In recent days, the Slytherin common room had grown increasingly cold and damp. The exquisitely carved fireplace had been lit since the start of term—the dungeons were always the first place in Hogwarts Castle to have their fires kindled—but a biting chill still seeped into the room through the cracks between the damp stones. The hard, carved chairs, the cold leather sofas, and the green-glowing chandeliers did little to alleviate the cold.
Despite this, Draco Malfoy still very much enjoyed spending time in the common room. He relished being in an environment steeped in Slytherin atmosphere: discussing the glory of their fathers with Crabbe and Goyle, talking with classmates of his own social standing about news both inside and outside the school, mocking others' failures with malicious or sarcastic quips, exchanging knowing glances when certain names were mentioned… or, as was the case now, simply engaging in casual conversation.
"… flew brilliantly, almost invisible from the ground, just a few green blurs."
Malfoy said lazily, "That's just the standard speed of a Nimbus 2001. Wait until the real match; that's when people will be truly shocked."
"The Gryffindors went mad when they saw our brooms," one Slytherin said. "Their captain, that Wood, is drilling his team like there's no tomorrow, completely oblivious that his players' minds are already off training! If you ask me, come match day, we just need to set up a few four-poster beds under the pitch, and those Gryffindors will jump off their brooms and fall asleep on their own."
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The circle of them burst into laughter.
"Those poor sods are insanely jealous, Draco," another student said. "Listen to the things they're saying! 'Slytherin is cheating!' Oh, how pathetic—last term, Potter made a huge splash with a Nimbus 2000, but people seem to have forgotten all about that, just pointing fingers at our brooms."
"Potter!" Malfoy said loudly. "The great Potter and his great scar, his barely passing History of Magic grade, and the Quidditch Cup Gryffindor lost. Look at the company he keeps: the pauper Weasley, the Mudblood Granger, the coward Longbottom, the oafish servant Hagrid…"
"And that photo-loving fool," Blaise Zabini added, his tone ambiguous, somewhere between mockery and teasing.
Malfoy's face darkened. "He'll pay for that. It's an insult, Blaise. Dumbledore might want to protect that scum, but just you wait… something big is about to happen at Hogwarts. Mark my words."
"I look forward to it, Draco," Zabini said, nodding to Malfoy in a gesture that could be interpreted as an apology.
"Father wants us pure-blood families who still uphold the ancient honor to cooperate," Malfoy said. "After all, some wizarding families are much better than others… By the way, Pansy, how's your friend been lately?"
Pansy Parkinson had been sitting nearby, giggling foolishly at every Slytherin joke and glaring daggers at Zabini when he mentioned Colin Creevey. She seemed caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "My friend, Draco?"
"The third-year half-blood," Zabini said, as if helpfully reminding her. "Tracey Davis."
In the flickering firelight and eerie glow of the lamps, it was hard to tell if Pansy's complexion changed.
"She—is—not—my—friend," Pansy said, enunciating each word. "Blaise, how many times do I have to tell you? Yes, I said some nonsense last term, but I've come to my senses."
"Your nonsense even scared my mother," Zabini said, barely suppressing a laugh. "She spent the entire holiday saying, 'The Parkinson girl has been ruined by Hogwarts.'"
"Draco's father is very concerned about the state of education at Hogwarts," an older Slytherin nearby said. "I heard Mr. Malfoy has been putting pressure on the Ministry?"
"Correct," Malfoy said smugly. "And my father is also a member of the Board of Governors… In my opinion, wizarding schools shouldn't admit those… others. My family even considered sending me to Durmstrang. I hear the students there study 'Dark Arts' instead of 'Defence Against the Dark Arts,' and they certainly don't have a wishy-washy subject like 'Muggle Studies.'"
"That Anthony is quite the charmer, isn't he?" Zabini teased. "When he took you away, we all thought you'd become the next Pansy."
Malfoy scoffed dismissively. "Just the same old rubbish Dumbledore spouts. 'We're all wizards, we're all human, no one is superior'… nothing new. Anyone who actually believes his slogans is a true fool." He gave Pansy a meaningful look.
"Well said, Draco," the older Slytherin remarked. "We don't need any more blood traitors."
