A Failed Conversation (Part One)

No matter what, Harry ultimately decided to take Hermione's advice and have a talk with Amosta Breen. Otherwise, he feared that before the monster in the Chamber of Secrets turned anyone else into a statue, the strange looks and terrifying rumors would drive him mad.

He returned to the dormitory to change into clean clothes and desperately smoothed down his hair in front of the mirror, because it made him look less rebellious.

"You're wasting your time, dear!" said the mirror in the dormitory, in a wheezing voice, its surface inlaid with golden patterns.

"Thanks for the reminder!" Harry replied with an irritated expression.

Harry deliberately went to Mr. Breen's office around dinnertime, since that meant he would not have to face too many gloating stares along the way. But when he reached the third floor, he unexpectedly ran into the castle caretaker, Argus Filch.

Filch looked as though he had just had a good cry. His terrifyingly bulging eyes were bloodshot, and the snot dangling beneath his ugly nose had already reached his double chin. The moment he spotted Harry, he immediately drew in that bedraggled expression and instead glared at him viciously like an injured hyena.

"Someone will get the punishment they deserve, Potter. It won't be long now!"

"What do you mean, Mr. Filch?"

Harry's voice was so weak it was as if someone had seized him by the throat. He desperately wanted to know what Filch meant, but unfortunately, after fixing him with a string of cold sneers, Filch simply left.

Filch had gone to report him. There was no doubt about it.

Harry could not deceive himself into believing otherwise. His heart pounded wildly, and he wanted to turn around and leave at once, because he was afraid the Investigator had already accepted Filch's accusation, and going to his office now would be walking straight into a trap.

But in the end, he still knocked on the door of Breen's office. The man had been formidable enough to trade blows with Dumbledore in his fifth year. If he had made up his mind to send Harry to prison, Harry could not think of anyone besides Headmaster Dumbledore who could save him.

After he was granted permission to enter, the office door opened by itself. Harry stood in the doorway, nervously looking over the room, afraid that a rope would suddenly fly out and bind him up.

Aside from Headmaster Dumbledore's distinctive circular office, Mr. Breen's office was the largest Harry had ever seen. Of course, there was nothing particularly strange about that, since it had originally been converted from a classroom.

A fireplace built into the wall by the windows kept the room pleasantly warm. Against the farthest wall stood a desk, bookshelves, and a simple cot. A strange smell hung in the air, as though Mr. Breen had brewed potions in the room.

The most eye-catching thing in the room was the wall to the right of the entrance. The entire wall was covered by a huge black curtain, behind which faint glimmers of light flickered. For some reason, Harry suddenly thought of a cinema in the Muggle world. Although the Dursley family had never taken him along when they went to the movies, he had still glimpsed them a few times on television.

"So, are you planning to stand there and talk to me, Mr. Potter?" Amosta smiled gently from behind the desk.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Breen." Harry hurriedly shut the door and walked in, not forgetting to stammer out an explanation as he approached the desk. "I was just a little curious about that wall."

"Understandable." Amosta said with a chuckle. He motioned for Harry to sit down, then went over to the fireplace to make tea.

"I don't have any fine drinks to offer you. If you don't mind, how about some tea, Mr. Potter—"

As Amosta carried the tea back, Harry's attention was drawn once more to a framed photograph on Mr. Breen's desk. It showed Mr. Breen standing beside a very old man. There was nothing much to say about the old man; he was probably some elder close to Mr. Breen.

What puzzled Harry was that the Mr. Breen in the photograph, who looked about Percy's age, seemed somehow wrong.

"Thank you."

As Harry anxiously accepted the steaming tea, he quickly glanced at Mr. Breen's slightly haggard face, and then he understood why he had felt something was off.

The student-aged Mr. Breen in the photograph had a pair of brown eyes much like Hermione's, but the Investigator standing before him had an unusual pale violet pair.

Was it the effect of magic? Harry wondered vaguely. But then he snapped back to attention. This was not the time to think about such things.

"Were you wondering why my eye color is a little unusual?"

Amosta held his tea and leaned back in his chair. The mist made his expression slightly indistinct, but judging by his tone, it was not an angry question born of offense.

"I was—no, I wasn't!" Harry said awkwardly.

The anxious little wizard sitting opposite him made Amosta chuckle. No matter how famous Harry Potter was, and no matter how glorious his future might be, at least for now, the childishness and immaturity he displayed had not exceeded Amosta's expectations of a second-year wizard.

"I imagine you just saw Mr. Filch, didn't you?" Amosta took a small sip of the bitter tea, his voice gentle.

When Mr. Breen began to speak, Harry suddenly recalled that abrupt encounter he, Ron, and Hagrid had had with him near Professor McGonagall's office during the Christmas holiday. Afterward, Ron had said Mr. Breen was very much like Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry had not felt it strongly at the time, but now he found himself somewhat agreeing with Ron.

Unlike Professor Snape or Professor McGonagall, who carried an aura of severity wherever they went, what made Mr. Breen intimidating was precisely his tolerant, gentle manner. It was the overwhelming pressure brought by a natural confidence, one that made the very thought of resisting him impossible.

"Yes, Mr. Breen, I saw Filch. He looked as though he'd just had a good cry." Harry nodded hesitantly.

"What do you think it was for, Mr. Potter?"

Amosta blew away the floating tea leaves and asked with great interest.

Harry's gaze wandered over the frayed collar of Amosta's old Wizard Robe, but he said nothing, because the question needed no answer.

Seeing that the atmosphere had been set well enough, Amosta did not intend to frighten Harry any further. He set down his teacup, preparing to get straight to the point, but he had not expected Harry, who had been silent as a mouse, to suddenly gather his courage. With emerald-green eyes shining with determination, he looked straight into Amosta's eyes.

"Mr. Breen, do you also believe that I am... Slytherin's heir? Do you think I opened the Chamber of Secrets?"

P.S. My nucleic acid test result came back abnormal, so I had to go for an individual test again. It's driving me crazy.