At the Sorting Ceremony, Anthony didn't even have the energy to pay attention to what new song the Sorting Hat had cooked up. Lockhart kept chattering nonstop beside him, recounting his own glorious exploits from his school days. Professor Sprout tried to save his ears, reminding Lockhart that quiet during the ceremony was a tradition, but it was a losing battle.
Of the two new students he knew, Kevin Jones was sorted into Hufflepuff, and Ginny Weasley, like her brothers before her, went to Gryffindor. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all clapped enthusiastically for Ginny. Her face flushed bright red, and she nearly tripped over her chair as she went to sit down.
Anthony took a few helpings of shepherd's pie, finding them less appetizing than ever. He wondered if the feast would have been more enjoyable without someone in his ear describing "gooey, damp ghouls reeking of mold and rot."
He couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration for Lockhart's literary skills. He was now thoroughly convinced all the food on his plate had been licked by several ghouls.
"Henry, would you care for some treacle tart?" Professor McGonagall called from down the table, peering past the pointed brim of Professor Sprout's hat.
"Of course, Minerva, thank you," Anthony said, feeling like he couldn't swallow another bite.
"My word, treacle tart," Lockhart sighed. "Just looking at it takes me back to my holiday with a hag. It was in Lithuania, you see…"
At that moment, Dumbledore rose to his feet. Anthony only then noticed that most people seemed to have finished eating, except for himself, Lockhart, and Professor Sprout.
Professor Sprout was jabbing her fork into a piece of roast beef, her expression cool. Anthony would bet a Galleon she'd also heard about that ghoul's slow, slimy crawl through the kitchens.
Dumbledore, as he had last term, reminded everyone of the school rules: no entering the Forbidden Forest, no magic in the corridors, no illegal hexes during Quidditch. Finally, he said, "And now, allow me to introduce the changes to our staff this year. We are delighted to welcome Professor Lockhart, who will be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Polite applause echoed through the hall. Lockhart stood, waving and bowing gracefully to all sides, his smile blinding.
While he regaled the school with his noble mission ("I told myself, Gilderoy, though you have dedicated your life to eradicating dark forces, equipping young witches and wizards with superior defensive skills is an investment in the very future of our world…"), Anthony finally breathed a sigh of relief and served himself some blancmange.
He caught Professor Sprout's eye under the sweep of Lockhart's gesturing arms. They both shook their heads and shared a small, weary smile. Professor Sprout was sneakily loading more stew onto her plate.
…
Anthony pushed open the classroom door, relieved to see all his students from last term waiting inside. Roger was craning his neck, showing off his fading scars to a neighbor. Cedric was telling his deskmate some amusing story from his summer holiday in Croatia.
"Good afternoon," Anthony said, closing the door behind him.
"Good afternoon, Professor Anthony," the students chorused back, grinning.
"Glad to see you all again. I hope you had an enjoyable holiday." Anthony placed his lesson notes and the tin of coconut ices on the lectern.
Term had finally started. He'd decided he would hand out more sweets this year. The cat was already eyeing the empty tins.
"Fourth-year material is more specific than third-year, but we'll still be using the same textbook," Anthony began. "But let's not open it just yet. Since this is our first lesson of the term, we'll begin by reviewing and summarizing the key points from last year's final exam. Then, if there's time left, we can have a chat. See if you have any lingering questions about what we've covered so far, or if there's anything you're curious to know."
He pulled last term's third-year exam paper from his notes and glanced at it. "Question One: If you are conversing with a Muggle on a bus and they inquire about your profession, which of the following answers should you perhaps think twice about giving?"
"First, I trust you all remember the International Statute of Secrecy. Among its important clauses, Article 73 states that magical governing bodies must conceal, care for, and control all magical creatures in their jurisdiction, which includes dragons. So, theoretically, you cannot tell any Muggle you are a dragon keeper."
"Next, yes, you can say you're a journalist. Though I wouldn't recommend specifying you work for the Daily Prophet. Muggles have far too many newspapers to keep track of, but it's still a risk."
"'Potion maker,' especially 'potion master,' is not a commonly accepted Muggle title, though they might guess your meaning. A Muggle might assume you work in…" He looked at the class encouragingly.
"A… doctor?" a Hufflepuff student ventured softly.
"The pharmaceutical industry," another student said with more confidence. "My uncle does that. My mum sometimes suspects he's secretly adding potions to the cauldrons at their factory."
"I don't believe factories use cauldrons," Anthony mused. "But the question of factories can wait until after our visit to the chocolate factory. By then, many of you will have a much clearer idea of what 'industrialization' in your textbook actually means."
…
For every question, students who'd answered correctly received a coconut ice. Their scores became tangible as little shiny pink cubes piled up on their desks. Though, as people kept ducking their heads to quickly and discreetly pop one into their mouths, the piles soon became useless as a reference.
Anthony handed out the final coconut ice and closed the exam paper. "Right then. Any other questions?"
"Professor Anthony, I have one," a Ravenclaw student said. "It's not about the exam, exactly. I've been thinking about it since the History of Magic final…"
"Yes?"
"We always say wizards and Muggles are both human," the student said. "But, Professor, do Muggles think we're human? I was revising the history of the witch hunts, and it just occurred to me. If they also saw us as human, why would they…"
"Ah, excellent question." Anthony smiled at him. "First, I'm pleased to note (and very happy to agree with) the implication in your question: 'Humans shouldn't kill each other.'"
