After scheduling Roberts' phone interview, Anthony immediately dove into mapping out extra study plans for several students. While talking with them, he drew up a conversion table—left column: "What I Want to Say," right column: "What I Should Say." Through this chart, students learned to swap "St. Mungo's" for "a private London hospital," transform "Gringotts" into "a private bank," and turn "Diagon Alley" into "near Charing Cross Road."
"Try to imagine you've lost your magic," Anthony said. "Imagine you have no idea magic even exists."
One student pointed out: "You're asking me to imagine I don't exist, Professor."
Anthony considered this, then laughed. "Fair point. Then imagine you're a master liar, and think about what happens when you break the Statute of Secrecy."
He'd also secured owl-keeping permits for the Weasley twins.
The process turned out simpler than expected—barely required any lies at all. Professor Burbage told him the Muggle Liaison Office had been wrestling with the owl problem for years. They'd developed a streamlined permit application system and actively encouraged any wizard who might interact with Muggles to get one.
"Worried your visitors will report you for illegal owl ownership?" their flyer read. "Tired of hiding your beloved owl? Don't want to pay another Galleon to us or the Obliviator Headquarters? Of course! Get your owl-keeping license today! Just sixteen Knuts!"
"I've never heard anyone mention this service," Anthony said, surprised.
The flyer's owl perched on a dock like a seagull, backdropped by furled sails and a glowing sandwich shop sign—utterly out of place. Anthony poked it with his finger. The owl flew off irritably. Other owls in the corners eyed him warily.
"Because people generally don't interact with Muggles at all," Professor Burbage said matter-of-factly. "And Muggles usually don't notice what's tied to an owl's leg. They'll say 'owls are always flying around' or 'probably a sanctuary tag' or something. Some can't even tell if what flew past was an owl or a pigeon."
Anthony couldn't help reflecting on his twenty-six years of Muggle life. He really hadn't cared what bird flew overhead, or whether his neighbor kept a parrot or an owl. Just like wizards didn't care much about Muggles, Muggles didn't care much about wizards. Everyone had their own lives.
After several days of nonstop work, Anthony finally found a moment to deliver his final grades to Professor McGonagall, then walked with her toward the staff room, chatting.
The room was packed. Anthony had never seen so many professors here at once. Even Professor Kettleburn had shown up. He'd removed all his prosthetics, laid them on the table, and was discussing wood properties with Professor Sprout.
"Come look at this, Minerva... ah, Professor Anthony!" Professor Flitwick called out. "Finished with the pet applications?" He stood in the middle of a small round table. A stool with a goat's beard clip-clopped around the room.
"Not yet. Phone interviews start tomorrow morning," Anthony said, rescuing his robe hem from the goat stool's mouth. "First one's Mr. Roberts. I've booked a room at a nearby inn with a phone—leave Hogwarts around eight-forty, Apparate as soon as I'm in range, still leaves time to test the line. I really hope tomorrow's weather isn't like this."
He glanced worriedly toward the window.
Storm clouds crushed against each other. Furious wind hurled rain at the wilderness. Everything was pitch black—impossible to tell where mountain ended and cloud began. Lightning trapped in the clouds occasionally lit the leaden sky in flashes of white-purple. Thunder rolled across Hogwarts.
In short: terrible weather for phone calls.
"Sounds good," Professor Sprout said politely.
Anthony and Professor Burbage exchanged smiles. Both knew she had no idea what weather had to do with phone interviews. He took the tin of treats she offered and started picking through it.
Professor McGonagall shifted topics to the goat stool. "What is this, Filius?"
"A student mispronounced a spell during finals," Professor Flitwick said enthusiastically. "I think he read the 'k' as a 'g,' which is why the furniture turned out like this."
"Marvelous." McGonagall pushed away the stool trying to nibble her sleeve, then transformed her own chair into a high stool. Unable to reach any fabric, the goat stool resumed its lonely circuit of the room.
"Have you found any rest time lately, Minerva?" Professor Sprout asked with concern. McGonagall had just poured herself a cup of dark reddish-brown tea.
"Student grade tallying is almost done—just a few subjects left. Sybill, please make sure I have the Divination grades by tomorrow afternoon. But I have other matters," McGonagall said.
"What matters?" Professor Burbage asked. "Did the Headmaster dump the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor search on you again?"
"Oh, no," McGonagall said. "Gryffindor has its final Quidditch match coming up."
When Snape strode through the staff room door, Anthony was playing Gobstones with Professor Flitwick. Anthony got lucky and captured one of Flitwick's stones. Foul, sticky liquid immediately sprayed onto Flitwick's forehead.
"Oh! You won't be this lucky next time, Professor Anthony!" Flitwick said cheerfully, letting the slime slowly trickle down his cheek.
He'd been in excellent spirits lately. No student exam mistake could upset him. All because Roger Davies' treatment was showing progress.
After Flitwick's visit, St. Mungo's healers had taken Roger's condition seriously. Several Spell Damage specialists came to the hospital wing to examine him. They'd discussed with Madam Pomfrey for hours, tried several treatment plans. Roger had finally told them "it doesn't hurt as much."
