No matter how Hagrid tried to hide it, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had discovered the stack of rattling wooden crates inside his hut. That evening, when Anthony visited, this was the scene he found: the three Gryffindor second-years crowded around the slatted crates, watching Hagrid dump an entire box of bloody venison inside. Then a bloodied lion cub head pushed out from the pile of meat.
"Hagrid—" Anthony said from outside the window, trying to warn them the curtains were open.
Chapter 242: A Morning Full of News
Before the Chimera could be sent away, snow fell upon Hogwarts.
On Saturday morning, Anthony was woken by the Wraith Chicken hopping onto his bedside table to find the world outside his window had transformed overnight.
Everywhere was blanketed in thick, pristine white snow. The air filtering through the window cracks was sharp and clean, chilling the apple the Wraith Mouse had left on the windowsill. Anthony sat up and headed to the bathroom. The Wraith Mouse was sleeping inside its cat bed, the sagging fabric on top proof a ginger cat had once curled there.
Toothbrush in mouth, Anthony padded around the room. No cat.
Ever since the Wraith Chicken arrived, the cat was finally free. It no longer had to stand guard each night, waking him from nightmares. No longer had to perch on his pillow each morning, sternly checking he still remembered to breathe.
His cat now went out whenever it pleased and only came back when it felt like it. If not for the certainty it still disliked living things, Anthony might have suspected it snuck out every night to hit the cat pubs with other felines.
Once ready, Anthony ambled downstairs for breakfast.
The Great Hall was nearly empty. On a bitterly cold morning like this, few students would trade a warm bed and cozy dormitory for toast and jam, braving the freezing corridors in their school robes.
A handful of older students huddled at the Ravenclaw table, sipping pumpkin juice and discussing Roger the Snake. A pale, bug-eyed girl sat not far from them, staring intently at a doughnut. Tracey was tackling a plate of fried potato slices.
The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables were both deserted. If the first snow hadn't disrupted Wood's training schedule, Anthony was sure the Gryffindor Quidditch team had already eaten and were probably on the pitch now, braving the flurries.
Even the staff table was sparse. Professor McGonagall read The Daily Prophet, a bowl of porridge before her. At the far end, Filch ate his bread. The other seats were empty.
"Morning, Minerva," Anthony said, pulling out a chair. "Morning, Mr. Filch."
"Good morning," Professor McGonagall said.
Filch gave a curt nod in return, stroking a shabby-looking blanket-like lump in his lap. It opened its eyes. Anthony started, realizing it was Mrs. Norris. She looked miserable—probably because Filch had stuffed her into a tiny knitted sweater.
Anthony helped himself to some bacon. "Any news, Minerva?"
"Nothing of particular concern," she said, not looking up from the paper. "Oh, Henry. Flourish and Blotts delivered those Dark Arts books."
"Dark Arts books?" Anthony asked. McGonagall glanced up at him over the newspaper.
"Oh! Those Dark Arts books!" It clicked. "The illegally published ones donated to the library? Flourish and Blotts finally finished sorting them?"
"Yes. They needed four carriages to bring them all over in cages. Silvanus nearly thought I'd approved his procurement request." She lowered her gaze to the paper again. "I'm wondering why the article on Sirius hasn't appeared yet."
Anthony leaned over. She was paused on a tour report about The Weird Sisters. Wild-haired and ragged-robed, they bore a passing resemblance to Sirius. Anthony had to admit, though, Sirius wasn't nearly as hairy.
"Madam Bones is re-examining Pettigrew today, right?" Anthony asked.
"Yes. Charity left already." McGonagall flipped a page. A wizard from Devon was suing a shop selling Doxycide, claiming their advertisement promised citrus extract in the new formula. After running out of jam, he'd spread it on his toast and declared he couldn't taste a hint of citrus.
Anthony chewed his bacon and eggs, reading along with her.
"Even if it's full of citrus, it's still insecticide," Anthony remarked as she turned another page. "Maybe they're waiting for the re-examination to conclude before publishing?"
McGonagall shook her head, frowning.
"I don't know," she said, finally setting the paper down. "Charity said the Ministry initially wanted the report out this Monday. But Umbridge suggested today's piece cover Pettigrew's confession, along with his recollection of how Crouch sent Sirius to Azkaban… Tomorrow, after the re-examination, they'll report Pettigrew's admitted crimes. By the day after, The Prophet's headline should be Sirius's exoneration. They want photos of Fudge and Umbridge shaking his hand, that sort of thing."
