Dumbledore's Help

Before long, the weather became even darker, and the light was blocked by thick, heavy clouds, with only a few scattered wisps of light showing through.

A fierce wind blew up, carrying snowflakes that stung the skin and made people ache. The young wizards who had been outside the Castle getting some fresh air quickly rushed into the Entrance Hall.

Just then, Neville stumbled against the flow of people to Loren, his face filled with terror. His finger trembled as he pointed to the Third Floor, his voice trembling and on the verge of tears. "Third, Third Floor, Justin's been petrified, Harry's there—"

Before the words were even finished, Ron had already rushed out, and Hermione grabbed Loren's hand and ran into the Castle.

As Loren ran, he silently mourned for Harry. Now, he was in deep trouble; even if he fell into the Black Lake, he couldn't clear his name.

This is a corridor on the Third Floor. The light here is particularly dim, like night. A window pane is loose, and a howling wind blows in. A few Mars remain on the extinguished torch.

Justin Finley lay on the floor, his body cold and stiff, a look of terror frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

Beside him lay Nearly Headless Nick. His ghostly body was no longer the translucent white glowing with an eerie light, but had become completely black, shrouded in smoke. He lay motionless, suspended six inches above the ground. His head dangled in mid-air, held together by stiff skin and tendons, his face bearing the exact same terrified expression as Justin's.

Harry stood awkwardly to the side, his mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to say something.

Harry was surrounded by young wizards who looked at Harry with a strange gaze. When Harry tried to explain, they looked away in fear, avoiding his eyes.

Loren and the others pushed their way through the crowd to get close to Harry.

In stark contrast to the noisy discussions on the outer circle, the inner circle remained silent. They looked at Justin with pity and at Harry with a strange look, carefully avoiding making a sound for fear of attracting Harry's attention, lest one of them become the next victim.

"Harry," Ron called out, trying to say something, but nothing came out.

Hearing his friend's call, Harry's dazed eyes slowly focused. This time was different from all before; only he and the "body" had been found, and no one could prove his innocence.

Harry, as if grasping at a savior, pleaded with his friends, "It wasn't me, it wasn't me. I wanted to talk to Justin and clear things up. I heard some unpleasant things in the Library, and I wanted to clear my head. I ended up here without realizing it, and they were already like this. Believe me..."

His breathing was rapid, and his heart was pounding like a small drum in his chest. The sound was so loud that several people nearby could hear it.

"Harry, calm down, don't panic, we believe in you." Loren patted him on the shoulder, trying to ease his anxiety. "Dumbledore."

"Yes, Harry, we believe you..."

Hermione, Ron, Seamus, Neville, and others' statements gradually calmed Harry down, and the little drum in his chest also calmed down.

"Quiet!"

Professor McGonagall's booming voice echoed throughout the corridor as she led several professors out from behind the crowd, looking with pity at Justin lying on the ground.

She turned her head and looked seriously at the growing crowd, pursing her lips. "Go back to the classroom!"

Although Professor McGonagall didn't look at him, Harry felt much more at ease.

The young wizards were reluctant, yet dared not openly disobey Professor McGonagall's orders. They moved slowly, their eyes fixed on Justin and Harry.

Seeing their sluggish steps, Professor McGonagall waved her wand, creating a loud, booming sound in the air, and repeated, "Back to the classroom! Now!"

This time, the young wizards moved much more nimbly. When the crowd had mostly dispersed, Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff arrived breathlessly, pointing at Harry and shouting, "Caught red-handed!"

Harry's breathing became rapid, he felt his blood rushing to his head, and his brain was congested with blood in waves.

Just now in the Library, Ernie Macmillan was badmouthing him; those infuriating words are still ringing in my ears:

"Nobody knows how he survived the attack by the Dark Lord. He was just a baby when it happened; he should have been blown to pieces. Only a powerful black wizard could escape such a spell."

"Harry Potter is a dark wizard like the Dark Lord, which is why the Dark Lord wanted to kill him. He didn't want another 'evil' to appear and challenge him."

"He Parselmouth; what respectable wizard can talk to snakes?"

Each and every one of those filthy and sordid speculations came from Ernie Macmillan. For a moment, Harry wished it was Ernie who had been Basilisk.

Professor McGonagall roared sternly, "Enough! Go back to the classroom!"

Ernie wanted to say something more, but when he met Harry's gaze, he swallowed all his words and turned away dejectedly.

Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra from the Department of Astronomy took Justin to the Hospital Wing, where only Harry, Professor McGonagall, Loren, Hermione, and Ron remained.