Pansy's face paled. She said loudly, "I am not a blood traitor! That Davis, she was trying to frame me—"
"Come on, Pansy," another older student said with some impatience. "We're just saying you nearly went down a rather unfortunate path. No one's calling you a traitor. We don't need to split ourselves apart."
"Framing you through gratitude and closeness?" Zabini said. "There are rumors that among those… others, you have a relatively good reputation, Pansy."
"We don't need to split ourselves apart, Blaise," the older Slytherin repeated. "We trust the ancient Parkinson family. Didn't Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson happily say Pansy has come to her senses? That's enough."
Malfoy said placatingly, "Alright, Blaise, Davis is just a half-blood, much better than a Mudblood. Besides, there are plenty of half-bloods who want to attach themselves to pure-blood families. Don't tell me the Zabini family hasn't encountered such people."
…
Three floors above the common room they were in, the door to an office was pushed open. Anthony emerged with an empty bag, preparing to go to Honeydukes to buy some snacks.
His students had already begun jokingly complaining about the unchanging coconut ice, and according to Ian Williams, Honeydukes had already released its new Halloween candy line.
Anthony had no intention of seeing a dozen Count Draculas in his classroom—last year, out of curiosity, he had bought the 'Halloween Vampire Candy' and got scratched several times by the skeleton cat because of the fangs he grew—but chocolate shaped like bats and toffee shaped like pumpkins were always safe bets.
"Good morning, Professor Anthony!" a Gryffindor greeted him cheerfully. "Are you going out in this weather?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Anthony replied with a smile. "No owl is willing to deliver my order form for me."
The student glanced at the storm shaking the windows and shrugged. "I can understand them."
"So can I," Anthony said, suddenly remembering the secret passage Fred and George had used. He shook his head, dismissing the thought of suddenly appearing in Honeydukes' cellar storeroom and startling the shop assistant.
…
In the gale-force winds, an umbrella functioned remarkably like a sail. With the clear tinkle of a bell, Anthony, thoroughly drenched, pushed open the door of Honeydukes. The sweet scent of various candies washed over him. The fireplace was roaring, and the honey-colored walls filled the entire shop with an unreal warmth.
The shop assistant looked up from behind the counter. "Professor Anthony! What brings you here now?"
"Ask my schedule," Anthony said, standing at the door and shaking out his cloak. "Trying to find a free slot in it is a real struggle."
"We were just talking about you yesterday," the assistant said. "We have a new Halloween candy that tastes similar to coconut ice; you're sure to like—"
Anthony stepped into the shop. "No, thank you. I want the candy that's the farthest thing from coconut ice. Do you have cinnamon rolls?"
…
In the end, Anthony selected three packs of bat-shaped chocolates, two packs of pumpkin candies, two jars of bloody fruit jellies, a pack of broken finger biscuits, and a large box of milk eyeball candies. The eyeballs came in various colors, and each one would turn to follow anyone who walked past them.
Under the gaze of the milk eyeballs, Anthony paid. Just before leaving, the assistant's silver-tongued recommendation convinced him to also buy a freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth cream cake. Raspberry jam dripped over it like splattered blood, and thin dark chocolate shavings formed the shape of an ominous large black dog—a Halloween special, "Murder on the Snow."
It took Anthony quite a few Levitation Charms to transport this "murder case" back to Hogwarts. Under the astonished gazes of students, Anthony, calm and composed with dripping hair, opened the door to the staff room, intending to add a bit of fun to his colleagues' afternoon tea, only to freeze in the doorway.
The staff room had been completely transformed.
The tables and chairs had been turned light pink and light blue. A row of golden, shriveled balloons lay on a lilac-colored dais in the middle (where did that come from?). A portrait of Lockhart hung on the wall. He walked closer to look; the balloons spelled out "Lock Your Heart." Beside them was a piece of dark blue velvet with a gold border, its purpose unclear—probably not for static electricity experiments, Anthony thought.
Just as he was holding the cake and cautiously surveying the staff room, someone else pushed the door open, nearly hitting Anthony in the back.
"Oh, sorry—Henry, what happened to you? Don't tell me you jumped into the Black Lake too."
Professor McGonagall, acting as if she didn't see the staff room's new decor, strode quickly to the light blue cabinet and peered inside.
