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"Ah, Minerva, you've got it wrong," Anthony said, scrambling along the dragon's neck to its head. He nudged Hagrid, gesturing for him to jump onto the Astronomy Tower.
Hagrid did. Anthony was pretty sure he heard a heavy THUD, and Professor McGonagagll took a small step back.
"This isn't a real dragon—" Anthony began, fumbling with the latch on the owl cage.
A faint hiss cut him off. It sounded like a fuse being lit. Almost instantly, Professor McGonagall's gaze snapped to the Weasley twins, her expression sharp with suspicion.
"What's wrong, Professor?" Fred asked, all innocence.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "Mr. Weasley, if you have more fireworks hidden away—"
The Astronomy Tower lit up.
A dozen Filibuster's Fizzing Whizzbees erupted where the telescopes had been. Golden sparks fizzed and shot everywhere, reaching at least seven or eight feet into the air. Blue and green stars popped out, bouncing on the platform, leaping over the low parapet, and dribbling slowly down the high stone walls.
Ron and Ginny gaped as one star landed on the brim of Professor McGonagall's pointed hat. Everyone's faces flickered in the shifting light.
The owl freed from the cage settled on the dragon's golden horn, preened a feather, then spread its wings. It glided gracefully past the dancing fireworks and vanished into the night.
Fred scratched his cheek under McGonagall's glare. George did the same.
"Professor McGonagall," Charlie said, "I don't think Fred and George had time to light those… I mean, unless they planted them up here earlier with a timed fuse… erm…"
"You're not helping," Fred said.
"You're not even trying to help," George accused.
Professor McGonagall's voice was icy. "Fred Weasley and George Weasley, you organized an unlicensed fireworks display and were out of bed after hours. Charlie Weasley, you brought a Romanian Longhorn into Hogwarts—"
"Minerva, it's just a model!" Anthony said, crouching down by the horn and pointing to the side of the dragon's head. "Look at its eyes!"
Charlie took the cue. The model's wings began flapping again, emitting that familiar, mechanical creak-groan.
Professor McGonagall's rigid posture softened a fraction. "Oh. Well. But you two," she glanced at Ginny, "and you, Miss Weasley, as punishment for your nocturnal wanderings—"
BOOM.
The horn in Anthony's hand lurched violently. The next second, he was falling.
"Henry!" Hagrid bellowed. He heard Charlie and McGonagall shout something, probably spells.
A riot of coloured stars streaked past him. He still clutched the horn. Wind screamed past his ears. In the weightless plunge, he understood. The dragon model had finally given up.
—He really should have been more insistent about that parachute.
He slammed into something huge and soft. His ribs cracked against a raised ridge on the dragon's head. His knee smacked into a scale. He and the debris tumbled wildly in the shuddering cushion. For a frantic moment, he worried if his internal organs were still where they belonged.
But all in all, he was fine.
He rolled over in the spongy depths, looked at the scattered pieces around him, then up at the long row of faces peering over the Astronomy Tower parapet, and laughed. Magical stars were still drifting down dutifully, lighting up, or landing on the snow with a soft hiss and a fading flicker.
He stood up.
"I'm alright!" he yelled, waving.
A cheerful firework with a long tail shot from the tower and burst overhead.
…
After that, Professor McGonagall promptly sent everyone back where they belonged. Hagrid to his hut. Anthony to his office.
Charlie was heading to Hogsmeade for the night. He cleaned up the model fragments, stowed them in the Reserve's leather bag, and under Professor McGonagall's stern gaze, said his hasty goodbyes.
McGonagall seemed genuinely rattled by his fall. Even after he assured her he was fine, her face looked pale. By the tight line of her mouth, if Charlie were still a student, Gryffindor would have lost a terrifying number of house points.
"Get some rest, Henry," she said firmly when Anthony tried to bring up Umbridge. "Not tonight."
…
Everything in his office was exactly as he'd left it. The Wraith Chicken was perched majestically on the desk. It made a brief inspection tour before settling atop a pile of books.
