The moment Louis heard Hastur's cry, he bolted.
The burst of speed left a string of afterimages trailing behind him.
Before Harry and Ron could even react, a violent gust swept past them—and when they turned their heads, Louis was already gone.
"Where did Louis go?" Ron blurted, completely lost.
Harry, quicker on the uptake, grabbed him by the arm. "Up ahead—come on, hurry!"
By the time they finally caught up, gasping for breath, they found Louis standing there with a strange expression, staring down at the scene before him.
On the floor were two cats—an orange one and a Maine Coon that looked painfully familiar.
That Maine Coon was unmistakably Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved pet.
Only, Mrs. Norris didn't look good at all. She was hanging upside down by her tail, tied to a rope—
and from the looks of it, Hastur had bitten through the rope to set her free.
Mrs. Norris was completely petrified, which didn't surprise Louis in the least.
What puzzled him was why Hastur was even here.
And perhaps it was just his imagination, but Hastur looked a little… drained.
Weak. Almost wounded—but Louis couldn't see any visible injuries.
"Look! The wall—there's writing!" Ron shouted, pointing upward in shock.
Harry looked up—
and saw the blood-red letters smeared across the stone.
> The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
> Enemies of the Heir, beware.
"The Chamber of Secrets? The Heir? What's that supposed to mean?"
Harry and Ron exchanged bewildered glances.
Louis didn't even bother to look.
He already knew what was written there.
Instead, he lowered his gaze to the puddle on the floor, and sure enough, a girl's reflection drifted across the water's surface.
In a horror movie, it would've been a textbook death omen.
But to Louis, it only meant one thing—perfect, a live commentary feed.
Just as Ron gasped in alarm, coincidence struck again.
The Great Hall feast had just ended, and the well-fed students began pouring out into the corridors.
When they reached the moving staircase, they spotted the commotion and immediately crowded around.
"The Chamber… The Heir?" drawled a pale-faced Draco Malfoy, who clearly knew something.
He glanced at the writing on the wall—and then his eyes fell on Louis crouching near the cats.
Merlin's beard… could the Heir of Slytherin be… him?!
The thought hit him like a thunderclap, repeating endlessly in his head.
Malfoy swallowed hard, wisely deciding to keep his mouth shut.
Bloody hell—if he's the Heir, then forget about "purging Muggle-borns."
His girlfriend is a Muggle-born!
"Make way—what's going on here?" came Filch's voice from the back of the crowd.
Moments later, the caretaker shoved his way through—
and froze.
There lay Mrs. Norris, stiff as stone.
As the saying goes: a soft cat is safe, a hard cat's done for.
And Mrs. Norris… was very, very hard.
Filch clearly realized the same thing.
He let out a wailing cry and lunged toward her, collapsing beside his petrified companion like a beast mourning its cub.
"My cat! My cat!" he howled in agony.
Hastur gave an irritated meow and kicked Louis's leg.
Louis kicked him right back. "Quiet."
"It was you! You killed my cat!" Filch's eyes were bloodshot with rage.
Harry and Ron instinctively backed behind Louis, while Louis merely gave Filch a single look—
—and that alone was enough to make the enraged caretaker shiver and stumble back, fear seizing him by the throat.
The Herald of Fear was as terrifying as ever.
"Argus."
At that moment, Dumbledore appeared on the scene, accompanied by several professors.
"Calm yourself, Argus," the Headmaster said gently.
"Headmaster!" Filch's face was twisted with grief and indignation. "They killed my cat! And this one—this one threatened me!"
"We didn't kill Filch's cat, and Louis didn't threaten him either! We didn't do anything!" Harry protested loudly.
Dumbledore raised a hand, instantly quieting the room. "Bring the cat. We'll discuss this somewhere more private."
Filch scooped up his stiff feline, and with the professors surrounding them, they all left the corridor.
That was when Lockhart spoke up.
"Why don't we all go to my office?" he suggested brightly. "I daresay the office of an intelligent man will help us solve this mystery more efficiently. And it's just next door!"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said politely with a nod. "Mr. Wilson, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley—come along as well."
"Come here, Hastur." Louis patted his shoulder, beckoning his cat over.
Hastur obediently leapt up—though not without first planting a paw squarely across Louis's face.
A small procession formed as they made their way through the gathered crowd. Louis lifted his gaze and quickly spotted Ginny Weasley.
Her eyes were vacant, her face pale as chalk, as if she'd just seen a ghost.
Her brothers hovered around her, assuming she was simply frightened, taking turns trying to comfort her.
But Louis noticed something odd—her unfocused eyes weren't looking at the wall or the writing.
They kept drifting toward him.
Or rather… toward Hastur.
Louis nodded to himself, thoughtful.
When they arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, Louis almost laughed aloud.
The room, once meant for serious study, now looked like Lockhart's personal exhibition hall—filled wall to wall with framed photos of his own smiling face.
How the man managed to work surrounded by himself was a mystery for the ages.
Dumbledore placed Mrs. Norris's petrified body on the desk and began to examine her carefully.
Professor McGonagall stood at his side, her lips pressed thin.
Snape, meanwhile, kept sneaking glances at Louis and the others—probably calculating how to deduct as many Gryffindor points as possible without directly implicating Louis.
Yes, Professor Snape remained the same sly operator as ever.
Lockhart, naturally, couldn't resist inserting himself into the discussion.
"I suspect a Transfiguration Torture Curse!" he declared. "If I had been here, a single counter-spell would have restored her instantly! Such a shame!"
Filch blinked, dumbstruck by the flood of nonsense, while everyone else stared at Lockhart with open disdain.
Everyone except his portraits, that is—they all nodded and clapped in perfect synchronization.
"It was him! He did it! Harry Potter!" Filch suddenly shouted. "It must be him! And that writing on the wall—he knew! He knows what I am—he knows I'm a Squib!"
Harry swallowed hard, utterly confused.
He knew Filch was a Squib, sure—but what, that meant he'd decided to… petrify his cat?
It was absurd even by Hogwarts standards.
"Argus," Dumbledore said calmly, "this type of magic is far beyond what a second-year student could perform."
As he spoke, the Headmaster's eyes lingered—just briefly—on Louis.
Ah, yes, yes. Look at me all you want—go ahead, we all know what you're implying. I'm the only one here who could actually do it, right?
Louis rolled his eyes silently and, with a small sigh, pulled out a long-unused prop:
Sherlock Holmes's pipe.
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