Madam Pomfrey nodded, pushing a small iron trolley loaded with dozens of empty crystal bottles. She said nothing, but her fingers gripped the trolley handle so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
The brewing process lasted all day. Professor Sprout personally stood watch beside the cauldron, stirring clockwise three hundred times with a long silver rod, then counterclockwise another three hundred times. The potion changed from murky green to clear amber, then from amber to a transparent, colorless liquid like water. Madam Pomfrey filled the crystal bottles one by one, labeled them, and placed them on the trolley. Her movements were quick but steady, and not a single drop spilled.
That night, the doors of the Hospital Wing remained open. Madam Pomfrey went from bed to bed, administering medicine to the petrified students. Mrs Norris was the first to awaken. She sprang up from the sheets, back arched, tail raised like a taut white rope, her eyes wide and her pupils narrowed to a line so thin it was almost invisible.
She stared at Madam Pomfrey for several seconds before recognizing her—not by her face, but by the scent of someone who had dealt with potions for years. Her back slowly relaxed, her tail lowered, and she rubbed against Madam Pomfrey, a faint, affectionate purr rumbling in her throat.
Filch rushed in from the Hospital Wing entrance, dropped to his knees, and gathered Mrs Norris into his arms. His tears fell onto her white fur, leaving dark, damp patches. He did not wipe them away. He cradled Mrs Norris in both hands as though she were a piece of porcelain that had been shattered, painstakingly glued back together, and might break again at the slightest touch.
Only then, as if he had finally remembered something, did he frantically pull