"Professor," Harry said with difficulty, "I swear I didn't—"

"I can't handle this, Potter!" Professor McGonagall inwardly grumbled at the headmaster of some unknown magic school.

But when she looked down and saw Harry's pitiful state, she couldn't help but soften. She reached out and touched Harry's hair, and whispered, "I know it wasn't you."

Harry's eyes reddened, and he nodded silently.

Professor McGonagall sighed, turned to look at the three people who were unwilling to leave, twirled her wand in her hand, and conjured a large fan out of thin air.

Professor McGonagall handed the fan to Loren: "I'll take Harry to see the headmaster. You guys fan Nearly Headless Nick upstairs."

After saying that, she left with Harry, leaving Loren, Hermione, and Ron looking at each other in bewilderment.

The three of them took turns fanning themselves as they slowly made their way upstairs. Nearly Headless Nick had no physical form, so even when petrified, he couldn't be moved. Yet, they could still fan him—it was a real contradiction.

"If he has no physical form, how can the wind reach him?" Loren asked, looking at Nearly Headless Nick after being petrified, somewhat puzzled.

"If he has no physical form, why can't the wind blow on him?" Ron asked with a puzzled look, as if it were a matter of course that the wind could move a ghost.

Loren felt frustrated for a while, but ultimately had no choice but to accept this reality. After all, magic is just that unreasonable.

Hermione hadn't participated in the conversation; she was looking down, thinking about what had just happened, "Do you think Professor McGonagall knows something? I mean, she wasn't panicked or worried when she saw Justin, and she trusted Harry unconditionally."

Ron also seemed thoughtful. "Dumbledore's attitude was also strange. He was right next to us when Rolf was talking to us, and he even interrupted us to continue. He seemed to know more or less about our actions, but he didn't stop us."

Loren couldn't help but click his tongue in amazement; nobody was stupid. Dumbledore's behavior and attitude were information that could be interpreted. At the current pace, the Basilisk would be dealt with soon.

Harry followed Professor McGonagall to the hideous, enormous stone monster. Using the password "Lemon Sherbet," they opened a passage and ascended the spiral staircase to a Winky Oak Door with a Brass Door Knocker Griffin.

"Wait outside for a moment, I have something to say to Headmaster Dumbledore!" Professor McGonagall said, then rushed inside.

Harry blinked, wondering if it was just his imagination, but he felt that Professor McGonagall's posture was firm, as if she were questioning Headmaster Dumbledore.

Harry swore he didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the Oak Door wasn't closed properly, and some sounds leaked out from the crack.

Professor McGonagall's voice was clear, and the anger in her words was evident:

"Headmaster! Headmaster Dumbledore! What are you thinking?!"

"It's been almost two months since Halloween, how much longer are you going to drag this out..."

In contrast, Dumbledore's response was very mild, and Harry could only hear some faint sounds, unable to make out the content.

"Do you know how many parents have written to us! If this continues, the school will have to close!"

Hearing this, Harry's heart skipped a beat. He was really worried about whether the school would be closed, so he couldn't help but sneak in and hide behind a shelf to eavesdrop.

Standing here, you can see another cubicle inside the office, containing a shallow Stone Basin with mysterious runes carved along its rim. Harry had seen similar patterns in a book that Loren had been reading; it seemed to be a script called Runes.

"Oh, Minerva, don't worry..."

Dumbledore's voice was still muffled and unclear.

Just as Harry pricked up his ears to get closer, he saw something. On one shelf sat a tattered, wrinkled wizard's hat— the Sorting Hat.

In an instant, many images flashed through Harry's mind.

On the Hogwarts Express, Malfoy and his henchmen try to get to know him... At the Sorting Party, the Sorting Hat chatters on and on, insisting on being sorted into Slytherin ... The young wizards' astonishment when they discover he Parselmouth, Hermione says it's a uniquely Slytherin ability...

The idea of wearing the Sorting Hat again came to Harry's mind; he wanted to talk to the Sorting Hat.

He hesitated for a moment, then looked up warily at the Portraits of Former Headmasters on the surrounding walls. To his surprise, the portraits were all turned upside down on the walls, so no one would notice him.

Harry picked up the hat from the shelf and slowly put it on his head. The hat was too big and slipped down, covering his eyes.

A small voice whispered in his ear—no, in his head. "Is there something you don't understand, Harry Potter?"

Before Harry could speak, the Sorting Hat's voice rang out again. "You want to know if I've placed you in the right house? Yes... your place isn't easy to pinpoint, but I stand by my original statement—"

"You are a good fit, Slytherin."