"Well, Albus changed the password from 'Chocolate Frog' to 'Chocolate Frog with a Brandy Cream Filling,'" she informed Anthony.
Anthony set down the cake. "Minerva, what do you mean, 'jumped into the Black Lake too'?"
"Hasn't Pomona told you?" Professor McGonagall said. "This morning, Stan Shunpike, a member of the Long-Finned Tuna Club, jumped into the Black Lake."
Anthony asked, "Why?" He tried to recall if the textbook information on merpeople mentioned "songs that lure sailors"—while another, Muggle part of his brain recalled The Little Mermaid.
"When Pomona asked him, he said it was because Diggory missed the previous Mermish practice session, and he wanted to help Diggory 'find a mermaid,'" Professor McGonagall said. "Speaking of which, Henry, how did you get yourself into this state?"
She scrutinized Anthony's wet hair, his dripping cloak, and his rain-soaked robes with a stern eye.
Anthony showed her the cake beside him, then opened his bag to reveal the eyeballs and fingers inside. "I went to buy some novel rewards for the students."
Professor McGonagall's gaze shifted between the Halloween candies and Anthony a few times, her expression softening slightly. "The students will be delighted—but Poppy might not be."
"I'll get some Pepperup Potion from her," Anthony promised.
"Very good," Professor McGonagall said approvingly, walking out of the staff room with Anthony. "Do you have any plans for this afternoon, Henry?"
One of the benefits of walking with Professor McGonagall was that students no longer stared at his dripping appearance. Anthony watched two students holding Fanged Frisbees hurry away and thought for a moment. "I have a fifth-year consultation class—they have exams coming up—and then I probably need to prepare some things for the practical sessions. Besides that, I plan to go to the library." He didn't mention he also intended to go to the Room of Requirement to study some necromancy. "Why, Minerva?"
"Pomona needs some extra hands for odd jobs. Filius is already booked by her, but she says the more the merrier—she wants to build another greenhouse," Professor McGonagall explained to Anthony. "You know we have connections with the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh, right? They've come across some very interesting magical plants."
Anthony thought of Mr. Lind, with whom he still corresponded occasionally. "Yes, I know. But I'm afraid most of my afternoon is already booked." He shook his head regretfully.
"It certainly sounds that way," Professor McGonagall said. "Speaking of fifth-years—" She gave a stern look to some students who were gesturing with Dungbombs towards Filch's office; they scattered in terror. "What are your predictions for their grades? I need to remind you, Henry, professors teaching fifth-years are required to submit predicted grade tables for their students every year, to help us with career guidance."
Anthony sighed. "Alright, Minerva, you've just made my afternoon even fuller."
"No, no need to rush that much," Professor McGonagall stopped him. "It's fine before the end of the Easter holidays."
"That's a relief," Anthony said. "No wonder Charity insisted I take the fifth-year classes. Third and fourth years are much simpler than fifth."
Professor McGonagall said thoughtfully, "I was talking to Charity about your classes earlier. For her, the trickiest are actually the third-years—they usually know nothing about Muggle Studies—while the fifth-years, because they understand the exams they're facing, tend to be more attentive in class."
"The students are all quite good," Anthony said. "Wait, you were talking about my class?" He thought back carefully. "I hope there weren't any serious issues."
"No, none," Professor McGonagall said. "We were just mentioning how you insist on taking them for practical sessions, because Charity was lamenting how the energy of young professors seems endless." Her expression told Anthony that the "young professors" in this statement primarily referred to Lockhart. "For you, it's endless patience, Henry. I hear you still haven't taken any house points in class?"
"No," Anthony admitted.
He suddenly remembered this conversation again in the afternoon. His necromantic magic was rampaging unchecked in the vast, pristine Room of Requirement, his body as cold as bones preserved in an ice coffin—or chicken breast in a refrigerator—and he recalled the concern hidden beneath Professor McGonagall's stern face. She had told him that all professors had to deal with one problem: a sense of powerlessness.
Anthony knew there were many things that, even if professors spent a great deal of time on them, were difficult to change. They could only send students out of the school and then watch them walk towards their fates.
It's alright, Minerva, Anthony thought. It's alright. Looking back from the perspective of death, every stone that ever tried to change the course of the river is important. He was a light dead man; he had known this secret all along.
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