Students quickly noticed Professor Quirrell's disappearance. When Anthony announced the remaining two practical activity groups were postponed to next term, he didn't receive as many wails and complaints as expected. Instead saw thoughtful expressions and exchanged glances.
"What's wrong?" he asked, puzzled. Unsure whether to pull out the chocolate balls from his bag.
Cedric got pushed forward. Under his classmates' expectant, nervous gazes, he asked quietly: "Is it because of Professor Quirrell?"
"What?"
"Professor Quirrell—he's disappeared, Professor Anthony," Cedric explained. "Last time he went out and came back, he looked terrible. We're all guessing what happened to him this time."
Anthony couldn't help being curious: "What do you think happened?"
Students elbowed each other. All said: "Nothing, Professor."
But even without them saying, Anthony soon heard the speculation circulating among students from Professor Sprout.
After learning Muggle Studies practical activities were postponed, one theory quickly stood out from many speculations. Got the most supporters. They believed Quirrell hadn't learned from his last embarrassing return from outside. Tried to do something off-campus again. Result—violated the Statute of Secrecy. Got arrested by the Ministry. Many students privately said it was because of Quirrell they couldn't visit the Muggle world at this critical time.
However, from another perspective, students weren't particularly disappointed. First, the activity was only postponed, not canceled. More importantly, their minds were occupied by another very important matter: Dumbledore was starting a club.
For some reason, Dumbledore decided to name his club the "Albacore Club"—a type of merperson snack.
The Albacore Club's first gathering was grand. The entire Hall was cleared. Students wanting to join held their registration forms. Waited excitedly in the corridor. But after hearing Dumbledore's Mermish demonstration, many regretfully withdrew.
"No, I don't think my pitch is high enough," Anthony heard a student say. "Were you there? Did you hear? I was genuinely worried his crystal goblets would shatter."
Less tactful people said: "Screaming at the lake? I'm not crazy. I'd rather learn Potter's Parseltongue... At least that sounds cool."
Anthony found it hard not to think they had a point. Especially after encountering a group of teenagers shrieking conversations in the corridor.
Even Myrtle got startled. Then firmly believed they were mocking her shrill speaking manner. Drifted sadly back to her bathroom—that day, Anthony sat in his office, seriously contemplating Hogwarts' drainage system design. After his neighbor fled Hogwarts, he'd become the only flood disaster victim.
Since Dumbledore needed to manage his club, though he was responsible for this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts exam questions, Snape inevitably became the substitute Defense professor. And this made students' complaints about Quirrell even greater.
"Last-minute professor change!" Percy complained with another prefect. "You know, we're taking exams this year!"
His classmate consoled: "Doesn't matter. Quirrell didn't teach much anyway."
But this couldn't ease Percy's anxiety. He started trying to complain to everyone willing to listen about Hogwarts' chaotic personnel appointments and management ("If I could decide, I'd definitely..."), interspersed with knowledge points ("I still wanted to ask Professor Quirrell about the vampire weaknesses he mentioned last class"), until he remembered his career counseling appointment with McGonagall.
After observing his rambling, Anthony asked Professor Burbage, puzzled: "Are the exams very hard to pass?"
Burbage laughed: "No. For us, not at all."
"Then Mr. Weasley..."
Burbage said: "Well, let me correct that. Exam difficulty depends on the subject. Usually, required courses studied longer are harder than our electives. As for Mr. Weasley, I think he's just overly nervous. Very common among students. Every year the school has a batch of hysterical fifth-years."
Soon her words were confirmed. With such a philosopher constantly pulling people to describe how the more he studied, the more he felt his ignorance, anxious-to-desperate emotions spread rapidly among students. And fairly speaking, Snape at the podium couldn't make their futures look any brighter.
In the review sessions Anthony organized, he heard a fifth-year student broke down crying uncontrollably in Defense class. All because Snape habitually mocked their knowledge. Questioned whether they'd learned anything in the past five years.
"You're absolutely right!" that student shouted loudly. Then burst into tears. Sobbed while saying: "I haven't—haven't learned anything! There's nothing in my brain! I'll definitely fail!"
Anthony asked, shocked: "How did Professor Snape handle it?"
"We don't know," the students said.
But the professors knew. They discussed how Snape dragged the student by the arm through half of Hogwarts. How he handed the person to Madam Pomfrey. Had her pour a cup of Calming Draught down the student.
"Severus has been quite busy lately," Sprout said. "He's handling both Potions and Defense. Doing career counseling for Slytherin. And has to help supplement Calming Draughts when the Hospital Wing can't keep up."
Anthony compared his own workload. Silently sipped his iced pumpkin juice.
After submitting exam questions to McGonagall and Burbage, Anthony became much more leisurely. Had more time to enjoy the staff room's cool air and chilled desserts. These past days, whenever he had no classes, he'd take his notebook and books. Stay in the staff room writing and drawing. Burbage joked he'd "become the staff room's portrait." Flitwick said the sofa Anthony sat in most had "already formed a person-shaped dent."
McGonagall was reviewing a densely-written parchment. Looked up: "Speaking of career counseling, Pomona, how many Hufflepuffs want St. Mungo's or Ministry clerical work this year?"
"About the same as usual. Most still want Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade... Why?"