Harry's heart began to pound, and he felt nauseous. He grabbed the top of his hat and ripped it off.

The violent movement struck the gilded perch by the door, and the old and frail Fawkes suffered an undeserved misfortune. The Phoenix, its feathers all gone, fell from the perch and looked at Harry with a sorrowful gaze, letting out a suffocating groan as if it were about to die.

Harry put the Sorting Hat back on the shelf and frantically tried to pick up Fawkes. But before he could get close, the bird had turned into a fireball. It let out a scream, and the flames rose and quickly went out, leaving only a pile of ashes on the floor that hadn't quite died out.

Harry's mind went blank. It was all over. He hadn't even figured out how the Basilisk had attacked his classmates, and now he was being blamed for causing Fawkes ' death.

Turning around, Dumbledore was already behind the shelf, looking at the pile of ashes with a strange expression.

Harry could no longer bear the pressure and cried out, "Headmaster Dumbledore, I... I didn't mean to... I couldn't help it, Fawkes just fell to the ground and suddenly caught fire..."

Seeing Harry's miserable state, Dumbledore pursed his lips, but couldn't help but chuckle softly.

The headmaster's laughter grew louder and louder, while Harry's crying grew quieter and quieter. Finally, Harry stopped crying and stared at Dumbledore in astonishment.

Dumbledore shook his head and said gently, "Fawkes is a Phoenix, Harry. When Phoenix is about to die, it immolates itself and is reborn from the ashes. You watched it..."

Harry looked down and saw a tiny, wrinkled, featherless Chick peeking its head out of the ashes.

It's truly hideous.

Noticing Harry's impolite gaze, the reborn Fawkes squeaked and muttered curses. Although it was incomprehensible, judging from the tone of voice, the curses must have been quite offensive.

"It knows it doesn't look good, so it's been dragging its feet on rebirth. Last time, I asked Scamander to deliver a message to his grandfather, Mr. Scamander, to ask for some potion to help Fawkes rebirth." Dumbledore led Harry to sit down at the table.

Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be seen; she had probably left while Harry was putting on the Sorting Hat.

Harry withdrew his gaze from Fawkes, remembering the purpose of his visit. "Professor, I... do you believe it wasn't me?"

The Sorting Hat's voice echoed in my mind again, "You're perfect for Slytherin!"

Sometimes, Harry himself would doubt whether he was truly the Heir of Slytherin.

"Yes, Harry, I don't think so." Dumbledore, the tips of his ten long fingers touching. "More importantly, Harry, I need your help."

"Help?"

"Yes, some members of the Board of Governors are not satisfied with the results Minerva has achieved. They want to use this to put pressure on me to make Hogwarts what they want it to be." Dumbledore paused. "Minerva and I both want to find out the truth about the Basilisk as soon as possible, but we are too conspicuous. The heirs hidden in the Castle are wary of every professor, and we can't find any useful clues."

Harry belatedly realized what was happening and pointed incredulously at himself. "So, me?"

Dumbledore nodded, then shook his head. "Not you, but all of you. I want to ask you to find the heir or the location of the Chamber of Secrets as soon as possible, and leave the rest to the professors."

"Professor, we've been doing this, but..." Harry said dejectedly.

Hagrid, Malfoy, himself... a jumble of things and people were tangled together, and he couldn't make sense of it all. He wasn't confident he could uncover the truth by trying to extract information from Malfoy using Polyjuice Potion.

"I think I might be able to offer some small assistance." Dumbledore and entered the compartment, picked up the Stone Basin, walked to the table, and placed it on the smooth surface. "There are some clues here about the last opening of the Chamber of Secrets of Secrets."

Harry saw what was in the Pensieve, unable to tell if it was liquid or gas. It looked like a bright piece of silver, but it was constantly moving, like ripples on the surface of water in a breeze, or drifting and gently swirling like clouds. It was light in liquid form, or wind solidified.

"What is this?" Harry asked.

"It's called the Pensieve. You know, I'm too old, and I have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my head. When I want to use these things, I can't pull them all out as quickly as I could when I was younger."

Dumbledore pointed to the Stone Basin and said, "That's when I use the Pensieve to draw out the excess from my mind and pour it into this Pensieve, and then look at it when I have time. You know, in this state, it's easier to see their forms and the connections between them."

"This is... your thoughts and memories!?" Harry exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"Yes," Dumbledore, drawing his wand and inserting the tip into his silver hair, near his temple, pulling out a strand of silvery substance.

"Let's look at what happened back then."