After the professors confiscated the photos, Malfoy seemed to think the whole mess was behind him. He was back at the Slytherin table, swaggering as he bragged about the care packages from home, or striding through the corridors loudly predicting the miserable future awaiting the Weasleys.
Anthony wrapped up his discussion with Dumbledore—his research topic had officially shifted from resurrection to immortality—and headed out to consult Professor Flitwick on some magical principles. Dumbledore had listed several modern theoretical masters, suggesting Anthony read their works. Anthony distinctly remembered Flitwick mentioning he had annotated editions in his office.
"What if he actually believes it?" Hermione hissed, leaning toward Ron. Her voice was sharp, urgent. "You shouldn't tease him like that, Ron!"
"Don't be daft, Hermione," Ron said. "It's a joke. No one would believe—oh, good morning, Professor Anthony."
"Morning, Mr. Weasley," Anthony said. "Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. I believe I overheard something about a joke?"
"No. It's nothing."
Anthony studied them. None of the three looked evasive—Hermione just seemed annoyed—so he decided it wasn't critical. He simply warned them to be careful and let them go.
…
Flitwick wasn't in his office. Anthony remembered he had a third-year class that morning. He was about to head for the Charms classroom when Colin Creevey intercepted him in the corridor.
"Professor Anthony!" Colin chirped, beaming. "Could you take me to the Slytherin common room? I don't know the password."
"Why do you want to go to the Slytherin common room?" Anthony asked, baffled.
"Oh, I want Draco Malfoy to sign this!" Colin said cheerfully, holding up a photo.
The photo showed Malfoy on his knees, hunched over, hands clutching his throat. A massive slug was crawling out of his mouth. Anthony could see the edges of robes and shoes in the frame—he recognized Hagrid's and his own, but they weren't in the shot—and a few more slugs were inching onto a nearby broom.
For a moment, Anthony was speechless.
"You… why would you want Mr. Malfoy's signature, Mr. Creevey?" he finally managed. "Also, these photos are currently banned. Please hand it over."
"Oh, alright. Good thing I have a few more," Colin said lightly, standing on tiptoe to pass the photo. "I heard you're the nicest professor—please, Professor Anthony?"
"No. And I strongly advise you to drop this idea entirely," Anthony said firmly. "Go to class, Mr. Creevey. First-year Herbology should be starting soon."
…
Flitwick was delighted to see him and promptly loaded Anthony's arms with every relevant theory book. Anthony juggled the stack, mentally planning his reading schedule for the week, when he heard a commotion up ahead.
He caught Colin's voice: "…Ron said if you'd sign it, he'd get me a signed photo of Harry."
"Ha! Potter's signature!" came a cold, drawling voice—Malfoy. "Of course. Weasley needs to sell autographs to get by."
Slytherin laughter rippled. Colin sounded indignant. "Ron is Harry's friend!"
"His father's about to be sacked," Malfoy said, dragging out the words. "If Saint Potter doesn't help him, he and his ginger ferret brothers and sister will be scavenging in the rubbish bins."
Anthony, burdened by the books, squeezed past the gathered students. Some Hufflepuffs looked up, saw him, and immediately started whispering excitedly.
"You shouldn't say things like that!" Colin said, disbelief in his voice.
"I'll say what I like." Malfoy's tone was pure scorn. "As for you, if you dare shove your grubby little hand under my nose again, you filthy little Mu—"
"Mr. Malfoy!" Anthony's voice cut through the corridor. He strode forward.
Malfoy looked up. The malice on his face flickered. He wasn't stupid enough to finish that slur with a professor present. In the next second, he clutched his throat. "Professor Anthony… sorry… I suddenly feel a sharp pain…"
"Mr. Malfoy, I'd like a word." Anthony's voice was low. His gaze swept over the surrounding Slytherins. Pansy Parkinson stood behind Malfoy, chin lifted in defiance.
Anthony's eyes lingered on her for a few seconds. Pansy flinched, an involuntary twitch, then straightened and glared back.
Anthony looked away.
"With me, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "If you're in that much pain, we can talk at the hospital wing. Or would you prefer to chat during detention?"
"Yes, Professor," Malfoy said sullenly, trailing after him.
…
"Have a seat, Mr. Malfoy," Anthony said, gesturing to a chair in his office. "Something to drink?"
Malfoy's jaw was tight. He sat rigidly opposite Anthony. "No. Thank you, Professor Anthony." The politeness was unnatural, brittle.
Anthony smiled. "Relax. I haven't taken any points from you today, have I?"
"What do you want to talk about?" Malfoy asked, eyes wary. "Fine. I can forgive Weasley and them, but I am not signing those photos!" A flush of humiliated anger crossed his pale face. Then, as if seizing on a defense, he added loudly, "Speaking of photos, weren't you supposed to have confiscated them all—"
"I apologize, Mr. Malfoy," Anthony said soothingly. "We confiscated the photos circulating among students. It seems Mr. Creevey had… reserves. I understand you don't want them seen. Someone will be speaking with Mr. Creevey shortly, I'm sure."
Malfoy watched him carefully, searching for mockery. Then he said abruptly, "You gave Pansy detention."
"I did," Anthony said. "I hope she isn't sticking pins in a voodoo doll of me back in the common room. My shoulder's been acting up lately."
