CHAPTER NINE
couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry
as he felt for himself. If Dumbledore believed Filch, he would be
expelled for sure.
Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath
and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She
continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.
“. . . I remember something very similar happening in Oua-
gadogou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my
autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various
amulets, which cleared the matter up at once. . . .”
The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in
agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his
hair net.
At last Dumbledore straightened up.
“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.
Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the num-
ber of murders he had prevented.
“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs.
Norris. “But why’s she all — all stiff and frozen?”
“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!”
said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say. . . .”
“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained
face to Harry.
“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly.
“It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced —”
“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You
saw what he wrote on the wall! He found — in my office — he
knows I’m a — I’m a —” Filch’s face worked horribly. “He knows
I’m a Squib!” he finished.
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