"Very thorough planning," Anthony observed.
"But today's article hasn't run," McGonagall said. "I hope nothing's gone wrong."
…
After breakfast, Anthony decided to visit the library to see the Dark Arts books from Flourish and Blotts.
Looking out a corridor window, the lawns lay under undisturbed snow, marked only by a few delicate animal tracks. Hagrid wielded an enormous snow shovel, clearing a path from his hut to the castle doors. Fang ran alongside, pulling a sled piled with tools, the rope clenched in his teeth.
Anthony passed several dozing portraits and entered the library, nodding to Madam Pince.
"Good morning, Professor Anthony," Madam Pince said, pulling the loan register from under the desk. "Looking for anything today?"
"Not to borrow, no," Anthony smiled. "I heard Flourish and Blotts delivered a batch of books."
"Ah. Those books," Madam Pince said, her tone disapproving. "If you're looking for them, they're all in the Restricted Section."
Anthony nodded. "Thank you."
He moved quietly through the rows of shelves. The library was hushed, almost all seats vacant. Books stood at varying heights, the air faintly scented with paper and ink. Sunlight, peeking from behind the clouds, gently illuminated tables by the wall. It felt cooler here than in the drowsy warmth of the common rooms.
Past a towering bookshelf lay the Restricted Section.
As Anthony neared the room marked "Temporary Storage," he understood Madam Pince's displeasure.
Unlike the quiet shelves, this place was a circus. Every book was caged—Anthony spotted bite marks on one set of bars; he remembered this cage once held The Monster Book of Monsters. Some books wailed. Others flew around inside. One emitted a strange perfume, mingling with the foul stench of its neighbor into a nauseating, dizzying cocktail.
"Wow," Anthony said, staring at the cages, unsure where to start.
He couldn't fathom how Flourish and Blotts had hidden these on their shelves and in their warehouse until now. They were practically a cage of things screaming "I'm a banned Dark Arts book!"
He decided to quickly open a cage and grab the first book he touched.
As he reached in, Three Hundred Deadly Poisons You Don't Know spat green-black venom at his hand, its title shifting to Because You'll Be Dead By The Time You Do. The Complete Serpent Compendium seemed eager to share its venom too. Anthony immediately abandoned it, snatching Wicked Transfiguration instead.
The book gurgled, melting into a viscous fluid that tried to crawl up his arm. Anthony flung it off, watching it revert to a book with a wet splat against the opposite bars before lying innocently on the cage floor. Anthony swore to himself he'd ask Daniel how they'd managed to get these into cages.
By the time he finally, messily, retrieved a pocket-sized volume titled Cheers to Death, sunlight fully filled the main library.
Anthony locked the cage, exhaled deeply, and decided to leave the other books for another day. He took Cheers to Death and found a seat in the Restricted Section to skim it. Leaning back, he could hear faint footsteps and rustling fabric from the main area. Students were arriving. Anthony smiled slightly.
Then he heard hushed voices nearby.
"We barely convinced Wood not to train today…" Harry said.
"Shh!" Hermione said. "We need to prepare for the pop quiz. Especially you, Ron!"
"Brilliant. Can't wait to start revising," Ron said gloomily, yawning so loudly Anthony heard it.
Anthony glanced over his shoulder. He'd chosen a seat adjacent to the main area, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione had clearly wanted a quiet corner too.
Chairs scraped. They sat down.
"Why don't we just ask Sirius, Hermione?" Ron said. "I bet he knows all about Animagi."
"You heard Madam Pomfrey. He needs rest, not endless interruptions from you two!"
"Sirius doesn't think it's interrupting," Ron countered.
"Madam Pomfrey does," Hermione said firmly.
Harry cut in, compromising. "Alright. Transfiguration pop quiz. Revision plan, Hermione?"
Hermione sounded somewhat mollified. "Here. We go through the textbook first. Then I can quiz you, so you know what you haven't mastered."
