According to Dumbledore, only McGonagall and Snape clearly knew the third-floor right corridor was merely a trap for those seeking immortality's secrets. Others, even if vaguely suspicious, never got confirmation from the Headmaster. When Quirrell's seat emptied again, people assumed the pitiful professor had locked himself in his office crying.
However, before McGonagall's notification letter was drafted, per his agreement with Quirrell, Professor Kettleburn visited the second-floor corridor first. After being left outside half an hour, the old professor finally got angry. Waved his cane and prosthetics. Banged on the garlic portrait.
But that "promise-breaking brat" still didn't come open the door. When Professor Kettleburn angrily tried to pry the door open, somehow all his prosthetics got caught on the painting's frame. So he pulled hard while complaining loudly. Finally woke Anthony next door.
"Professor Kettleburn?" Anthony opened the door, hair messy, wearing pajamas. Faced an absurd scene.
The venerable, elderly Care of Magical Creatures professor's three prosthetic limbs were all stuck in the frame. Hung in the corridor like his hairy primate relatives. His good arm gripped his cane. Battled the white garlic.
"Let me in!" Professor Kettleburn threatened. "Let me in now! Quirrell, or come out!"
Anthony quickly helped the old professor down: "Quirrell... uh, Professor Quirrell left."
Professor Kettleburn shook his wooden prosthetics furiously. Made teeth-grinding creaking sounds.
"Left? I'd say ran away!" he said loudly. "Kept stalling. Just didn't want to give me a comfortable exam environment!"
"Exam?" Anthony brought the old professor to his office. Quickly changed clothes. Poured Professor Kettleburn tea. Shot a warning glare at the eager cat. It stared at that weathered wooden leg. Though Anthony had to admit—the texture really did look like the cat tree McGonagall gave him.
Professor Kettleburn threw himself into the guest chair. Took the tea. Said indignantly: "My exam. The Care of Magical Creatures exam. Those creatures... Oh, look, who's this?" He suddenly noticed the ginger cat staring at him. Put down his tea. Started making faces at the cat.
The cat watched him a while. Finally looked away, uninterested. Leaped onto the cat tree. Started clawing and biting its favorite toy. The toy's jingling woke the wraith mouse sleeping on the upper level. It poked out its head. Looked around. Saw Professor Kettleburn. Quickly pulled its nose back into its nest.
But the sharp-eyed professor had already seen it: "What's that, a mouse?" He pushed on the armrests. Tried to stand for a closer look at this transparent little thing.
Sensing the mouse just wanted to sleep and had no energy for this energetic professor, Anthony quickly redirected: "Yes, exactly. What about the Care of Magical Creatures exam, Professor?"
"Ah, where was I... right, those magical creatures," Professor Kettleburn said excitedly. "I prepared different questions for different years. Especially upper years—all practical exams. Some distinguish Knarls from hedgehogs. Some Crups from hounds. All very interesting... But I need to know Defense Against the Dark Arts exam time and location. What if he also decides to set his exam site near the Forbidden Forest? Right? Can't let those noisy people scare away my darlings."
Anthony nodded: "Right."
"I've asked all professors organizing practical exams. Only Professor Quirrell hasn't given me a definite exam time!" Professor Kettleburn said huffily. Thumped his cane hard on the floor. "So naturally I politely sent him an owl. Asked when he could finalize the exam time and location..."
Anthony couldn't help asking: "But don't elective courses exam earlier than them? Always a week ahead?"
"Oh, really?" Professor Kettleburn looked surprised.
"Professor Quirrell told me," Anthony said. Couldn't help wondering if Voldemort had spread false information.
Professor Kettleburn looked up blankly. Stared at nothing for a while. Like recalling past exam times. Finally shook his head: "No, I don't remember such a rule... Oh wait, it's like this. Subjects with practical exams need to submit exam content, estimated duration, and location a week earlier than other subjects. Written-only subjects are different. You must have misheard. Exam week is unified. Just the submission deadline differs."
"Excellent," Anthony blurted out.
He hadn't prepared questions yet. But it definitely wouldn't be practical. After the practical activities, he felt he temporarily didn't need more opportunities supervising students experiencing Muggle life firsthand.
Professor Kettleburn looked at him knowingly: "Haven't prepared exam questions?"
Anthony sipped his tea somewhat embarrassed. Smiled: "Not yet."
"No problem. Use old questions," Professor Kettleburn said mysteriously, leaning closer. "My written exam questions never change. Students call me 'Old Fool' behind my back. But, hmph, don't think I don't know—they're quite happy about it..."
The newly-appointed professor Anthony declined his suggestion. Redirected to his vanished neighbor.
"You sent an owl, then what?"
Professor Kettleburn leaned back: "Then naturally I waited for his reply. I went to the Owlery twice daily—hmph, look at this body, you should know that's no easy task—then probably yesterday, I finally got a reply. I was in the Owlery helping that owl clean its food trough... Some troublemaker dumped corn kernels in..."
"Uh..." said the troublemaker.
"Then that unlucky bird flew past the window. Probably saw me. Flew in to help me tend its trough. Guess what? Quirrell's reply was tied to its leg. Asked me to visit his office this morning for detailed discussion."
Anthony asked with difficulty: "Um... how was that letter written? How could you be sure it was Professor Quirrell?"
Professor Kettleburn said proudly: "I taught him. I recognize his handwriting. Besides, who else could it be for? But I got angry seeing that letter. Professor Anthony, you can't imagine how rude that paper was! No greeting, no signature. I waited so long, only got a hastily-written note!"
"Ah," Anthony said with difficulty. "That's very unfortunate."