Anthony took off his coat, carried his backpack to the bed, and unzipped it. The cat didn't jump out. Frowning, he opened it wider and reached in. He got a few scratches for his trouble.
A second later, the cat leapt onto the bed, standing on the pillow. It glared at him, tail lashing. Clamped in its jaws was the dragon model from the Reserve. The Longhorn's wings dangled from its mouth, feebly flapping every so often, making the cat's whiskers twitch.
Anthony sighed. "Give it here, Cat."
The cat flattened its ears, eyes fixed on his approaching hand.
"Yeah, I know. I should have thought more when packing. Hand it over, Cat. It's a gift."
The cat took a step back, jumping onto the headboard. Its yellow eyes watched him.
Anthony slowly drew his wand… and transfigured a golden teaspoon. It sprouted wings and two spindly legs. It buzzed into the air.
"Let's trade, alright?" Anthony bargained. "You give me the model, you get the teaspoon."
The cat hesitated, its eyes tracking the flying trinket. After Anthony made it circle the cat once, it finally lashed out, batting fiercely at it. Anthony emerged from the bathroom about fifteen minutes later. The golden teaspoon was finally pinned under the ginger cat's paw, its wings still fluttering weakly.
The cat lay down, pressing on the teaspoon, looking supremely pleased with itself. It ignored the rumpled bedsheets and stray feathers around it.
"Excellent, kidnapper. Now release your hostage," Anthony said, now in his pajamas. "Then be a good cat and go to sleep."
The cat kept the model in its mouth, acting as if it had no idea what Anthony was talking about. Anthony swore he heard a crunch. The cat was definitely using necromancy on its bite.
"No," Anthony warned.
Another crunch.
"Fine. If you insist—" Anthony said, waving a hand. He took control of the bones. The cat froze in place, glaring.
"Kidnapper neutralized," Anthony grinned. He lay down beside it, let it revert to its Skeleton Cat form, then pried its jaw open and retrieved the model. There were several small, sharp dents on either side of its body.
Even without round eyes, the Skeleton Cat managed to glare at Anthony with the furious soul fire in its sockets. Anthony pulled it into a hug, plucked the teaspoon from under its paw, and gently pushed it into the cat's mouth instead.
…
Anthony woke the moment the sun rose. The Wraith Chicken sat before him, head tilted.
He stretched on the transfigured bed-chair and sat up. Last night, the Skeleton Cat, in a spectacular rage, had turned the bedroom into a warzone. So, in a spirit of generosity, Anthony had left the nocturnal stage to the furious undead and slept in his office.
"Morning, Chicken," he mumbled. "Is the cat still angry?"
A soft, tremulous warble came from the chicken's throat.
"Right. Got it," Anthony yawned. He pulled open a drawer and placed the dragon model next to Roger the Snake. "Don't worry, Chicken. He won't stay angry… as long as I provide enough white wine."
He stood, transfigured the armchair back (and for the three-hundred-and-forty-second time, mentally praised the sheer convenience of Transfiguration), and carefully opened the bedroom door. The Skeleton Cat was coiled asleep amidst the wreckage. Anthony crept to the bathroom, washed up, grabbed his notebook, and slipped out, planning to spend the whole day in the greenhouses or the library.
He entered the Great Hall, still mulling over his plans for the next few days. He greeted Flitwick, nodded to McGonagall, then slid into the seat next to Professor Burbage, dropping his bag.
"Happy New Year, Henry," Professor Burbage said, smiling. "And thank you for the instant camera. I've wanted one for ages."
"That's precisely because I heard you say so," Anthony said, eyeing the breakfast spread. "And thank you for the gloves and the exam papers—though I'm not sure I should say I've wanted those for ages. How was your holiday, Charity?"