Ron seemed to yawn again. The rustle of turning pages came from behind Anthony, followed by Ron's voice reading aloud. "'An Animagus is a witch or wizard who can transform into an animal at will, a branch of human Transfiguration… It is among the most difficult and notoriously hard-to-detect of all transfigurative arts…' Has Sirius seen your Quidditch practice, Harry? He said he can turn into a big dog, right? Next time, he can pretend to be one of Hagrid's new pets and come watch."
"I don't think he's seen it yet," Harry said. "But he said he bought me a toy broomstick when I was little… I don't remember."
"A toy broomstick?"
"Shh! Textbook!" Hermione hissed.
A moment later, Ron couldn't resist. "A toy broomstick? Those things cost a fortune! He got you one?"
"Er… guess so," Harry said.
"I'd love to see Malfoy's face when he finds out!" Ron said. "Always bragging he's been on a broom since he could walk… but you started earlier, Harry! And Sirius is getting you a house-elf! Malfoy'll go spare!" He sounded envious. "Having a godfather's brilliant."
"I don't want a house-elf," Harry said. "You haven't met Dobby… He gives me the creeps."
Hermione joined in. "Dobby sounds so pitiful," she said, indignant. "Think how the Malfoys treated him! And you said he punishes himself for saying bad things about them! It's… it's barbaric! It's slavery!"
"You're sympathizing with a house-elf who tried everything to get Harry expelled?" Ron questioned.
"I'm pointing out that slavery is wrong!" Hermione said, her voice rising.
Madam Pince's footsteps approached. A brief, tense silence fell behind Anthony.
"Dobby called himself a 'slave'!" Hermione whispered fiercely. "They make him work, give him no pay, not even basic respect! Isn't that barbaric enough?"
"House-elves like working, Hermione! That Dobby just sounds mad," Ron argued. "He blocked us from the platform, tried to bludgeon you with a Bludger, then said he was protecting you—he's not right in the head, Hermione. He even said Anthony was a dark wizard who'd been in Azkaban. I mean, Anthony!"
Anthony shifted deeper into his corner, listening with keen interest as they recounted Dobby's claims.
"Sirius says Professor Anthony couldn't have been in Azkaban," Harry said. "Said he'd definitely know who'd had the Dementors' hospitality."
"Fine, Dobby might have been wrong about that," Hermione conceded grudgingly. "But the injustice he suffers is real. In that, Dobby might be the only sane house-elf! Besides, if you're constantly bashing your head against walls, mixing things up is understandable."
"At least I wouldn't mix up Snape and Anthony," Ron shot back. "Next time, Dobby might mistake you for Millicent. Then you can tell us Dobby's the sane one."
"But you'd mix up the First Principle and First Rule of Transfiguration," Hermione retorted. "Honestly, that's first-year material. Your brain's not exactly top-notch either, Ronald."
Anthony peeked. Ron seemed speechless, head bowed over his textbook, ears burning red.
"Er… Hermione?" Harry interjected. "Why isn't turning a match into a needle the same difficulty as turning a needle back into a match?"
Hermione's tone softened considerably. "Because transformative reversibility is affected by time and consciousness. It's on pages 127 and 128."
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said, bending over his book.
The house-elf debate didn't resume.
Mini-Story #4
"Wizard's Chess?" his Master whispered behind him, the voice barely audible to anyone else.
"Yes, Master," Quirrell said. "Minerva McGonagall's challenge is a giant chessboard, with huge transfigured pieces."
"You play, do you not, Quirinus?" Voldemort asked calmly.
"I—I know a little, Master. But McGonagall is reportedly quite skilled."
"Quite skilled?"
"So everyone says," Quirrell confirmed.
"Hmm…" Voldemort murmured softly. His voice felt like a snake slithering under Quirrell's robes, cold and slick down his spine. Quirrell shuddered before realizing it was his own cold sweat.
"This opportunity can be yours," Voldemort said. "I can grant you a little something… a touch of power. Enough to breach any of Minerva McGonagall's defenses… But I do not expect you to grow complacent. The Dark Lord has no use for useless servants."
The words hung in the air. Then came a wave of pure, terrifying agony. Quirrell braced himself against the wall, gasping, pleading. "Please, Master—I will be useful—I swear—please—"
"Prove to me you are useful. Or I fear the next punishment will not be so… gentle," Voldemort said, his voice icy, before fading into silence. Quirrell waited, hardly daring to breathe, until he was certain his weakened Master had withdrawn to rest.
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