Malfoy didn't let him deflect. "Is this your plan for me too? Detention? Brainwashing me with Dumbledore's nonsense?"
"What nonsense is that?" Anthony asked, genuinely curious.
Malfoy's lip curled in disgust. "All that rubbish about blood not mattering… Of course, you'd believe it. You're the Muggle Studies professor." He barely hid the sneer in the last words.
"What if I told you that's the only version I've heard since entering the wizarding world? Might that make it easier to understand?" Anthony said. "Tell me about the other version, Mr. Malfoy. Enlighten me. Tell me why pure-bloods are superior."
"You're not a pure-blood," Malfoy said flatly. "Fine… We pure-blood families have maintained the stability of the wizarding world for generations. We uphold wizarding dignity."
"What does that mean?" Anthony asked gently.
Malfoy studied him for a long moment. Anthony waited.
"Oh… I see," Malfoy said. A smirk touched his lips. "That's how you got Pansy. Pretend you're on our side, coax it out of her. It won't work on me."
He lifted his chin, a show of defiant bravado.
"No, I know it won't work on you," Anthony agreed.
Unlike Pansy, Draco Malfoy had never been hurt by the pure-blood ideology he espoused. Pansy might still remember her dead brother Charles, feel the sting of disappointing her family with her fear of heights, worry about bringing shame… Malfoy didn't.
All Anthony had to do was look into Malfoy's cold grey eyes to see a spoiled child. The daily owl-order sweets, the new broom for the Slytherin team… He'd never felt constrained by pure-blood doctrine. He worshipped his father, believed his blood made him inherently better, and relished the feeling of superiority.
"Tea, Mr. Malfoy?" Anthony offered. "You're right. I do believe in 'Dumbledore's nonsense.' But that doesn't mean I can't listen to your thoughts. Consider it academic curiosity. You must have reasons for believing it, yes?"
Malfoy's expression suggested he thought Anthony was unhinged.
His eyes darted, almost imperceptibly, to the closed window and the door behind him. Then, as if remembering something, his eyebrows rose. He decided to play along. "Fine. As a Malfoy, I am well aware of the contributions and sacrifices my ancestors made for our world. During the witch hunts, they risked everything to survive, never lowering themselves to marry Muggles… And now Dumbledore spouts his madness, expecting us to welcome Muggle blood with open arms."
He glanced at Anthony, gauging if he was about to start deducting points. Anthony just smiled and nudged the teacup closer, a silent go on.
"Muggles! I suppose you like them, Professor," Malfoy said with newfound confidence. "But since you asked… you must admit they're fools. They'll never understand the world's true power, its true wonder. They're the ones magic rejected. The inferior leftovers."
"No, Mr. Malfoy, don't dodge," Anthony said. "I'm not surprised by your contempt for Muggles—many witches and wizards share it. I'm curious why you scorn witches and wizards from Muggle families. By your logic, magic has chosen them."
"Don't you see?" Malfoy's voice rose. "Magic shouldn't have chosen them! If we let that inferior blood pollute magic… one day…" He faltered, struggling to articulate the consequence. "One day, magic won't be pure anymore!"
Anthony had to remind himself not to laugh. The second-year Slytherin before him was now fully engaged, trying to convince Anthony of pure-blood superiority with a theory he himself hadn't fully reasoned out.
Malfoy glared, attempting to win through sheer force of will. But when you're an adult—especially one who knows the boy across from you is your student—it's hard to be intimidated by a scowling twelve-year-old perched in an armchair, his eye level barely reaching your waist.
"What does pure magic look like?" Anthony asked, keeping his tone serious.
To his surprise, despite the cold sharpness in his eyes, Malfoy's face broke into a triumphant smile. As if he'd been waiting for this question.
"Not the rubbish they teach here," Malfoy said dismissively. "Pure magic. Powerful magic… You know what I mean."
"I do?"
Malfoy nodded. His tone turned lofty, almost threatening. "Don't think I don't know your secret, Professor Anthony. You betrayed us. You were once one of those who sought greater power… Father told me. They threw you in Azkaban. Dumbledore got you out."
Anthony watched him, confused by this reckless boldness. If Malfoy truly believed Anthony was a dark wizard, he should fear for his life. If he didn't believe it, he shouldn't be hinting that his professor had dark inclinations.
Then he understood. Malfoy had never considered himself in real danger. He believed that no matter what he did or said, his family—the pure-blood House of Malfoy—would protect him. Like an invincible talisman.
"What exactly did your father say?" Anthony asked, neither confirming nor denying.
A soft sob came from the corner of the office.
Anthony turned, startled. A house-elf stood there, dressed in a filthy rag. Anthony had no idea when it had arrived. The elf had huge, bulging eyes brimming with tears. It was silently tugging on its large ears.
"Quiet, Dobby!" Malfoy snapped impatiently. "A proper servant shouldn't let me know he's here." The house-elf, Dobby, nodded tearfully, then shook his head and began hitting his skull against the wall, all without a sound.
"As we were saying…" Malfoy began, noticing Anthony's gaze. "Oh, that's my family's house-elf. Father was worried after my… injury. He's having them take turns watching me."
"Mr. Malfoy… your elf's name is Dobby?"
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