Snape stood in the doorway. "Minerva, I'm simply here to inform you that Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts grades are complete. But I see I've come at an inopportune time."
McGonagall looked up from her Wizard's Chess. "Thank you, Severus. Cake?" She commanded her bishop to smash the opposing knight.
Snape seemed about to say something. Instead he just snorted heavily and sat in a corner chair. The goat stool immediately came over to chew his robes.
"Busy week, Severus?" Professor Kettleburn asked.
"Oh, tolerable," Snape said, frowning at the tin of treats Anthony floated over. "Just some exam marking."
"I want a cream cake. Ah, thank you, Pomona." Professor Kettleburn took a satisfied bite. "Three years of exams is enough for me. After next term ends, I'm retiring no matter what."
"Who'll replace you?" Professor Burbage asked.
"I don't know. Albus always finds someone suitable," Kettleburn said carelessly. "Speaking of which, has he found a Defense professor?"
"Severus, would you like a cream cake too?" Professor Sprout asked.
She placed a cake in front of Snape without waiting for an answer. Snape stared at it, then viciously pressed the cherry into the soft white cream with his fork. His greasy hair hung on either side of his sallow face, which looked utterly grim—like he was contemplating how to cast the Cruciatus Curse on a piece of cake.
"Albus said the Ilvermorny professor declined," McGonagall said without looking up. "But Gilderoy Lockhart wrote back saying he'd be delighted to begin a new adventure at Hogwarts."
"Lockhart?" Anthony couldn't help asking. "The bestselling author?"
"Him," McGonagall said. "Ravenclaw graduate. Was quite the celebrity in school. Checkmate."
Professor Burbage, sitting across from her, let out a long breath and grabbed a handful of cream fudge.
"Yes, I remember his Valentine's gifts," Snape said darkly.
Professor Flitwick laughed merrily. "That's right—you were still in school when he enrolled, Severus. You mean the time he received countless Valentine's cards?"
"And countless owl feathers and droppings," Snape said. "He generously shared his joy with all of us. We were deeply grateful. Unforgettable."
"Ravenclaw lost fifty points," Flitwick said soothingly.
"I've read his books. Really well written," Anthony said. "But doesn't he love traveling the world, experiencing thrilling magical adventures? Will he actually come to Hogwarts?"
"We're quite thrilling," Professor Burbage joked. "If he comes this year, he could write Protecting the Philosopher's Stone with a Troll."
"I don't think he'll come either, Henry," McGonagall said. "So Albus contacted several other candidates. Unfortunately, four have already declined. One said becoming colleagues with a former professor would be too strange."
"Strange?" Professor Flitwick asked.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't know."
"How did the students do in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Severus?" McGonagall asked. "I hope I won't see a long string of P's."
"I maintain my position: they learned nothing," Snape said. "The Headmaster seems to agree, so his exam was absurdly simple... No, I think you'll see a long string of A's."
"That's good," McGonagall said with satisfaction, sipping her tea. "And Potions? Want a game of Wizard's Chess, Severus?"
"No, thank you," Snape said. "As usual, Potions was a disaster. I must point out—purely out of kindness—I allowed your house's Neville Longbottom to earn an A. I hope you won't complain again about my failure rates, Minerva."
"That's fine. Longbottom got an A in Transfiguration too," McGonagall said. "I know. He really has no talent." She sighed. "Did you see Frank and Alice, Filius?"
Flitwick's expression grew sad. "I did. Same as always."
"Frank and Alice?" Anthony asked.
"Mr. Longbottom's parents," Professor Sprout explained. "Both were Aurors. Two very good people. Kind, optimistic... They were tortured into insanity by Death Eaters."
"What?!" Anthony said, shocked.
"Yes," Professor Sprout repeated sadly. "Neville Longbottom's parents are both at St. Mungo's now. They endured too many Cruciatus Curses. They're... somewhat mentally unstable."
"Bellatrix," McGonagall said grimly. "She tortured Alice and Frank into this state. I hope she suffers every torment in Azkaban."
"She deserves the Dementor's Kiss," Professor Burbage said bitterly. "She killed my aunt... She's a genuine lunatic, fanatically devoted to another lunatic."
"Could she escape from Azkaban?" Anthony asked worriedly. Since Voldemort wasn't dead, he could easily imagine Voldemort's fanatic follower attempting a breakout.
"Impossible, Henry," Professor Burbage said. "You don't understand what Azkaban is. The place is crawling with Dementors. No prisoner could escape with their sanity intact—though I seriously question whether Bellatrix's sanity is intact. Something must have gone wrong with her already."
"Azkaban is an inescapable prison, Henry," Professor Sprout added. "I've never heard of them having a single breach."
"Well... all right," Anthony said, still worried. "I mean, hypothetically."
Honestly, he thought Azkaban seemed like the easiest prison in the world to escape from. Those so-called Dementors had practically agreed to let him leave without resistance.
The thought that he might have been neighbors with this brutal murderer made Anthony deeply grateful he hadn't left his door open for anything that might have followed him.
McGonagall looked at him silently, sipped her tea, said nothing. Anthony met her gaze. Smiled.
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