Snape shoved Anthony out of his office, leaving him bewildered. Anthony watched him stride away and vanish around the corner of the corridor before considering what to do next.
He stood for a while in the chilly dungeon air, then slowly started towards the stairs. But as he neared ground level, he heard Lockhart's voice, loud and clear: "Excellent! I want you all to practice on each other! I'll be right back!"
Immediately, light, brisk footsteps echoed on the stone tiles. Anthony could practically picture Lockhart sweeping along, robes fluttering, radiant as ever.
He quickly ducked back. If he returned to his office now, would he run into Lockhart? He was also curious about who "you all" referred to. A few Slytherin students hurried past, glancing back at him, just as puzzled by his presence as he was.
"Professor Anthony?"
Anthony turned. Tracey Davis stepped out of the Slytherin common room entrance, holding a stack of books, her hair unusually pulled up. Several nearby students were looking at Tracey with an unpleasant expression, but she ignored them and nodded to Anthony. "Good afternoon, Professor Anthony."
"Good afternoon, Miss Davis," Anthony said with a smile, noting the top book was The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3. "Off to the library?"
"Oh, no." Tracey stopped. "Roger invited me to watch his Quidditch practice."
Just then, several tall Quidditch players in green robes descended the stairs, their faces grim. Leading them was Flint. "You need to step up your training, Draco. You've missed several sessions already. If you play like you did today against Gryffindor—or even Hufflepuff—"
Draco Malfoy cut in impatiently, "Enough, Marcus. I get it." His grey eyes flickered towards the broom in his hand. "Don't worry… I have my ways."
Pansy Parkinson, walking beside Malfoy, chimed in, "Of course you do, Draco. You're a brilliant flier."
Flint seemed ready to argue, but his eyes swept over Malfoy and Pansy's finely tailored robes. He swallowed his words. "If you say so…" he muttered.
Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Sounds like you disagree?"
"She doesn't know the first thing about Quidditch," another Slytherin player grumbled. Pansy whirled around, glaring up at him.
"Sorry," the player muttered.
"Remember your place," Pansy said haughtily. "I haven't missed a single Quidditch World Cup match since I was five."
"Alright, Pansy." Malfoy gave her a careless smile. Pansy's face instantly lit up. "If you like Quidditch so much," he said, "next time you watch me train, you can take a few laps yourself… Oh."
Flint had spotted Anthony and stopped. Malfoy's gaze followed, landing on Anthony and Tracey standing in the middle of the corridor. He didn't notice Pansy's face instantly pale at his offhand suggestion.
"Good afternoon, Professor Anthony," Malfoy said coldly, with impeccable politeness. Then, as if Tracey were invisible, he brushed past Flint and strode right between Tracey and Anthony.
The Slytherin team followed in silence, their eyes fixed on Anthony, the hems of their robes whipping against the gleaming, brand-new Nimbus 2001s in their hands.
Pansy trailed at the back. As she passed, Tracey murmured with a faint smile, her lips barely moving, "You like Quidditch, Pansy?"
The color that had just returned to Pansy's face drained away again, then flooded back with fury. "I'm warning you, Davis. Cheering for Ravenclaw is one thing, but this…"
"Pansy?" Malfoy's questioning voice came from ahead.
"Coming, Draco!" Pansy called. She turned back to Tracey, took several deep breaths, and finally said nothing. She shot Anthony a resentful look and hurried off.
…
"Ravenclaw always books the pitch for Wednesday at one PM, all Saturday morning, and Sunday at five PM," Tracey explained calmly to Anthony as they walked up the stairs, her books cradled in her arms. "Hufflepuff gets Tuesday at one, the first half of Saturday afternoon, and Sunday evening…"
A cold wind whistled through a small window. Tracey tucked her chin into her scarf. "Gryffindor usually gets all the mornings, Saturday evenings, and any other spare slots. Slytherin training is typically Saturday from one to five, and any time they can block Gryffindor's practice… except mornings."
"You sound very familiar with the schedule, Miss Davis," Anthony remarked, amused.
He checked the corridor carefully. No sign of gleaming blond hair or fancy silk robes. He hurried out with Tracey. He'd already decided to visit Hagrid. It would be his excuse for missing the Lock-Your-Heart Club meeting, and it promised to be far more pleasant than another chat with Snape.
"Roger told me," Tracey said.
They walked briskly past the staff room. The two gargoyles sat glumly on their pedestals.
The staff room door had excellent soundproofing ("You never know how many students want to press their ears to the door," Professor McGonagall had once said calmly), so Anthony had no idea what was happening inside… not that he wanted to push the door open and look.
Even though it was another cold, overcast day, Anthony couldn't help but exhale in relief once they stepped outside. The wind whipped his robes around him. In this weather, aside from a few determined enthusiasts, most students chose to stay by the warm fires in the castle.
Heavy rain had fallen the previous night, leaving the ground a muddy mess. He parted ways with Tracey and made his way along the slippery path toward Hagrid's hut.
In the gloomy light, Hagrid's pumpkins stood out brilliantly. Their leaves were wilting slightly, but the impossibly large pumpkins had grown even fuller, each one swollen as if ready to burst and spill out a horde of pixies, showering magical dust with every flutter.
The smell of onion soup reached him from a distance. As he squelched through the mud past the fogged-up window, he could hear the bubbling pot and the gentle clatter of it rocking on the stove. Before he could knock, Fang's joyous barking erupted from inside. Anthony smiled and rapped on the door.
"Who's there? Comin'!" Hagrid's gruff voice boomed.
There was a sound of furniture scraping. The wooden door swung open.
Hagrid's black beetle-like eyes shone with delight. He smiled from beneath his tangled beard. "Blimey, Henry! I was just wonderin' when you'd stop by!"
"What is it?" Anthony asked, bracing himself as Fang launched at him. "Alright, Fang. Fang!"
The big dog circled him happily, trying to plant its paws on his chest and lick his nose. Anthony laughed. He absently scraped his muddy shoes on the doormat, then remembered his wand and cast a quick Cleaning Charm.
"Get in here, Henry!" Hagrid said. "Charlie Weasley wrote back!"
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