"Manageable. Busier than expected. The Ministry had some… business," she made air quotes, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "After dealing with that, I visited some old friends, went to a wizarding Christmas market, and got into an argument with some thoroughly obtuse wizards who didn't understand Muggle Christmas markets at all. It turned into quite the duel when my friends joined in—we won, by the way—and we all got fined ten Galleons. Ended up eating Greek food at a Muggle restaurant. Thankfully, we had the right currency. How was yours?"
"Not bad," Anthony said, reaching for some toast. "Learned three phrases of Romanian, ate a lot of Dragon Cheese, learned two or three possibly useful ways to escape a dragon, and learned no less than thirty consequences for failed escapes. As you know, Hagrid and I went to the Dragon Reserve. Saw plenty of dragons."
"I heard," Burbage said. "Minerva thought you, Hagrid, and Pomona might not make it back."
"We set off right after her letter," Anthony said. "Is Pomona back?"
Burbage shook her head. "Not yet. She had some things to sort out, but she should be here this afternoon or evening—What are you looking for? Lingonberry jam, raspberry jam, peanut butter, or butter?"
"Lingonberry. Thank you, Charity." Anthony took the jar and started spreading jam on his toast. "Other than her, are we waiting on anyone else?"
Before Burbage could answer, a figure in dazzling lavender robes appeared in the Hall entrance, beaming.
"Well, if it isn't Henry!" Gilderoy Lockhart proclaimed, sliding into the seat next to Anthony. "I adore the quill you sent, thank you. Although, between you and me, I've received rather a lot of quills—of course, I'm delighted by the eager anticipation for my second autobiography, but as one must always be wary of the trappings of fame…"
"Did you send him a Christmas gift?" Burbage whispered to Anthony.
"I thought I was being a polite colleague," Anthony muttered back, suddenly fascinated by a stack of sausages. "Don't tell me I was the only one."
Lockhart was still talking. "…which is precisely why I never call myself a best-selling author. No, no. I am well aware my true calling is combating the Dark Arts. In fact, after finishing Magical Me, I intended to give my quill a rest, to devote more energy to my Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons and my adventures…"
"You weren't," Burbage admitted quietly. "I sent a card. Pomona sent a set of inks. Minerva and Filius sent cards as well."
"Good idea," Anthony said. "I'll send a card next year."
Burbage warned him, "If you ask me, 'a fan letter disguising affection through social awkwardness' is not a particularly good idea."
"…but then, I heard of so many readers inspired by my tales to embark on adventures of their own—and, well, my experience tells me adventure can be terribly dangerous without sufficient nerve and skill! So I said to myself, 'Gilderoy, Gilderoy, how can you be so selfish? If people are interested in your experiences, why hesitate?'"
Anthony reached for another piece of toast. "Point taken, Professor Lockhart."
"You see it my way now, Henry?" Lockhart said, delighted. "I heard the news. Went looking for dragons with that large gamekeeper, Hagrid, didn't you?" He leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. "Henry, I imagine you now understand why I emphasize the unpredictability of adventure in all my books. People read my works and charmingly assume all adventures are like mine. One failed venture means nothing."
Anthony nodded. "Well said, Professor Lockhart."
"You see, Henry, there's no need to be so angry about it. After all—allow me to quote The Daily Prophet's headline for Magical Me—'Not Every Adventurer Is Gilderoy Lockhart.'"
"Exactly, Professor Lockhart."
"You were angry, Henry?" Professor Burbage interrupted, eyebrows high. "I'd like to see that."
"What? No," Anthony said.
Merlin knew he hadn't really been following—he'd tried, but Lockhart wasn't having a conversation. He was delivering a monologue.
So Anthony ate his breakfast and thought about the Skeleton Cat, letting Lockhart's words swarm around him like a cloud of hornets. Sentences piled up, whizzed by in a dizzying blur, then buzzed away, leaving only a faint ringing in his ears.
"It's quite alright, Henry," Lockhart said with a magnanimous smile. "Charity, if you lived next to Henry, you'd hear him raging at the wall all night, just as I did." He flashed his brilliant teeth and imitated, "BOOM!"
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