Fourth-year Muggle Studies. Tuesday afternoon. Outside, third-years were already clustering.
"Check you've signed your name. Put quills by the inkwells." Anthony glanced at the waiting students. "Congratulations. Muggle Studies is over for the term."
Flick of his wand. Parchments flew to the lectern. Stacked themselves. Anthony glanced at the top one. One essay question blank. Under "If you were visiting a Muggle family, what should you do?" someone had written: "Secretly Apparate to the door (pay the fine if caught)."
Anthony flipped it facedown. Looked away firmly.
"Before I let you leave, a few words." Pause. "First—no holiday homework."
Applause. Laughter. He waited.
"Second. I don't know if you're planning to visit the Muggle world over the holiday. But I hope when we meet again, I won't hear about Statute of Secrecy violations."
"Also. Students interested in adopting pets can come to my office starting tomorrow. Files are ready. Ms. Howard provided qualifications for becoming a good owner—at least what Muggles consider necessary." He scanned their faces. "Of course, those preparing for other exams don't need to think about this immediately. I've contacted Ms. Howard. All animals on your forms are healthy and happy at the shelter."
"Finally. Because I selfishly hope you have a good impression of Muggle Studies..." Anthony bent down. Pulled out a large tray. Bowls of steaming vanilla ice cream. Had to raise his voice over students pounding desks: "One bowl each! Empty bowls go on your House tables!"
...
Third-years gathered around Cedric, passing his notes, looked up. Watched fourth-years walk out carrying vanilla ice cream.
"Hey, what's that?" a third-year called. "Did you take Muggle Cooking?"
"No." Megan answered. Recognized the Gryffindor who'd asked her to redesign Muggle clothing on the train. "Cooking barely came up. In review, the professor said learning to open, close, and swallow was enough. Muggle table manners aren't that different. Details are fifth year."
"Professor Anthony told us the same," Cedric said. Gazed at the ice cream longingly. "Lemon?"
Anthony opened the door. "Room's ready. Third-years, come in."
"Ah, vanilla," Megan said. "Good luck!"
Another student called: "Is it hard?"
Fourth-years waved their silver spoons. Didn't answer. Anthony held the door. Looked down. "Not too difficult, Mr. Thomas."
...
Third-years got caramel. After instructions, Anthony dismissed class. Organized parchments. Smiled at passing students.
"Professor, will you teach us next year?" a student asked. "Still third and fourth year?"
"Next year's schedule isn't confirmed." Anthony said. "Why? Hope I teach, or hope I don't?"
The student hesitated. Smiled. Said "Have a nice holiday" and ran out.
The student behind said confidently: "He hopes you do."
...
The staff room was lively. All professors had set aside research to start grading. Before finals, Burbage had suggested Anthony grade here: "Plenty of sunlight, tea, and you won't want to miss those bizarre answers, Henry."
When Anthony entered with papers, Sprout and Sinistra each occupied tables, drinking tea while grading. Flitwick had finished all Charms papers yesterday. Now double-checking practical scores, legs swinging. Chair propped on The Cheering Charm: The Great Spell Invention's Journey.
"Henry, exams done?" Sprout looked up. "How'd it go?"
Anthony picked a window spot. "I suspect you'll see scores from my expression shortly."
"Don't worry about grades," Burbage said. Her fifth-years tested today. Seventh-years just finished. She sat calmly, touched the cold teapot, and sent it to the stove.
Anthony: "Really necessary to comfort me already, Charity?"
Burbage laughed. Changed subject. "If you put a verb before 'antenna,' what would you use, Henry?"
Flitwick: "Observe?"
Sinistra: "Collect?"
"Install?" Anthony said.
Burbage assessed: "'Observe'—clever, not wrong. 'Collect'—if I'm generous, some points..." She smiled at Sinistra. "'Install'—perfect answer without context. But the verb before 'antenna' should not be 'taste.'"
Anthony asked sympathetically: "Your student's answer, Charity?"
"Yes." Burbage said calmly. Summoned the warmed teapot. Poured tea. "Sixth year. Got an E on his Muggle Studies O.W.L."
...
