Quirrell grunted. Pitched forward. The deflected curse carved deep grooves in the wall behind Anthony. Cut the half-open door in two. Metal clasps hissed. Corroded. Finally clanged to the floor. Curled into strange shapes.
The troll lifted its massive foot. Stomped down hard. But only caught Quirrell's robe hem. Quirrell rolled away frantically. Wand slashing through the air. Trying to sever the troll's leg like he'd cut off its forearm. But the massive thing's leg was thick as a thousand-year-old tree. Quirrell only sliced off its front toes.
The troll looked down at its exposed bone. Grunted, puzzled. Lifted its other foot to try again. Before it discovered that missing front toes made standing on one leg difficult, Anthony quickly stopped the corpse from fighting according to its muscle memory.
But Quirrell had seized the opportunity. While the troll's good leg was still raised, he shouted a spell. A lit torch suddenly flew out. Became a massive ring of fire. Looped around the troll. But he'd forgotten one thing—corpses don't feel pain anymore.
Though flames burned the troll corpse's flesh, it still pursued Quirrell's scarf like a good troll should. Relentless. Wanted to crush the human before it. Quirrell shrieked. Dodged the troll's flaming arms whooshing through the air.
Between dodges, he didn't forget to make trouble for Anthony. The corner quickly filled with sand, broken bricks, poisonous snakes, and swamp. A flock of winged, glittering little keys flew in through the broken door. Pecked at Anthony like crazed birds. Anthony quickly realized—unless he was willing to be buried quietly for a while, he couldn't just stand aside and watch leisurely.
"Ha!" Quirrell laughed loudly. Spun his wand overhead several times. "Haha!"
With a deafening explosion, the already charred troll corpse blew apart. Black ash flew through the room. Made Quirrell cough a few times. But his face filled with victorious ecstasy.
"Anthony, Anthony," he said. Directed the golden keys to surround Anthony. "I admit I shouldn't have given you a corpse. That was my mistake. But now it's all over. Thank you for all your help. Such a shame we can't remain colleagues—"
"It's all over?" Anthony asked back. He silently called his cat in his mind. It couldn't sleep anymore. It had to come.
Quirrell seemed to want to give him a Killing Curse. But stopped in time.
"That's right. Necromancer," he muttered to himself. Voice so low Anthony could barely hear. "The Killing Curse should be ineffective, but..." He suddenly raised his head. Said coldly: "Smug about possessing nearly lost magic, Anthony? Think no one can touch you? But if you'd noticed, I also hold secrets of the soul..."
"When no one noticed this thin, pale, easily bullied Ravenclaw, I locked myself in my dormitory. Hid in library corners. Drew power from those ancient parchments and ink—the power of knowledge. Such a shame. Necromancy will finally go extinct after all." Quirrell said. Slashed his wand across his left arm. A wound immediately appeared on his thin arm. Blood poured out. Covered the dried troll blood on his robes.
Even not knowing what he was doing, Anthony knew he should stop him immediately. Stories he'd read all had this principle: if your enemy does something strange while talking endlessly, you'd better act quickly and disrupt the situation. Common sense, really.
So he raised his hand. Spread it flat before Quirrell.
Quirrell immediately stopped reminiscing about being ignored in his youth. Stared warily at his hand.
Good. Quirrell didn't know the universal theorem from Muggle novels. Because he asked: "Wh-what?"
Because of that momentary stutter, Anthony almost believed the mad man before him was "that" Quirrell again.
"Please read my palm," Anthony said. "I want to know when I'll die."
Then, in Quirrell's expression mixing confusion and mockery, he suddenly clenched his fist: "Oh, never mind. I think I know myself."
Under Quirrell's gaze, as if a wind blew from nowhere, black smoke suddenly gathered from the corner. Swirled past walls splattered with troll blood. Condensed on the pitted, damaged floor into a massive figure—the charred troll corpse stood scattered in the room's center. The head perched on its neck looked like a burned Bludger.
"Still a troll?" Quirrell said. "Your recycling efficiency truly exceeds my expectations. But why do you think this will work?"
The gray-black troll-shaped thing swatted away incoming flames like shooing flies. Crushed the clanging keys into scrap with one hand. Red curses passed straight through its palm. Hit the wall behind uselessly. Quirrell's expression finally changed.
He looked at Anthony. Opened his mouth as if to say something. But quickly showed a pained expression. Silently sprinkled his blood on the ground.
"I curse you with living flesh and blood..." Quirrell said. Suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Blood on the ground boiled.
He continued rapidly: "I curse you with bones disturbed by necromancy." Before finishing, he collapsed to his knees from a brick the ash-troll threw. Then the troll grabbed his robes. Slammed him against the wall.
"Under—cough, cough—death's witness—"
"—nothing will happen," Anthony finished. Shoved the apple hard into Quirrell's mouth.
He closed his eyes. Leaned against the wall. Felt himself spreading uncontrollably again. But this time he let necromancy carry him into that magically-sustained broad body. Stretched comfortably.
He surveyed the room. Tried to find a handy weapon. He remembered he should have something. Very useful. He could swing it whooshing through the air. But he found nothing suitable.
So while that strange-smelling thing lay on the ground, he lifted his foot. Stomped down without thinking.
"Kill him!" In a sudden explosion, he seemed to hear a voice say that. He thought it was absolutely right. Because that's what he intended to do. This body craved it.
Suddenly, he noticed something had changed around him. He tried stomping down. Found the thing on the ground had disappeared.
"Under death's witness!" The thing shouted tremulously. "I will banish you from this land belonging to the living!"