After seeing Professor Kettleburn off, Anthony, unable to sleep anymore, played with his pets a while. Decided to visit the staff room. Then quickly prepare exam questions.
He met McGonagall there.
"Henry, I was wondering if you'd come," McGonagall looked up from a large stack of essays. "About your teaching practical activity, there's something I want to discuss."
"What is it, Minerva?" Anthony asked, puzzled. Opened the cupboard. "Tea?"
McGonagall shook her head: "No, thank you... I noticed Mr. Davies is in the third practical group. The zoo, correct?"
"Right," Anthony said. Vaguely understood what McGonagall wanted to say.
Sure enough, McGonagall pressed her lips together: "We're worried his condition can't participate. But he seems very excited about the activity... Filius went straight to the Hospital Wing after returning yesterday. They told me they have some direction. Probably can make progress before the holidays..."
Anthony volunteered: "How about this—we postpone the Muggle Studies practical activity to... uh, next school year. I'll communicate with the zoo." He thought again. "Since the third group is postponed, might as well postpone the chocolate factory too. Otherwise only seven people from both years taking the course won't participate."
"That's excellent. I'll issue the school's guarantee letter to parents," McGonagall said. "But not just the zoo or factory. You may need to consider how to explain to students..."
Anthony joked: "That's simple. I'll tell them it's because I didn't have time to prepare exam questions. End-of-term priority."
Even facing a parchment with handwriting too messy to read, McGonagall couldn't help laughing.
"As you wish, Henry," she said. "You can also say I sternly ordered you."
Just then, a large group of professors flooded the staff room. Leading was Professor Sprout, talking with Professor Burbage. After they entered, Anthony noticed Professor Flitwick. Following the short Ravenclaw Head was gloomy Snape.
Flitwick looked exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes. Nodded at Anthony. Took the teapot he offered.
"Is it true, Minerva?" Sprout said. "Quirinus? He really tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone?"
McGonagall said seriously: "Unfortunately, I'm afraid so."
"Philosopher's Stone?" Anthony asked. Then realized this was the so-called "secret of immortality." Because there were too many things waiting to report to Dumbledore, too many things he wanted to know, he'd never actually asked what that secret was.
But Flitwick misunderstood his confusion. He sipped tea. Got scalded awake a bit. Explained shrilly: "Yes, the Philosopher's Stone. The one Nicolas Flamel made. Can turn stone to gold. Can also create the Elixir of Life... You don't know how many people covet it. If Flamel weren't already a powerful wizard, thieves and robbers would visit his home at least three times daily. Though twice a week is still somewhat high."
"Especially when you've lived six hundred years," Anthony said understandingly.
After being tricked into buying that "elixir of life," he'd learned more about this legendary alchemist. He recalled: "I remember reading—didn't he store the Stone at Gringotts?"
"Before term started—before you came—Gringotts was nearly robbed. I don't know if you remember that news," Sprout said. "That was the Stone. Mr. Flamel gave the Stone to Albus. Albus stored it at Gringotts. But one day, I don't know why, he suddenly decided to take the Stone out. Keep it at Hogwarts. Result was that day, someone illegally broke into that vault... Fortunately the item was already removed."
Anthony gradually completed the puzzle. Then these professors were undoubtedly invited to create traps. That's why he'd seen those rooms, those corridors.
Burbage asked breathlessly: "Then what? What about the Stone?" Before anyone answered, she slapped her forehead. "Oh, I know—that corridor!"
"Albus asked each of us to think of ways to guard the Stone," McGonagall said calmly. "Then, yes, that forbidden corridor. Coincidentally, Quirrell also participated."
Just then, the staff room door banged open again. Professor Kettleburn waved a parchment. Limped into the staff room.
"So many people—you all saw it?" he asked.
The professors quickly made a chair fly to his feet. He unceremoniously dropped his cane. Sat down. Rubbed his remaining half-leg.
"What happened to your leg again, Silvanus?" Sprout said with concern.
Professor Kettleburn complained: "Splinter stuck in... My wooden leg needs repair again..."
Flitwick said: "I really suggest you switch to metal prosthetics. Most alchemical products are actually metal... Especially these things that make most magic ineffective—since repair charms don't work, find something sturdy."
"No," Professor Kettleburn refused decisively. "I like my arms and legs going thump-thump, not clang-clang."
McGonagall asked: "Why did you come down, Silvanus?"
Meanwhile, Flitwick jumped from his chair as if unable to watch. Pointed his wand at Kettleburn's leg. Said something.
"Really works!" Professor Kettleburn said happily. Comfortably propped his leg on a footstool. "Where'd you learn that?"
Flitwick said: "St. Mungo's... I went this morning. Saw several students I'm close with."
"You should go more," Professor Kettleburn said casually. Then answered McGonagall's question: "I came as soon as I saw your notification. Is it true?"
"What, about Quirrell?" McGonagall said. "Yes, it's true."
Professor Kettleburn said cheerfully: "Wonderful! Can we cancel the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam then?"
The staff room fell silent for a moment. Anthony quickly realized—not only had Voldemort escaped, but also a Defense professor who hadn't submitted final exam questions.
He glanced at McGonagall's serious expression. Then met Sprout's eyes. Both smiled. Part of McGonagall's brain fiercely opposed canceling the exam. But another part didn't want to find a temporary Defense professor.
"If you're short-handed, I think I barely have time... Happy to help, Minerva," Snape said politely. Anthony turned in surprise—he'd been so silent Anthony had almost forgotten he was there.
McGonagall seemed to make up her mind: "No, Severus. You're responsible for seven years of Potions. Already very busy. Time to give Albus something to do. Let him set this year's Defense exam."
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