"However, in my personal view, the conflict between Muggles and wizards exists precisely because we are all human. Because we share similar desires, sufferings, and ways of thinking."
"Muggles and wizards, wizards and Muggles, Muggles and Muggles, wizards and wizards… Violent conflicts have erupted between all of them. And after such conflicts, we all feel grief. We all try to find ways to prevent such tragedies from happening again."
"You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters…" a student muttered. The person beside her shot her a furious look.
"And to address your specific question: yes, even by Muggle definitions, wizards and Muggles belong to the same species," Anthony said. "I know the wizarding world has revised its definition of 'being' several times. But for Muggles, at least currently, they often use a very simple criterion: reproductive isolation."
"What?" several students said, confused.
"Reproductive isolation," Anthony repeated, writing the term on the blackboard. "Simply put, Muggles believe a cat is not a dog because a cat cannot produce offspring with a dog—especially offspring that can themselves reproduce. So, any Muggle with a proper education, upon seeing the child of a Muggle and a wizard, would naturally conclude wizards and Muggles are both human."
A few students made sounds of distaste, unhappy with such a purely procreative method of classification.
Anthony continued, "And for wizards, while they've never used such a standard, in discussion, they instinctively classify Muggles as human. People have debated whether centaurs, merpeople, ghosts, goblins, or gnomes count as beings. But so far, no definition has been proposed that completely excludes Muggles from humanity."
"What is our current definition of a being again?" one student whispered to his deskmate.
"Forgot. But Muggles must be in it, or Muggle-borns would have protested ages ago," the deskmate whispered back. "Wasn't there a Muggle Protection Act recently?"
"But, Professor Anthony," the questioning student pressed on, "the textbook says Muggles called witches monsters, freaks…"
"Professor Lockhart informed me that 'Muggle' is also a derogatory term wizards use for non-magical people," Anthony said, noticing several students frowning at the mention of Lockhart's name. "I suppose it's because… people are exceptionally good at spotting differences, but not particularly skilled at handling them."
…
After class, Anthony returned to his office with a much lighter tin of coconut ices. The cat was sprawled on its climbing frame, meticulously licking a front paw. The rat had vanished again. That was the benefit of wraiths: they could decide when they wanted to be solid.
A letter lay quietly on his desk. Beside it was a single gold-and-red feather.
Anthony opened it quickly.
Dumbledore apologized in the letter. He had a conference in France this Saturday and couldn't continue the Wraith Chicken experiments at Anthony's home as planned.
The good news, however, was that Nicolas Flamel now knew the theoretical experiment had been a theoretical success, and had provided more theoretical alchemical instruments and models.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore wrote, "Severus claims to have made rather promising progress in simulating unicorn blood. I believe I did tell him it might no longer be necessary, but he feels the research topic alone will give him an edge for the Potioneers' Guild Lifetime Achievement Award."
Even understanding why Dumbledore had mentioned Snape, Anthony merely thanked the Headmaster for the time and effort spent on the Wraith Chicken.
As for the unicorn blood: "I am pleased to have inspired Professor Snape's research, though I must beg him to include in his acknowledgements yourself, the whereabouts-unknown Professor Quirrell, the widely-respected Mr. Voldemort, and my humble self. I do hope it aids his candidacy."
He let the ink dry, hesitated for a moment, then went to the owlery to send it off anyway.
…
The day was clear and bright. From the owlery, he could see many students sprawled on the lawn with books. Anthony watched Percy Weasley stride purposefully to the edge of the Black Lake, place a notebook gently beside a girl, and march away again.
Anthony left the castle himself, intending to visit Hagrid. Bees buzzed around the last of the season's flowers. The path was dry and warm, pleasant underfoot. He recognized a few of his own students gathered together, discussing the Nimbus 2001, the latest racing broom.
He didn't disturb them, slipping quietly past. Hagrid's hut was locked, probably out with Fang. But there were a few drops of something dark on his doorstep.
Worried, Anthony circled the hut and stopped in front of the vegetable patch out back. Dark green pumpkin vines bore a dozen terrifyingly large pumpkins, each big enough to make the local agricultural news. And they looked like they could grow even bigger.
He walked back to the front door, studying the dark stains for a moment, and found a few more drops not far away. Soon, he found others even farther on.
Following the trail, he found himself at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Here, a small puddle of it hadn't yet fully soaked into the ground.
Anthony stared into the dark woods for a long moment, hoping fervently that Hagrid hadn't introduced something blood-loving to the Forest. A cheerful vampire family, for instance.
Just as he turned to leave, the branches in front of him shook violently. Leaves rustled. Then, with the sharp crack of snapping wood, a dark, lizard-like head emerged from the blackness of the trees. The thing regarded him calmly with pupil-less white eyes for a second. Then, utterly indifferent, it extended a long, slender neck covered in a dark mane and lowered its snout to sniff the blood on the ground.
It began lapping at the dark-red, almost black liquid staining the grass. Anthony took a few steps closer. In the dappled shadow of the trees, he could just make out the creature's folded, bat-like black wings. He wasn't entirely sure until the creature shook them out, stretching them briefly.
Anthony stared at the sharp spikes on the leading edges of those wings. One thought filled his mind, crystal clear.
Hagrid had gotten himself another dragon.
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