He took some effort to notice the strange fellow was pointing his little wooden stick—oh, he remembered, he should have something similar, but bigger, heavier, prettier—at a... uh, corpse. That corpse felt very familiar. Like he actually belonged there.
He vaguely remembered the feeling of those fabrics on his body. But that shouldn't be. A good troll doesn't wear clothes.
When a dark yellow light shot from that little stick, Quirrell laughed. The troll stared mesmerized at the constantly swaying velvet bathrobe. From the swaying robe's pocket crawled a tiny, transparent gray figure. Nimbly leaped. Caught the flying curse. Swallowed it in one bite.
The thing inside the troll suddenly felt a strange emotion—how odd, besides the troll's familiar anger, there was an inexplicable feeling. Made him want to smash the room. Smash everything. Make the person opposite pay immediately. He had to pay—
He spread out. Wrapped around the thing inside that shell. Yanked hard. According to his experience—when did he have such experience—the thing should slide out smoothly. Like oyster meat leaving its useless shell. Then down his throat. Fill his... stomach-like thing.
But this oyster screamed.
"No! No!" The oyster meat shrieked.
He frowned. Pulled again. How strange. Like barnacles stuck to a ship's bottom. This not-very-appetizing-smelling thing clung firmly to this world.
"Go, you fool!" That high-pitched voice called.
He held the thing—the thing that couldn't be pulled out—in his hand. Lifted it to examine closely. The thing looked terrified. Trembled. Smelled from not-very-appetizing to disgusting. Until nauseating. Only then did he notice this thing was very strange. Half seemed spoiled. The other half still barely edible. But the spoiled sour water now flowed out. Completely ruined his appetite.
Just then, he heard a tiny "squeak."
At his feet, something very small, very dear, affectionately hugged a red spherical thing in the corner. Its whiskers twitched. Little paws rapidly stroked the thing missing a small bite. Wiped off all the ash.
"An... Anthony..." The oyster's shell opened its mouth. Said with difficulty: "Please... please..."
Under his master's urging, Quirrell fled frantically through corridor after corridor, room after room. Even though Anthony waved at him then just sat there dazed, watching that terrifying mouse, he dared not slack off.
"Master, I can't get up—I can't get up—" he cried in the Devil's Snare. "Help me, Master."
The shrill voice roared: "Useless!"
With his not-yet-recovered master's help, Quirrell finally noticed the broomstick with the keys now scattered in the troll room. Returned in terror. Rode the broom out through the trapdoor. The harp music had stopped. That damned three-headed dog barked and bit at him. He thought all of Hogwarts might wake up.
"Do we—do we go back, Master?" Quirrell asked tremulously.
"Go back?" His master, the great Voldemort, said furiously. "You want that cat to scratch you again, fool? Go!"
"But—Anthony—the Stone—"
"The Stone is the best option. But not the only choice," Voldemort said. "Now, go!"
Quirrell screamed. Nearly fell off the broom.
"Because you defied my will, and because of your failure, I must punish you," Voldemort said cruelly. "If you disappoint me again... Quirinus, you won't want that day..."
"Yes, Master."
Quirrell flew out of Hogwarts. Face pale. Clothes covered in his own blood and the troll's. In the gentle night breeze. Under moonlight, a massive ripple suddenly spread across the Black Lake. The Giant Squid leisurely slapped the shore with its tentacles. Occasionally picked up scattered stones. Playfully threw them at its own head.
"You're okay, aren't you?" Anthony reached out. Teased the mouse distressed about its apple. Said, puzzled but relieved: "Why are you okay?"
The mouse finally stopped examining the no-longer-perfect perfect apple. Hugged Anthony's finger. Said softly: "Squeak."
Anthony suddenly realized he could feel the mouse's emotions again. Not alarm-bell terror. But calm joy.
He shook his head, confused. Something had changed. But he didn't have time to examine it carefully now. He was very tired. And very worried about his cat.
Just as he thought this, he suddenly felt a comfortable, affectionate emotion from the mouse. Then a ginger creature walked through the door—a ginger dead thing.
The cat's ears pressed flat. Tail swishing. Looked with disgust at the terrible surroundings. Seemed completely unwilling to let its smooth fur and clean paws touch this dust and blood.
"You know, since getting fur, you've become much more pretentious," Anthony told it.
The cat swished its tail irritably. Jumped from the doorway straight to Anthony's lap. Leaped over rubble and corpses. Hooked its claws firmly into his bathrobe desperately needing cleaning. Added a wound needing repair. Anthony stroked it. Still cool as winter moonlight.
"I don't understand," Anthony said. Hugged both mouse and cat tightly. He found he still couldn't understand what the cat was thinking.
He stood holding them. Hesitated between two doors. The damaged one led back—while he'd collected himself, Quirrell must have escaped through it. The intact one he leaned against supposedly hid immortality's secrets.
He looked down at two pairs of bright death-eyes: "I admit I'm a bit curious, but..."
"But wasn't that commotion a bit too loud?" A smooth voice came from the other side. Anthony looked up. Saw Snape striding over. Behind him followed McGonagall in a hairnet.
"Henry, you..." McGonagall said with disbelief. Surveyed the entire room. Looked like she'd just been rudely woken from sleep. "I think we need to visit the Headmaster's office. Albus is waiting for us."
"If I may be so fortunate as to know..." Snape said. "How do you plan to explain all this, innocent, harmless Professor Anthony?"
Anthony helped the mouse pick up its apple. Said: "I suppose I just chased a rabbit. Then fell down the rabbit hole. Alice really didn't do anything, did she—she just didn't take her nap."
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