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Every eye in the crowded, silent corridor swiveled to Hermione.
"You… you know?" Filch rasped, his voice a choked, desperate sound. He lunged forward, his gnarled hands grabbing the front of her robes. "Tell me! Who did this? Was it him?" He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at Harry.
Hermione gently removed the caretaker's hands. "Honestly," she said with a long, theatrical sigh, turning to address the crowd as if she were a detective holding a press conference. "The culprit is perfectly obvious. Weren't any of you listening?"
A confused silence was her only answer. She saw Malfoy in the crowd and a slow, wicked, and utterly malicious smile spread across her face.
"I seem to recall," she began, her voice ringing with a clear, prosecutorial authority, "someone shouting, 'You're next, Mudbloods!' just a moment ago. Now, what kind of person, upon first discovering a crime scene, would immediately issue a subsequent threat? It is, you must admit, highly suspicious." She paused, letting her gaze sweep over the crowd before landing, with the force of a physical blow, directly on Draco Malfoy. "It is the classic behavior of a perpetrator, glorying in their crime and making a declaration of their future intent."
Every head in the corridor turned to stare at Malfoy.
The blood drained from his face. "I… what?" he stammered.
"So, the murderer has been identified," Hermione concluded with a cheerful clap of her hands. "Case closed. Professors, I believe the Auror office can take it from here." She walked over to the grieving Filch and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder. "No need to thank me. Please, call me Detective Granger."
The logic was so absurd, yet so superficially plausible, that for a moment, everyone just stared, their minds struggling to process it. Malfoy, however, understood completely. He was being framed. By the one person in the world he was most terrified of.
"It wasn't me!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with a new, hysterical pitch of terror. He looked at the suspicious eyes of his fellow students, at the cold, calculating smile on Hermione's face, and his mind simply broke. With a wild cry of despair, he began to slap himself, hard, across the face. "I'm so stupid! Why do I talk so much!"
"Don't do this, don't do this!" Crabbe and Goyle waddled forward, trying to restrain their hysterical leader. The sight was so bizarre, so utterly pathetic, that a few of the students couldn't help but snicker.
Dumbledore, who had been watching the entire performance with a look of profound, weary resignation, finally decided to intervene. He covered his face with one hand for a long moment, then spoke. "Alright, Miss Granger. That's enough joking for one day." He turned to the prefects. "Please escort the students back to their dormitories." He then looked at the three culprits. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger. You will stay here."
After the corridor had cleared, Dumbledore knelt and gently examined the stiff, petrified form of Mrs. Norris. "She is not dead, Argus," he said softly. "She has been petrified. She can be saved."
Filch's sobs subsided, replaced by a wave of desperate hope. Before he could ask how, a booming, confident voice cut through the air.
"Petrified, you say! Yes, of course, I knew it all along!" Gilderoy Lockhart strode forward, puffing out his chest. "A complex bit of dark magic, but nothing I haven't seen before. I know a particularly tricky counter-curse that should have her right as rain in a jiffy!"
Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape all turned to look at him with the same, flat, unblinking expression.
Filch, however, was completely taken in. "Professor Lockhart!" he cried, grabbing the man's arm. "Please, I knew you could do it! Save her! Please!"
"Ah… well…" Lockhart's confident smile instantly froze on his face. He was petrified, more thoroughly than the cat. He had been bluffing, and Filch had just called him on it in front of the Headmaster.
Hermione just sighed. You utter, hopeless buffoon. "I'll handle it," she said, stepping forward. She pointed her wand at the cat. "Finite Incantatem!" A flash of white light, but nothing happened.
"It's not a standard Petrification Curse," she announced, her voice all business now. "The magical signature is different. More… primal." She was, of course, talking about the Basilisk's gaze.
"Indeed," Dumbledore nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. "A beautiful piece of counter-spell work, nonetheless. It seems you have been making good use of the Restricted Section."
Just then, Snape, who had been silently examining the scene, turned his cold, black eyes on Harry. "What were you doing here, Potter?" he hissed.
"We were…" Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.
"Professor Lockhart and I were preparing for our next lesson, Professor," she said smoothly. "I asked Harry to come and help me carry some books."
"Well, I can vouch for that as well…" Lockhart began, eager to jump on the bandwagon.
Snape ignored him completely, his gaze still fixed on Hermione. He looked from her to Harry, and after a long, tense moment, he gave a curt, reluctant nod. If she was providing the alibi, he would accept it.
"When the Mandrakes are mature," Snape said, turning to Dumbledore, "Professor Sprout and I can brew a Restorative Draught. It is the only cure for this kind of petrification."
"An excellent plan, Severus," Dumbledore began.
"Oh, right," Hermione said, as if suddenly remembering something. "A Mandrake Restorative Draught? I think I have a bottle of that on me."
She slung her small schoolbag off her shoulder and upended it. A mountain of junk cascaded onto the corridor floor with a deafening clatter. Books, spare robes, empty potion vials, a Quidditch helmet, a half-eaten apple, a still-potted plant, and a river of gold Galleons spilled out, forming a pile that was soon taller than she was.
The three most powerful magic-users in the castle—Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape—just stared, their minds completely blank with disbelief.
Hermione dove headfirst into the pile, her legs kicking in the air, her muffled voice echoing from within. After a moment of frantic rummaging, she emerged, gasping for air, a single, small, glass bottle held triumphantly in her hand.
Snape, moving as if in a trance, took the vial from her. He was a Potions Master. He uncorked it, wafted the vapor toward his nose, and his eyes widened in genuine, professional shock. The color was perfect. The viscosity was flawless. The aroma… it was a textbook-perfect, master-level brew.
"You… you made this?" he asked, his voice an incredulous whisper.
Hermione shrugged. "I had some spare ingredients, so I brewed a batch. It wasn't difficult."
Snape looked at the potion, then at the twelve-year-old girl standing in front of him, and for the first time in his entire teaching career, he felt a flicker of something that was not contempt for a Gryffindor student. It was respect.
"Well done," he said, the words sounding pained but sincere.
Harry and Ron's jaws dropped. They had just witnessed a miracle far more profound than any petrified cat coming back to life. Snape had just given a compliment.
The potion was administered, and a moment later, Mrs. Norris stirred, stretched, and let out a confused meow.
Filch let out a choked, sobbing cry of pure joy and swept his beloved cat into his arms. He then turned to Hermione, his face a mess of tears and gratitude. "Thank you, Miss Granger," he wept. "Thank you, thank you…"
"Alright, alright," Hermione said, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder.
Good thing it was just the cat, she thought, watching the emotional scene. Because that was my only bottle. Anyone else is on their own until the Mandrakes are ready.
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