"Gryffindor has many more wanting these two places this year. But people wanting Quidditch decreased significantly," McGonagall frowned. "You know, I used to get things like Quidditch star, dragon breeding, entrepreneurship... Even Ministry was usually positions like Auror."
Flitwick said: "Ravenclaw has many wanting St. Mungo's and the Ministry." He added half a cup of ice to his soda. Took a comfortable sip.
"But Ravenclaw was always like that," McGonagall said. "At least half the Department of Mysteries are Ravenclaw graduates, right?"
Anthony asked: "Minerva, those who told you they want the Ministry—did any say they want the Department of Magical Games and Sports?"
"Hmm..." McGonagall thought a while. "Not specifically. Why?"
Anthony said: "I heard a theory. They want to fundamentally change Quidditch rules. Not just within Hogwarts. That said, I guess those wanting St. Mungo's have similar reasons—Quidditch injury rates are really a bit high."
McGonagall said: "Excellent. I thought they really didn't want to play Quidditch anymore."
Anthony wasn't idle in the staff room—he was studying his magic.
After learning Voldemort wasn't actually dead, Anthony couldn't help repeatedly recalling his confrontation with Quirrell. Even though he'd hidden some specifics from Dumbledore, he couldn't lie to himself: he'd discovered his necromancy couldn't immediately kill Quirrell. Or Voldemort... Or both of them.
Initially, he thought Voldemort, like himself, probably devoured creatures' souls then occupied their bodies. Under the troll and Quirrell's shell, the confronting parties were actually Anthony and Voldemort himself. But through countless recalled analyses, Anthony gradually developed a very strange idea: he felt Voldemort was wrapped around Quirrell's soul like dodder.
He felt Quirrell hadn't died.
He didn't know if this was self-comforting madness. But thinking he'd let escape not just that Dark Lord who'd destroyed countless families, that thing his mindless self could barely recognize as human, but also a small bit of unlucky Quirrell's soul—that made him feel slightly better.
He even tried to stop the Bloody Baron. Ask his only known necromancer companion whether he knew any magic that attached to others' souls. But Baron stared at him hollow-eyed for a long while. Voice hoarse, told him necromancers only communicated with the dead. They had nothing to do with living souls.
"Even your mentor?" Anthony pressed.
Baron said softly: "My mentor's abilities weren't for me to speculate... But I don't remember hearing him comment on others' souls." He nodded at Anthony. Drifted away down the dungeon corridor, expression blank. Several Slytherin students hurried past. Secretly glanced at Anthony standing there.
Anthony suddenly realized—in all those legends and records about necromancers he'd seen, they were always accompanied by skeletons, wraiths, Inferi. Never heard necromancy itself could kill the living.
This was very logical. The only illogical part was—it didn't account for a dead person inexplicably learning necromancy after years of being lost. From another perspective, Anthony couldn't help feeling this was like a bundle deal.
He thought, like supermarkets trying to sell unpopular or near-expiry products... Anthony's mind conjured a Grim Reaper wearing employee clothes. Using its scythe to point at shelf items. Opening its bone mouth. Enthusiastically telling him if he purchased resurrection, he could get soul-devouring and necromancy.
Voldemort had escaped. Left behind exam-facing students, McGonagall without exam questions, smug Snape, a failed trap, a Philosopher's Stone, and Anthony puzzled by his own power. Yet in all of Hogwarts, one person was completely unaffected.
When Anthony visited Hagrid, the blast of heat hitting his face made him close his eyes.
"Phew, does it have to be like this?" Anthony asked. Unloaded his heavy bundle.
Hagrid tugged his beard: "Oh, sorry..." He hurriedly helped Anthony open the bundle's pocket. Saw the books inside. Beamed with joy. "You really got them all? Thank you so much, Henry!"
"No problem," Anthony said. Handed Hagrid a dragon-care book. The normal-sized book looked like a pocket book in Hagrid's hands.
Hagrid asked: "Did he suspect?"
"What? Oh, no. I think he probably thought I was running errands for student career counseling," Anthony said. Then remembered something. "Right, remember you wanted to give Professor Kettleburn a retirement gift?"
Hagrid slapped his forehead: "Right, right. You asked?"
Anthony carefully pulled a book from another bag: "Sort of. Look at this... They were just about to return it."
After Hagrid asked him to borrow almost all dragon-raising books from the library (when Anthony borrowed that essay collection, Madam Pince finally couldn't help eyeing him suspiciously), they inevitably thought of that Flourish and Blotts drinking buddy.
Anthony sent him a letter. Immediately received an enthusiastic reply. So after arranging a time, Anthony collected a large bundle of accumulated unsold books from Flourish and Blotts. Had several good drinks with his long-unseen friend at the Leaky Cauldron.
After he described the "interesting book" Hagrid wanted to give, the professional clerk almost immediately thought of a long list. All books they were preparing to return. That day there happened to be one. The author had begged the publisher to publish it. Then delivered it to the bookstore himself.
The unruly book seemed merely oddly packaged in the author's hands. But after Flourish and Blotts put it in the warehouse, it opened its big mouth. Nearly chewed through three entire bookshelves. The clerk needed to get rid of the book before the shop owner discovered. But couldn't find the author anywhere.
"You could burn it," Anthony suggested.
"Can't. I'm a bookshop employee," the other refused. "I sell books. Or return them. But I never burn books."
So Anthony spent three drinks buying this lawless monster book.
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