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When Anthony woke on August first, he habitually glanced at the study schedule on the wall, only to suddenly realize July had passed. Hogwarts would start in another month.
And he had to move to Hogwarts in half a month.
"What about you?" He poked the cat's skull at the corner of the bed. "If I had money, I'd buy a dragon-hide trunk to hide you in."
His cat rose and stretched, then jumped unceremoniously onto him.
Anthony patted it. "Don't worry, I'll figure something out. Worst case, I'll paste fur all over you."
...
"Good morning, Henry!" When he came downstairs for breakfast with scratches on him, Tom was wiping a glass with a grimy rag. "How's your study plan going?"
"Not great. Transfiguration is much harder than I imagined, or I'm much dumber than I imagined. Take your pick."
Compared to his smooth progress with Charms practice, Anthony struggled with Transfiguration. Just turning a match into a needle had taken him three full days of practice, and this was merely the first exercise in the first-year textbook.
He complained while eating. "Three days! I finished elementary Charms in three days!"
"That's because your talent for Charms is too high." Tom chuckled. "Ha, good thing you didn't study at Hogwarts, or You-Know-Who would've definitely noticed you."
Following Dumbledore's suggestion, Anthony publicly claimed to be Muggle-born (quite true) and hadn't attended Hogwarts because he was trying to avoid the chaos caused by You-Know-Who (completely unrelated), thus living in the Muggle world all along. The Ministry turned a blind eye to this story and, aside from sending his teaching license via owl this morning, had made no further moves.
"You missed so much yesterday." Tom lowered his voice to boast. "Guess who came?"
Anthony absentmindedly spread butter on his bread, reviewing key Transfiguration points in his mind. "Who? Lockhart?"
His books always occupied the most prominent position at Flourish and Blotts. Supposedly Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests had never dropped out of the monthly bestseller top three since publication.
"Harry Potter! I even shook his hand!" Tom said quietly, his voice trembling with excitement. "He's back—it's wonderful... Henry, you didn't see him. Mr. Potter was extremely modest and composed. Everyone wanted to shake his hand, and he agreed to all of them. But he wasn't proud at all—I tell you, not one bit—he just didn't know how to refuse. If not for Hagrid... Oh, you didn't meet Hagrid either! Henry, you really missed too much."
Anthony knew who Harry Potter was. The legendary infant who'd prevented the magical world's collapse. His name was solemnly written into all modern magical history materials, framed in major headings.
He was somewhat surprised. "What's someone his age doing at a pub?"
Tom was greatly displeased. "What are you thinking? Mr. Harry Potter is going to Hogwarts, and Hagrid brought him to Diagon Alley to buy necessary supplies."
Hagrid was also a regular at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom had mentioned him to Anthony several times. Supposedly huge in stature, always using the largest mug when drinking, and never knowing his alcohol limit.
"No pub landlord would dislike Hagrid." Tom had said then. "He always orders the largest drinks and gets refills. Good old Hagrid—he's talkative and good-tempered, never gets angry when he loses money at cards."
Anthony also wanted to meet this good-tempered giant Tom spoke of, but he'd been busy catching up on Hogwarts coursework, only coming downstairs to the bar at mealtimes for food—the Leaky Cauldron's toasted crumpets were exceptional—and Hagrid had never come during these times. Even on the few evenings when Anthony decided to relax, ordering several more drinks from Tom and whiling away time listening to customers chat, boast, and joke with each other, he'd never encountered Hagrid.
No matter. He'd surely see him at school.
He finished his bread in a few bites and returned to his room to continue practicing. Today he would definitely turn that damned toothbrush into a chair!
When Anthony went to the washroom to get his toothbrush, the mirror on the wall said sadly, "Quite unexpected, dear. You look worse than before."
"You might not believe it, but so do you." He shook the toothbrush, ignoring the mirror's criticism of his rude remarks. "I'm going to practice. No one can interrupt me today."
...
His unchangeable study plan was disrupted by his cat.
The skeletal cat could no longer be called skeletal—it was now a fluffy ginger kitten.
This matter dated back to last week.
That day, someone who'd struck it rich claimed he'd pay for all drinks at the Leaky Cauldron that evening. Anthony happily had several more drinks—or several barrels, that wasn't important—and half-drunk, he found the wizard beside him, heavily shrouded by a hood, particularly amiable, and bought the "Elixir of Life" the man offered.
"Twenty Galleons, my friend. You'll never find a better deal." The other said sweetly. "Genuine Elixir of Life, made through that Philosopher's Stone. You understand what I mean... Nicolas Flamel drinks this kind. My cousin has connections with his wife's apprentice..."
The next day Anthony sobered up and showed Tom the large glass bottle.
"Hair-Growing Potion." Tom sniffed it. "Reeks of dark magic. Probably shoddy goods from Knockturn Alley. No telling what's been added."