Burbage's example opened floodgates. Sinistra complained about a student who wrote "I know nothing" and renamed every star after Hogwarts professors.
"That's Mercury, not McGonagall." Sinistra said. "Saturn, not Snape. She did it on purpose."
Anthony asked: "Do I have a star?"
"No. She used Minerva's name twice. McGonagall for Mercury, Minerva for Mars." Sinistra said. "If it helps, I don't have one either, Professor Anthony."
Sprout: "Gryffindor?"
"No, Slytherin." Sinistra accepted the offered cake.
Flitwick described practical exam mistakes. Though he'd emphasized pronunciation countless times—repeated the Baruffio and buffalo story every year—students still mispronounced spells. Sometimes from nerves.
When lucky, nothing happened. But this year Flitwick got hit by a botched spell. Came to dangling from the chandelier. The student was being carried around by a table with a goatee, screaming.
Flitwick had Anthony try the spell. When his chair walked smoothly to the cabinet, Flitwick squeaked: "Professor Anthony learned it on the spot! Only studied Charms one year! That gentleman—" He hesitated on the name. Maintained confidentiality. "—is a fourth-year!"
"No, I practiced," Anthony clarified. "Most spells in The Standard Book of Spells."
Flitwick: "Exactly! Practice! He didn't practice enough!" Added: "I said this spell was important!"
After that, Anthony couldn't quietly finish grading. His colleagues realized someone here had only one year of formal magical education. They bombarded him with questions.
Sinistra asked him to name Jupiter's moons, arrange by size. Later asked if Mars had moons. If Anthony was remotely correct: "Even Professor Anthony..." If wildly wrong, she'd shrug: "They learned a year and still know nothing."
Even Sprout asked about Mandrake flowering and care. Then fifteen advantages of dragon dung fertilizer.
Anthony said helplessly: "I don't know, Pomona. You know how bad I am at Herbology."
"I know." Sprout beamed. "Just wanted to see if a miracle would happen. Chocolate biscuit, Henry?"
"Sure." Anthony leaned over. "The one with dark and white chocolate chips."
...
Soon dinnertime. Anthony packed parchments. Headed to the Hall.
Closer to evening, Sinistra grew energized. She refused dinner, had an elf bring a sandwich, and declared she'd finally woken up. Would finish grading. Maybe tonight visit the Astronomy Tower, verify a theory from the conference.
"I'll go with you, Henry," Burbage said. "Hope Minerva remembers dinner."
"She will," Sprout said, standing and organizing papers. "Lamb chops tonight. She won't miss them. If she forgets, I'll bring chops to her."
McGonagall was seated at the staff table. When Anthony's group entered, she was solemnly cutting lamb. Snape beside her. Dumbledore's chair empty.
"Where's Albus?" Sprout asked.
McGonagall: "Visiting old friends."
Sprout sounded surprised. "Now? Thought he'd be grading Defense—honestly, students put serious effort into Defense this year. I proctored third-years. They wrote pages. Wished they could add five more sheets. Hope they stop handing me blank Herbology papers."
"No. Albus is extremely busy," McGonagall said. "Something about the Tuna Club. Ministry needs help too. No time."
Anthony: "So Defense grading..."
McGonagall nodded. "Severus is handling it."
Snape nodded graciously. "Dumbledore is obviously busy. So his poor Potions professor had to take extra work."
McGonagall said impatiently: "We're all grateful, Severus."
Several owls flew in. After circling floating candles, they all landed at Slytherin table under the professors' gazes.
"I want to know what's happening," Burbage muttered.
Another owl flew in. Landed before Snape. His expression became inscrutable. He set down his fork, wiped his hands, untied the letter, and read.
"What is it, Severus?" Flitwick urged. The owl stood proud. Flitwick offered bacon. The owl eyed him sideways, grudgingly accepted, then quickly ate Sprout's lamb chop.
"Dumbledore." Snape said concisely. "Someone's asking me to confirm whether Dumbledore really went out to assassinate Fudge."
"Did he actually?" Sprout asked, sounding unconvinced.
"I wish," Snape drawled. McGonagall glared at both.
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