sole answer.

Please not a repeat of last year.

With nothing else to do, she tracked the blood scent. It led her to a wall where she didn't think there was a door. She swept her hand along that wall, low enough to find a prone figure, and felt nothing but stone. She noted that the smell wasn't coming from a single point as expected but rather a stretch of wall, and high up at that. She ran her hand along again at head height; it came away wet and sticky.

"Hermione?"

The voice made her jump. In her state she hadn't recognised its owner.

"Who's there?"

"It's Harry." - There was a long pause, and when he spoke again it was with concern - "Hermione, what's going on? What is this?"

"Wait up Harry, we're- woah!" That sounded like Neville.

"Damn," another boy whistled.

"The chamber of secrets has been opened; enemies of the heir beware?" Harry said - or more like recited - questioningly.

"Look! Look at her hand!" a girl (Selina Bott?) screamed.

Hermione reflexively hid her bloody hand behind her back, which was probably the wrong thing to do.

"Forget her hand, look there!"

"Is that Mrs Norris!"

Filch's cat? Why would- the blood! Oh no.

"Merlin's balls Hermione, what have you done?"

Hermione was acutely aware of how bad this was looking for her. She was going to have to do some serious talking to convince anyone she was innocent in whatever this was; a task made harder by the need to suppress an urge to vomit. Which, just her luck, disappeared the moment she realised doing so might help her cause. At least she only had to explain herself to a few Gryffindor first years.

"What's all this then?"

And the Weasley twins.

"How peculiar."

And Luna Lovegood, plus however many 'Claws she may be with.

"And what is the meaning of this disturbance?"

McGonagall's stern voice was like a death knell. Hermione sank to her knees as her legs gave out, making a pathetic little splash. She raised her wand to cancel her Augmenosensus; the last sound it amplified for her was the terrified gasp of a whole crowd of her fellow students. The ringing developing in her ears blocked out everything after that.

Hermione knelt in the cold puddle and, for the first time in her life, her mind was blank.

"Miss Granger!" McGonagall barked, "please accompany me to the headmaster's office." - Hermione nodded and reluctantly stood - "Who was the first to find this?"

"That'd be me, professor," Harry mumbled.

"Of course it is," McGonagall sighed wearily. "Very well. Mr Potter, would you kindly collect Mrs Norris' body and come with us."

Hermione sobbed at the mention of the poor cat. Most everyone hated her, but how could you truly hate a cat? How could someone be so cruel as to kill one?

They all think I was.

Hermione walked in a daze to Dumbledore's office. The logical part of her mind was flitting wildly between screaming at her to start thinking of a way to explain the whole mess and reassuring her that the great Albus Dumbledore would easily discover the truth of the matter. It was being drowned out by the fear of expulsion; of life without magic or hope of a cure for her sight. It was crushed under the dread of breaking the news to her parents, and the terrible thought that even they wouldn't believe her. It didn't have anything positive to say about how the last time she spoke Harry, who was now a key witness, she had been needlessly callous.

The spiral staircase up to the office felt much longer than the last time she had climbed it, yet all too soon she was the top. McGonagall knocked once on the door and they were called in.

"Ah, professor McGonagall; Miss Granger; Harry. What brings the three of you to my office today?" Headmaster Dumbledore said. His remorseful tone implied he already knew.

"A most disconcerting event, Albus," McGonagall stressed, "Miss Granger has been discovered with Mrs Norris' body and a message painted upon the wall in blood."

She grasped Hermione's wrist and pulled it forward, displaying the blooded fingers.

"Might I presume from your precise phrasing that she has not seen fit to confess to any wrongdoing?"

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath as she caught the headmaster's meaning. McGonagall never said she'd done anything, only that she was found at the scene; the professor didn't think she was guilty, or was taking an objective approach if she did. Thank you professor!

"Miss Granger has yet to make any statement as to her involvement."

"I didn't do it!" Hermione blurted out. Not our most eloquent moment, she chided herself, but the right place to start nonetheless.

"Your protest is noted, Miss Granger," Dumbledore assured, "and what of Harry's part in this?"

"I found her there, sir," Harry explained hesitantly.

"Ah," Dumbledore breathed (Was that a hint disappointment in his voice?), "so you were not in Miss Granger's company before the incident."

"No, sir."

"Very well. I think, perhaps, before looking for a guilty party in this matter, we would do well to ascertain exactly what they are guilty of. Harry, if you would hand Mrs Norris to me."

Whilst Dumbledore was presumably inspecting the body, Hermione finally calmed enough to think clearly. She went back over what had been said, and her mind caught on one thing in particular; Dumbledore described the 'guilty party' as 'they'. Not 'she'. Did that mean he already thought her innocent? That would be brilliant, and yet… yet if she wasn't properly investigated, she wouldn't be properly cleared until the real culprit was found. Dumbledore may not suspect her, but others would.

"Headmaster, is there any way I can prove my innocence right now?"

"There are ways, my dear, but I fear they are most unsuitable for you to undertake. Do not worry, child; you will not be punished without further evidence against you. It is no crime to simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

You mean you won't punish me for this.

"There is a more urgent matter here, Albus," McGonagall cut in severely. "The message on the wall read 'The chamber of secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir beware'. You know what this means."

"Naturally, Minerva, but it would not do well to speculate on the message's meaning in front of students."

"Given Miss Granger's unfortunate involvement, I must disagree," she hissed.

"And Harry?"

"You know my answer to that already."

There was a long pause.