Anthony was somewhat surprised. He'd thought he'd bought tap water.
His cat loved that glass bottle and would paw at it when he wasn't paying attention. Just now, Anthony had heard a crisp crash in the washroom. When he came out, he saw glittering glass shards on the floor and a wet, ginger cat rolling in the potion.
"Meow." The cat said. It rolled over and sat up obediently, yellow eyes looking at him pitifully. Three minutes ago, those eye sockets had held two dancing soul-fires.
Anthony looked at it for a while and sighed.
"Forget it. Not necessarily a bad thing." He said, picking up the cat and sniffing it. "You need a bath, kitty."
Who knew what had been added to that bottle of Hair-Growing Potion. After bathing the cat, Anthony's hands became extraordinarily large, with especially long nails and hand hair. He tried using the Severing Charm to trim his nails but ultimately gave up due to his left hand's excessive clumsiness.
"Is this some new fashion?" The mirror commented. "I like your hand hair. It's thick and long."
"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better." Anthony said, deciding to go downstairs and have Tom look at it. The Leaky Cauldron's landlord always knew many bizarre tricks.
He sat at the bar holding his hands out. Tom didn't look up. "Come down? What'll you have?"
"Got something to show you." Anthony said.
"Hmm?" Tom finally spared him some attention from the ledger.
"A pair of big hands."
...
The Leaky Cauldron had few customers at noon. Only Tom and a few regulars he knew were in the shop. Anthony didn't tell them exactly what had gone wrong, only saying he'd had a mishap while practicing coursework. They mocked him for a while before gathering to study his comical hands.
"Size rivals Hagrid's." One said. "If it doesn't hurt, keeping them isn't really a problem."
"Go to St. Mungo's? A dozen Galleons and they'll cure it immediately."
Anthony said slowly, "If you remember I bought a twenty-Galleon bottle of Elixir of Life..."
Everyone burst into laughter again. "He's broke!" Tom slapped the table and shouted loudly. "Poor Henry—no money, no health insurance, but he has a bottle of Elixir of Life!"
"And furry big hands!"
"And sharp nails!"
They made such a ruckus ("Get Hagrid's mug, Henry—drinks on me!") that the customer who'd just pushed open the pub door trembled, seemingly hesitating whether to approach the bar.
Tom called out, "Professor Quirrell, care for a drink? Oh, your new turban and robes match nicely."
"What are you—you doing?" The newcomer walked to the bar and asked with a stutter.
His head was wrapped in a large purple scarf, sweat seeping through it. Even though the weather was gradually cooling, Anthony still thought he was dressed too warmly. But wizards probably didn't mind.
Tom pointed at Anthony's hands. "Take a look at this, Professor. If you solve it, I can waive your drink today."
Quirrell's face was pale. He slowly approached Anthony's hands. His body shook violently, and he clutched his scarf as if enduring great pain.
"Hair—Hair-Growing Potion, yes, yes, yes." His voice was so low it seemed he was talking to himself. "Added tro—troll blood and ginger root to replace rat ta—tail."
Tom stared intently at Anthony's hands with him. "Do you have a solution? By the way, Henry will soon be your colleague too."
"You're also—also a Hogwarts pro—professor?" Quirrell looked up. "What do—do you teach?"
Anthony felt somewhat uncomfortable under his gaze. Compared to Professor Quirrell, who'd identified the potion problem at a glance, his own abilities were rather inadequate. If all Hogwarts professors were at this level, his professor title was far too undeserved.
Thinking of his future colleagues being so talented, Anthony silently revised his study plan, striving to catch up on everything possible before school started.
"Third and fourth year Muggle Studies." He said. "Henry Anthony. Pleased to meet you, Professor Quirrell. What do you teach?"
Quirrell shifted uncomfortably and mumbled, "De—Defense Against the Dark—Dark Arts. I used to teach Mu—Muggle Studies too. Mu—Muggles are interesting, aren't they?" He wrung his fingers and laughed nervously at Anthony's hands. "Soak in Murtlap es—essence and leech juice for half—half an hour."
"Thank you so much, Professor Quirrell. There seems to be an apothecary in Diagon Alley. I'll go right away." Anthony said. "Tom, I'll buy Professor Quirrell two more drinks."
"No need to go. They're all common—I have them here." Tom said. "Twenty-seven Knuts. Take them upstairs and soak."
As Anthony left, he heard Quirrell say weakly to Tom, "Bran—brandy."
...
For the next half hour, Anthony's washroom was filled with a bizarre smell.
He frowned, soaking his hands in the sink. Before him floated A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, propped on a skeletal frame. Two spare chicken leg bones diligently turned a page for him. At times like this, necromancy that required no hands was especially useful.
"You look miserable, dear." The mirror said with concern. "Why not sit down?"
"I'm learning how to conjure a chair." Anthony replied.
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