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It feels too familiar," Ron muttered, shaking his head. He looked at the oblivious Harry, then back at Hermione. "Last time, you were unconscious, you woke up, and the problem was magically solved. This time, Harry was unconscious, he woke up, and the problem was magically solved. But last time it was you. This time it's Lockhart. And he can't even cast a proper Disarming Charm!"
The trio stood at the back of the Great Hall, which was beginning to empty out after Professor McGonagall's terse announcement.
"Don't analyze it, Ron," Hermione said, her voice cutting through the noise. "The point is, the disaster is over. The petrified students are getting the antidote. Ginny is safe. Does it honestly matter if the hero is a fraud or a magical genius?"
Harry nodded slowly, though his brow was still furrowed with suspicion. The lack of logic was screaming at him, but his gratitude for the result—and his deep, unshakable faith in Hermione's competence—overrode his detective instincts. "Okay. The result matters."
Off to the side, Ginny's eyes were fixed on Hermione with a silent, profound reverence. She subconsciously moved closer to Harry, clinging to the warmth of his presence. She knew the truth. She had given the diary to Hermione. She had been the one making the writing appear on the walls. The fact that the story had been rewritten to implicate Draco Malfoy—the boy who had brought the diary to the school—was a miraculous form of salvation. But the fear remained. The chaos had been internal, and she felt a gnawing guilt for the ruin her actions had caused.
"Due to recent events, classes are suspended immediately," McGonagall announced, her voice clipped and exhausted.
Hermione moved quickly, striding up to the dais. "Professor McGonagall, since my duties as teaching assistant are currently nullified, I would like to apply to leave school and go home for a few days."
McGonagall paused, running a weary hand across her brow. "Very well, Miss Granger. But you will be escorted."
"Absolutely correct, Professor!" a loud, theatrical voice boomed. Lockhart appeared, his face beaming with the reflected glory of his heroic fame. "I insist on accompanying Miss Granger! As the newly acknowledged hero of Hogwarts, it is my sacred duty to protect the school's most valuable assets!"
McGonagall's lips twitched. Her face showed a profound weariness that went beyond mere fatigue. "Fine, Professor Lockhart. You will escort Miss Granger home."
Perfect, Hermione thought, fighting a small smile. Lockhart will be my alibi, and his presence will ensure I'm not bothered by any Ministry officials looking into the details of the incident.
Malfoy Manor. Later that Day.
The manor was shrouded in an atmosphere of suffocating, expensive gloom. Sunlight, barred by heavy velvet curtains, struggled to penetrate the vast, ornate living room. Lucius Malfoy sat slumped at a heavy mahogany table, a single piece of parchment—the official notice from the Ministry—before him. The parchment was the color of betrayal. It detailed the charges: his son, Draco Malfoy, had been identified as the heir of Slytherin, the mastermind who had opened the Chamber of Secrets and caused the petrification of several students.
Lucius's face was a mask of cold fury and disbelief. His perfect, three-pronged plan—use the diary to purge the Muggle-borns, discredit Dumbledore, and safely dispose of a dangerous dark object—had been a catastrophic failure. Dumbledore was gone, true, but the cost was devastating.
He looked toward the master bedroom. His wife, Narcissa, stood in the doorway, her beauty marred by profound, agonizing grief.
"Lucius," she whispered, her voice sharp with fear and accusation. "What of our son? What is happening to Draco?"
Draco was safe, for the moment, confined to the manor under Ministry order. But he was unconscious, having collapsed in shock soon after the incident. His pale, still form in the silent bedroom was a constant, harrowing accusation.
"I'm handling it, Cissy," Lucius snapped, though his voice lacked conviction. He had already attempted to use his Ministry connections, but the attention on this incident was too high. The public demanded a scapegoat. And somehow, his son had become it.
Narcissa's eyes were dark with a terrible, growing resentment. "You promised me it would be safe! You promised me Ginny Weasley would take the blame! You risked our son for your pathetic feud with Dumbledore, and now, now look what has happened!" She was beside herself, her mother's heart breaking for the boy she knew was fundamentally weak and ill-equipped to bear such a devastating charge.
Lucius could not look her in the eye. His entire, flawless life was crumbling around him, and he had no idea what variable had gone wrong. His contempt for the Weasleys was a powerful force, but he was now paying a higher price than any he had ever exacted from them.
In a dark corner near the fireplace, Dobby, the house-elf, was curled into a ball, shaking. He was confused. He had tried so hard to stop Harry from coming to school, thinking he was saving his master. But his efforts had only served to ensure the events proceeded without interference. He had failed to save Harry, and now, he realized with a chilling dread, he had failed his young master too.
Lucius let out a strangled sigh. He stood, walked to the heavy curtain, and pulled it back, letting a single, defiant shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom. He was trapped. His son was ruined. And he had no one to blame but his own foolish arrogance.
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