Anthony returned home to find the Skeleton Cat locked in mortal combat with its own tail in the bedroom.
It was chasing and pouncing all over the room, frantically trying to pin down the bony vertebrae. Soul Fire blazed in its eye sockets, brightly illuminating the space under the bed. He must have forgotten to cast a few Cleaning Charms under there while tidying up—the space was thick with fluffy dust bunnies.
"Evening," he said.
The cat paused, glanced at him over its shoulder, then went right back to its dedicated assault on its tail.
The Wraith Chicken suddenly poked its head out from the pillows on the bed, its red comb stark against the pale green linen. Anthony opened the wardrobe and saw the green billiard balls had been thoroughly pecked to pieces, while Mouse had taken the opportunity to stuff two apples inside.
"Evening to you, too," Anthony said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Bad news, chicken. I argued with that living person who was supposed to come curse you today."
The Wraith Chicken didn't seem to care. It fluttered, trying to land on his head, found its footing unsteady, and settled for his shoulder instead, flapping its wings for balance.
"Really, I think we need to find a different living person," Anthony said, trying to twist his ear away from the noise. Someone should have warned him a chicken's wing-flaps could be so loud.
The Skeleton Cat abandoned its tail, sprang onto the pillow, and looked up at the Wraith Chicken with keen interest.
Anthony warned it, "Don't you dare—"
The Skeleton Cat leaped, lunging straight for the chicken. It left a few black-grey paw prints on the pillowcase, but Anthony had no time to care about that now. The cat's claws and the chicken's talons were both hooked into his shoulder, and they were scrabbling and flapping right beside his head. For one brief, crystal-clear moment, Anthony deeply regretted not bringing the cat tree Professor McGonagall had given him.
The Wraith Chicken had a firm grip on one of the cat's ribs, while the cat clung stubbornly to Anthony, refusing to be hauled into the air.
"Alright then, no one's listening to me," Anthony muttered. He grabbed the chicken's wing with one hand, pressed the Skeleton Cat tangled on his shoulder with the other, and flopped backwards onto the bed. The war was forced into a ceasefire. The cat struggled to extract its claws from under him, clambered out inelegantly by gripping the bedsheet, and swiped at him in annoyance. The chicken flew to the headboard, standing tall and looking down its beak at the feline.
"What, you don't allow your personal jungle gym to fall over, tyrant?" Anthony asked, rolling onto his side.
The quilt was a complete disaster. The pillow was smudged with dust. The Wraith Chicken hopped onto his back and began pacing. Anthony, hugging the grumpy Skeleton Cat, started to laugh. His bed felt absolutely perfect.
On Tuesday evening, Anthony stood with the fridge door open, contemplating whether a salad made of just lettuce and onion was a valid dinner. He was going to The Burrow tomorrow, and Mrs. Weasley had a well-earned reputation for stuffing all her guests to the brim.
Over the hum of the fridge, a burst of flame appeared in his kitchen. Fawkes materialized. The phoenix dropped a letter, perched on the light fixture, its long crimson tail feathers dangling right in front of Anthony's face.
"What—" Anthony said, startled. Fawkes craned its neck, glaring at him upside-down from between its gold-red plumage.
The cat heard the commotion and padded curiously out of the bedroom. It froze at the sight of the giant bird now occupying the kitchen. It flattened its ears, let out a low, warning growl, and slowly arched its back. Fawkes looked at it with utter disdain and spread its wings.
"No. Absolutely not." Anthony hurried over, scooped up the ginger cat, and scratched behind its ears. "Good cat. Stay in the bedroom."
He firmly deposited the cat on the bed and closed the door. The cat yowled in protest. Anthony heard the scrabble of claws against wood, a squeak from Mouse, and then a loud crash from the bedroom. It sounded like the chandelier had just met its end.
In loopy, spiraling handwriting, Dumbledore informed Anthony that he had contacted an old friend, Nicolas Flamel. The renowned alchemist was very interested in the whole subject.
"I spoke with Nicolas. While somewhat puzzled by my sudden decision to research this topic, he was most generous in sharing his thoughts," Dumbledore wrote. "Perenelle says she knew several necromancers in her time, though they have all, alas, passed on. She also admits she never much cared for them—"
Anthony reread the line, and then he remembered. Nicolas Flamel and Perenelle Flamel had lived through the witch-hunting era. A time before the International Statute of Secrecy. A time when young witches and wizards sought shelter in magical schools, and necromancers still haunted graveyards.
"Perenelle recalls that when cursing a necromancer, a similar set of rituals was commonly used: the flesh of the caster, bones controlled by the necromancer, an invocation offered to Death, and finally, the intended result of the curse. This was purely because people of that age believed all magical rites should contain the three parts that make a person: bone, flesh, and blood."
Meanwhile, Nicolas Flamel had also advised Dumbledore not to get overly hung up on the exact wording of the curse. Like most magic of that era, Necromancy was a fluid art, and curses against its practitioners were the same. Unlike modern spellcraft, slight changes in phrasing and minor details didn't impact the final result as significantly.
As Anthony himself had realized, the actual casting process for Necromancy was deceptively simple.
In an age that relied more on innate talent than rigorous study, people tended to believe words and wands were merely tools to communicate with magic itself. Different expressions could convey the same intent—Nicolas Flamel believed this was also why, even today, on the foundation of standardized spells, people could still invent countless variants with subtle differences.
Dumbledore also relayed Nicolas's words: "Alchemy was perhaps the only discipline of that age known for its precision, and yet, from our current perspective, it would still seem crude and arbitrary. If you had told me five hundred years ago that the way to summon an object was 'Accio' and not 'Come here,' my friend, I would have told you that you were certainly no wizard."
Finally, Dumbledore concluded: "So, with some luck, we may not need to trouble dear Quirrell after all. Since the key is merely to connect the caster to the cursed necromancer, the magic may not be overly concerned with his blood—after all, we all agree magic and blood should have little to do with one another.
"Please pass on my regards to the purely magical, entirely bloodless Wraith Chicken. I have enclosed one good-natured phoenix. I hope Fawkes does not cause you too much trouble. Yours faithfully, Albus Dumbledore.
"P.S. Fawkes is fond of medicinal herbs. Pomona sometimes complains about this."
Anthony's gaze shifted to the pot of Dittany on the kitchen windowsill. It had grown quite a bit since Neville gave it to him. Losing a few leaves was probably acceptable.
A/N: Skipping the update scheduled for the wee hours! Off to fix my sleep schedule. Everyone, eat well, drink well, sleep well
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