Harry Potter and the Dovahkiin

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

The words gleamed wetly on the stone wall, large and ominous. Underneath them, hanging by her tail from a torch bracket, was Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch's beloved cat.

Ben took one look and resisted the urge to exhale in relief. A cat was bad—but a student would have been much worse. He'd been taking precautions against that. Most effective of them being the dungbombs he'd set off on the second floor this morning - They had made sure no one stuck around long enough to meet a grisly fate. The place had still been stinking when they got here.

Unfortunately, their well-timed arrival meant that Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ben were caught at the scene of the crime and promptly escorted to Lockhart's office for questioning.

In the torchlight, the entire staff huddled over the stiff body of Mrs. Norris. Dumbledore's long nose was inches from her fur as he examined her closely, prodding gently. Filch, meanwhile, was in the background making noises that sounded like a dying walrus, sobbing into a handkerchief ike a man who had lost a limb.

Ben couldn't blame him. Filch and Mrs. Norris had something of a bond—unnatural, yes, but undeniable. Wherever she went, Filch was never far behind. Ben had a theory that they had an empathy link, kind of similar to what he had with his familiars.

"Oh, if I had been here earlier!" Lockhart lamented loudly, shaking his head. "I know exactly the countercurse that could have saved her! A shame, really. Reminds me of the time I banished the Bandon Banshee—"

Nobody paid him the slightest attention except for his own portraits, which nodded along enthusiastically.

"She's not dead, Argus," Dumbledore said at last.

Filch hiccupped mid-sob. "Not dead?" he croaked, peering between his fingers at his stiffened cat. "Then—why's she all stiff and frozen like that?"

"She has been Petrified," Dumbledore explained.

"Ah! I thought so!" Lockhart declared, puffing up importantly.

"But how, I cannot say…" Dumbledore continued, ignoring him.

Ben caught that. Cannot say, not do not know. Interesting choice of words.

Filch, however, was beyond reason. His blotchy, tear-streaked face twisted in rage as he wheeled around, stabbing a trembling finger at Harry.

"Ask him!" he howled.

"No second-year could have done this," Dumbledore said firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced—"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch shrieked. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! He knows I'm a Squib!"

Harry reeled. "I never touched Mrs. Norris! And I don't even know what a Squib is!"

"Rubbish! He saw my Kwikspell letter! In my office!"

Ah, right. Filch's Kwikspell nonsense. It was easy to forget the caretaker was a Squib when he looked more like a half-starved ghoul than a man. But not easy to forget that he was apparently gullible enough to believe a mail-order course could turn him into a wizard.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione quickly launched into an explanation about why they weren't at the Halloween feast.

"We weren't anywhere near here!" "We were at Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party—"

"There were hundreds of ghosts—"

"They'll tell you we were there—"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" Snape asked smoothly, his black eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry. They couldn't very well admit they had been following him—rather, running after him as he'd bolted up the stairs like a lunatic. That had been a workout neither of them had asked for.

"Because—because—" Harry stammered, clearly unsure whether he should mention the voice he had heard.

"Because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," Ron said quickly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Without any supper? I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for the living."

Ben sighed. The greasy bat was trying to get Harry kicked off the Quidditch team. Slytherin's new Seeker, Malfoy, would have an easy time if Gryffindor lost theirs. Of course, Snape didn't actually think Harry had Petrified anyone—Potter could barely handle a Lumos half the time. He was just a second-year student after all.

"We took our own food, Professor," Ben said, pulling a skewer from his pocket with a few pieces of cheese still on it. He popped one into his mouth.

Snape's expression soured like he'd just been force-fed a lemon.

Ben, ever helpful, held the skewer out to him. "Would you like some, sir?"

Snape gave him a long, blank look. "…No, thank you, Mr. Brown."

He folded his arms. "But I must say—there are rather curious rumours about you. Petrifying the poor trolley witch? Impressive for a second-year. Perhaps it has gone to your head, and now everything looks like a target."

Ben swallowed his bite. "The rumours, sir, are greatly exaggerated. It was a prank spell. She was temporarily covered in a hardened shell of ash for a few minutes. I was, of course, deeply regretful." He nodded solemnly. "I have learned my lesson."

Snape's stare suggested he was unconvinced.

Dumbledore finally straightened and looked at the four of them with his twinkling blue eyes. Ben knew exactly what was happening—Legilimency. He had been expecting it. He was always prepared around the old goat. Besides, Dumbledore was mostly interested in Harry's thoughts.

Snape continued to push for Harry and Ben to be removed from their Quidditch teams, but McGonagall and Flitwick weren't having it. Eventually, Dumbledore gave his verdict:

"Innocent until proven guilty," he said mildly.

Which, coming from a man who had just spent the last few minutes picking through their minds, was quite the joke. Not that it worked on Ben—his mind was thoroughly shielded by the system, he just had to control his surface thoughts.

After reassuring Filch that the Mandrake Restorative Draught would fix Mrs. Norris, they were told to leave.

They made it halfway to the door when Ben suddenly staggered. His grip tightened on Harry and Ron's shoulders, earning a startled look from the former and an alarmed, "Oi!" from the latter. Then, his head tilted back, and his eyes clouded over, glowing like eerie fogged-up lanterns.

His voice dropped, hoarse and distant:

"The past still stirs, its tale retold, In cursed ink on pages old.A wit subdued by whispers deep, If wisdom falters, the lost shall weep—As once before, the price ran steep."

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, as if someone had cut his strings, Ben slumped.

"Blimey—" Ron yelped, nearly dropping him.

Harry barely managed to catch his other side before they both staggered under the weight. "Was that a prophecy?"

"I dunno—he did go all—" Ron waved his hands vaguely. "Glowy eyes, creepy voice—classic spooky business."

"Professor! We need help!" Hermione's voice rang out.

Lockhart's voice floated over, far too cheerful given the situation. "Not to worry, not to worry! I've handled this sort of thing before!"

Ben, mercifully unconscious, was spared whatever nonsense came next.

-End of the Chapter-

Ben’s Prophecy Starter Pack: 1) Glowing eyes, 2) Cryptic rhymes, 3) Conveniently-timed fainting.

Give me your weird comments, or I will start making prophecies.

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