"You intend to tell them regardless of my wishes," Dumbledore groaned. "I must confess, I cannot say that you are in the wrong to do so. I will impress upon you - upon all of you - the importance of discretion in this matter. It would not do to inspire panic within the school."

"I am not a fool Albus," McGonagall scoffed.

Hermione was not liking the way this was going. The situation had moved from a flimsy accusation of killing a cat to the two most respected professors in Britain arguing, quite viciously, over some secret disturbing enough incite schoolwide panic. Even from a selfish perspective that was an unwelcome level of escalation.

"That you are not, Minerva. You will permit me to be the one to explain this mess to Harry and Hermione?"

Now he's using all our first names. He doesn't do that! What does that mean?

"In that case, children, I bear news both good and bad," Dumbledore continued. "The good is that Mrs Norris has not passed beyond; she is merely petrified, and the condition is reversible in time."

Hermione sighed with a relief like she had never experienced before. The poor thing wasn't dead, and she wasn't going to be known as a cat-killer. She felt rather guilty the two were equally important to her.

"The bad news, I am afraid, far outweighs the good; something which is all too often the case. The chamber of secrets has been opened once before, resulting in many petrifications of students and a most tragic death of one."

Hermione was liking the escalation even less. This was shaping up to be more dangerous than last year!

"Once again, I implore you to keep this to yourselves, and rest assured that all appropriate measures will be taken to ensure the safety of students. It would not do you overly well to dwell on this; it is entirely possible that the chamber remains closed, and the perpetrator is lying to further their own ends."

Dumbledore reassurances, weren't. It didn't matter, Hermione reasoned, whether this chamber had truly reopened or not - the fact remained that there had been a petrification, and presumably a killing of some kind (the blood had come from somewhere). Who- or what- ever was responsible, the threat was the same.

"Now, before you go, I have something for you, Harry." - Hermione heard him shuffling around in a desk drawer - "This belonged to your father, before he entrusted it to my safe keeping. I had thought to pass it on to you at Christmas, to instil a little extra festive cheer, but I suspect it will serve you better before then. Perhaps a birthday surprise?"

"Thank you sir," Harry whispered reverently.

How nice. I get framed for a crime, and Harry gets a present.

"Well, that concludes our business here I think. Professor, might I put upon you to escort your cubs back to their den?"

"You need not even ask, headmaster. Come along, Ms Granger, Mr Potter."

"Wait." Hermione surprised herself with the force she put behind that one word. "Headmaster, you said there are ways to prove my innocence."

"I did, my dear. I also recall mentioning they were not suitable for you."

"And how is that not my decision to make?" she challenged.

Dumbledore chuckled heartily. "Ah. Such fire, at such an age. I see once again why the hat saw fit to name you a lion. As to your question; there are two ways in which we might determine the truth of your actions today. The first is the use of a pensieve; a powerful magical artefact which allows for the viewing of an another person's memories. This would not be suitable as it displays the memory from an outside perspective, depending mostly upon visual recollection."

Typical.

"And the second? Will that not work on a cripple either?" she asked angrily when he took too long to continue.

"The second is veritaserum; a potion which compels those who imbibe it to speak only the truth, or rather the truth as they believe it to be."

"That sounds perfect. Sign me up," she offered, eager to put it to bed. If the headmaster told the school she'd been questioned under a truth serum they'd have to believe it.

"Veritaserum is not something to be resorted to except in the most dire of circumstances. It compels the user not to be unable to lie, but rather to offer up truth. The difference is subtle, but vitally important."

Hermione understood his meaning immediately. Under the influence of that serum she would have no choice but to bare her soul. She fought down her instinctive repulsion at the very existence of a potion that could violate one's free will so utterly, and considered the option logically. If she took it she could request private audience; only the headmaster would hear her truths.

"You are not dissuaded?" Dumbledore asked, surprised.

"I'm trying to decide," she said, not voicing the end of the sentence: 'whether I trust you.'

"It would be a beautiful thing, were a person to be so virtuous as to truly have no secret they could not bear to lose," he mused wistfully, "alas, in all my years I have yet to meet such a soul. I could not think any less of you should you not be the first."

Honestly, she had not even gotten round to considering how he would view her decision. Now that he forced the thought into her head, it was easy to dismiss - she cared little what he thought, having lost her blind respect for authority figures the past year, but a great deal what he might do. That sparked the questions which resolved her dilemma: What might he do that runs counter to my plans? What plans do I have that he would wish to counter? Are those plans worth more than my reputation?

"I think taking the serum would be a bad idea," she admitted, to herself as much as her headmaster.

"A wise decision, Miss Granger. The loss of one's reputation, especially only temporarily, is a small price to pay in the end. Go on, now; do not keep the professor waiting."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Hermione excused herself, joining the others who waited at the door.

As she left the headmaster called out behind her: "Oh, and Miss Granger... There is an old adage, that every cloud has a lining of silver. You would do well not to distance yourself from your fellows in fear of their actions; they may surprise you. It is in only in times such as these that one learns who their true friends are."

She got the impression he expected no reply, and for that she was glad. Had she been required to, she had no doubt she would have thrown his well-meaning, painful advice right back in his face.

If the truth of my friendships is a silver lining, call me a werewolf.

Author's Notes!

Completely forget to do this last chapter: Oops.
Thanks for the reviews guys (or is that girls? Who knows?)

You may notice I've tweaked veritaserum a little, because that stuff is plot-breaking levels of powerful. Weirdly so powerful that my fix is making it slightly more powerful, and hence too much like overkill for use in most situations.

Not much else to say except, as ever: "Sorry Hermione."