Harry felt that his luck had truly hit rock bottom.
Day after day of grueling Quidditch practice had left him sore and exhausted. To make matters worse, he'd been caught by Filch for tracking mud into the castle after training—only to stumble across one of the caretaker's shameful little secrets.
If not for Nearly Headless Nick's timely intervention, he might not have escaped punishment. And to repay Nick, Harry had agreed to attend the ghost's Deathday Party…
It was, without a doubt, the most dreadful dinner he had ever attended in his life.
The hall was crowded with hundreds of translucent ghosts. Each time one drifted through his body, it felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him, leaving his skin clammy and his bones aching from the chill.
The "food" was even worse—rotting, moldy, and utterly inedible. Not that Harry dared touch it anyway.
By the time he managed to endure the evening, he'd been half-dead from hunger, planning to sneak away for a bite before the feast ended… only to walk straight into something far more terrifying.
A student—and Filch's beloved cat—appeared to be dead.
And of course, Filch immediately decided it was all Harry's fault.
Just as the caretaker lunged, hands clawing, a withered yet powerful hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
"Calm yourself, Argus. Your cat is not dead."
At Dumbledore's words, Filch's bloodshot eyes lit up with desperate hope.
The headmaster didn't waste time reassuring him further. Instead, he crouched beside the stricken student, wand tip flicking gently over the stiffened form. Harry thought he saw him exhale in relief.
"My assessment was correct. They are not dead—merely petrified."
"Petrified?" Snape loomed at his shoulder, stroking his chin. "More like… living statues."
"An apt description," Dumbledore agreed gravely, tucking away his wand.
Filch clutched Mrs. Norris to his chest, his voice breaking. "Then… then she'll recover? She'll be all right?"
"I cannot say for certain," Dumbledore admitted, his tone somber. "Further study is required. But what matters most now is to determine what did this."
"Ask him!" Filch shrieked suddenly, stabbing a finger at Harry. "It's him! He did this! He's taking revenge on me!"
"Control yourself, caretaker," said Rouse firmly, gripping Filch's arm. "A curse of this level is beyond even me. Do you truly believe a second-year boy could manage it?"
For the first time in his life, Harry felt that being useless was a blessing—it was his only defense against the accusation.
But Filch would not let go. "It was him! He saw the letter in my office—he knows I can't do magic! And look! Look at the wall! The proof is right there!"
Dozens of students had gathered by now, drawn by the shouting. They gasped as they spotted the blood-red words scrawled high on the stone.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware."
"Next… next will be you!" Malfoy read aloud dramatically, but his voice cracked halfway through. Sweat ran cold down his neck as he glanced around the hall. Only when he confirmed that Tom Riddle was nowhere in sight did he relax, releasing a shaky breath.
The other Slytherins shifted uncomfortably.
Merlin's beard… since when had Mudblood become a forbidden word in Slytherin?
The irony of it all tugged at Dumbledore's lips. He masked it quickly, but inwardly, he marveled at the turn of fate—how theatrical the change had been.
"Until we know the truth, Argus, you will not accuse students without cause." Dumbledore's voice rang sharp and firm.
"But—but I saw them!" Filch sobbed, rocking Mrs. Norris as if she were a child. "When I arrived, Potter and Weasley were here!"
Dumbledore's eyes fell upon Harry. "Well then, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you would care to explain what brought you here tonight?"
He would have preferred to question Harry in private, but too many witnesses had seen. To protect him, the boy would need to be cleared publicly.
"Sir, Ron and I were at Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday Party," Harry blurted, his words tumbling over Ron's equally frantic explanation. "There are hundreds of ghosts who can vouch for us!"
"And after that?" Snape's silken voice cut in, full of false pleasantness. His black eyes glittered with satisfaction. "Why not attend the feast? Why come here instead?"
"I…" Harry's throat dried. His heart hammered. What could he say? That he had followed a disembodied voice whispering about killing? That he alone could hear it? That excuse would see him expelled as a lunatic, if not worse.
"We were tired," he muttered desperately. "We wanted to go to bed early."
Snape's lips curled into a cruel smile. "A lie, Potter? You expect us to believe it? The Deathday feast offers no food for the living. Unless your stomach is forged from iron, you would be starving by now."
"We weren't hungry!" Ron snapped—just as his stomach gave a deafening growl.
Harry wanted to slam his head against the wall. Every single time, Snape managed to twist the knife, hounding him toward disaster.
The watching students exchanged dark, suspicious looks. Few believed Harry capable of wielding such dark magic—but their evasive answers reeked of guilt. They were hiding something.
And then—
"Make way."
The calm voice sliced through the crowd like a blade. Students stepped aside, and Tom Riddle strode forward from the shadows, freshly returned from Hogsmeade.
"Riddle," Snape murmured, eyes narrowing. "Curious. I don't recall seeing you at the feast either."
He wasn't accusing—merely prompting Tom to provide a plausible explanation. One that Dumbledore would hear.
Tom answered easily, as if the matter bored him. "I've been practicing alchemy. Used up half my stock, so I went to replenish materials. Picked up some sleeping draught herbs for Usagi while I was at it."
His eyes glinted faintly. "Surely, Professor Snape, you don't suspect me of this?"
Snape said nothing, only flicked his gaze toward Dumbledore.
"I trust every one of my students," Dumbledore said serenely. "And besides—this curse is of a level no child could possibly wield. We will know the truth when those petrified awaken."
But Tom gave a little scoff, his tone laced with mock indignation. "Oh, come now, Professor. Don't underestimate us. It's only a petrification curse, after all. Give me a little time, point me at a target, and I could knock them stiff in an instant."
The professors stared at him. The students shivered.
And Harry? He wasn't sure if Tom had just cleared his name… or made everything ten times worse.