By December, the rain had finally stopped. The trees stood bare, their branches sketching stark, iron-black lines against the grey sky. A thin layer of ice had formed over the Black Lake, though snow hadn't fallen yet. Occasionally, the giant squid would punch a hole up from below, grabbing a chunk of ice to float around with in a small, open patch of water.
Every fireplace in the castle burned bright and hot. Scarves were knotted, hats were pulled down over ears. Ice cream vanished from the dinner tables, replaced by steaming pumpkin juice and hot chocolate. Sales of Butterbeer skyrocketed.
Before the snows came, Professor Sprout needed help burying all the herbs from Greenhouse One under dragon dung. As a result, Anthony, safe under a Bubble-Head Charm, happily missed every single meeting of the 'Lock Up Your Heart' club amidst the shrieking of the Venomous Tentacula.
Professor Burbage was busy preparing for Peter Pettigrew's retrial, which required frequent personal visits to former Obliviators. Consequently, she'd had no choice but to hand over several of her sixth-year lessons to Anthony.
Her pre-prepared exams finally saw use. All Anthony had to do was sit at the teacher's desk, ensure a professor was physically present in the room, and flip through her test papers, silently estimating how many questions his students might get right.
He hesitantly thought they might scrape by on the sections about daily Muggle life. The parts involving history and culture? He wasn't so sure. If students needed to master all that to pass, Anthony would argue that the hours allotted to Muggle Studies on the Hogwarts timetable were laughably insufficient.
He leaned forward for a look. The sixth-year nearest to him—Percy Weasley's deskmate—was scribbling furiously under the question: What is the commonly held Muggle belief regarding the primary cause of the 19th-century Irish Potato Famine? Anthony could just make out phrases like 'the infamous dark wizard… cruel…'
Then, he watched as the student pensively sucked on his quill, shot a couple of furtive glances at Percy. Percy shot his neighbor a deeply disapproving look, then looked up at Anthony as if to plead his innocence. He draped his arm and the wide sleeve of his robes over his own parchment, hunching over his paper so awkwardly that even Anthony couldn't see his answers.
Percy's deskmate hesitated. Made a decision. He scratched out his entire answer and wrote: Muggles commonly believe it had nothing to do with wizards. He sat up straight, examined his answer with serious gravity, carefully darkened the dots over his 'i's, and moved on to the next question with a satisfied air.
Anthony breathed a quiet sigh of relief. His students could probably manage that much.
The moment the bell rang for the end of class, the soft scratch-scratch of quills stopped dead. These N.E.W.T.-level Muggle Studies students dutifully pushed their papers away, letting Anthony summon the scrolls to the front desk with a wave of his wand.
A few slumped back in their chairs, sighing as they launched into discussions about evening plans. A student in the corner watched his parchment float away with tragic eyes, large sections of it still glaringly blank. Anthony noticed Percy turning almost immediately, clearly wanting to discuss the questions with his neighbor. But his neighbor was already debating the latest Quidditch match and the Slytherin team's House-elves with someone on his other side.
"Professor Anthony?" a student ventured cautiously.
"Hm? Yes?" Anthony looked up from stacking the exams at the student who had approached the desk.
The student hesitated, a worried frown on his face. "Do you… do you know what's happened to Professor Burbage? Is she ill?"
"Oh, no. She's just preparing for a very, very important meeting," Anthony said. "If all goes well, I expect she'll be back next Wednesday."
"What meeting?"
Anthony smiled. "That's confidential. But I think you'll read all about it in the papers soon enough. Front page, I'd guess."
"Wow." The student's eyes visibly lit up. Percy, sitting in the front row, had swiveled around, leaning forward with keen interest.
Anthony glanced at him, unsure if Mrs. Weasley had yet revealed the mystery of the missing pet rat. In the end, he just gave Percy a small, polite smile.
…
From what Anthony had gathered, one of the figures responsible for Ron's pet's disappearance—Sirius Black—was currently lying in the hospital wing, bored out of his mind. Professor Sprout had assured Sirius he would neither mildew nor sprout moss. Professor McGonagall had informed him wizards had yet to figure out how to rust.
Students were intensely curious about the white-curtained bed in the corner, but no one could slip past Madam Pomfrey's eagle eyes. Only on rare occasions had someone caught a glimpse of Sirius's too-thin ankles and feet sticking out from under the curtains. Ron told anyone who asked that it was a ghoul, and a few people actually believed him.
Sirius kept insisting there was nothing wrong with him, that he didn't need 'healthy food' or 'nutrient potions,' all he needed was fresh air. Madam Pomfrey believed he was referring to the fresh air that gave you a cold, and warned him crossly that if he continued being uncooperative, she'd ship him off to St. Mungo's to recuperate.
Harry seemed to sneak into the hospital wing at every opportunity, with Ron and Hermione always in tow. Hagrid was delighted, believing this was why Harry, Ron, and Hermione hadn't noticed the tiny new resident in his hut. Grateful, he brought rock cakes to visit Sirius, completely failing to notice the large black dog that nearly followed him out the door.
"That dog was huge, nearly as big as Fang!" Hagrid chuckled, tossing another log into the fire. "My hand was on the doorknob when Madam Pomfrey shouted 'Halt!' near scared me out of my skin. Sirius was behind me, nudging my leg, trying to slip out through the crack…"
Right then, one Chimaera pounced on another. They went rolling, a tangle of limbs and snapping jaws, coming to a stop right at Hagrid's feet, dangerously close to the fireplace hearth. Hagrid jumped, scooping them both up, and was promptly bitten by one for his trouble.
"How'd you lot get out of the crate?" he muttered, carrying them over and dumping them unceremoniously into separate wooden crates, slamming the lids shut.
The next moment, Anthony saw a third Chimaera peek out from beside Hagrid's bed, dust and paper shreds clinging to the fur on its head, its dragon-like tail lashing triumphantly. It eyed Hagrid's calf, apparently deciding on the best angle of attack.
"There's another one by your bed, Hagrid," Anthony pointed out.
"By the bed?" Hagrid turned, confused. "But that's where the—"
The Chimaera launched itself. Sunk its teeth into Hagrid's leg. Anthony had a vague sense of déjà vu.
"—The Monster Book of Monsters is," Hagrid finished, staring at the paper shreds on the Chimaera's fur. He stomped over to his bed (the Chimaera still attached to his calf, being dragged along) and picked up a tattered, gold-dust-shedding hardcover from the floor.
Hagrid looked at the cover with profound dismay, then down at the Chimaera. His voice was far too loud. "Blimey, you really shouldn't have—"
A knock sounded at the door. "Hagrid?" Harry's voice came through. "Hagrid, are you in there?"
Ron said, "I heard him just now. Hagrid?"
"Gallopin' Gorgons, they're supposed to be with Sirius!" Hagrid said, flustered.
He shoved the Chimaera into a crate, stacked it on top of the others, and threw a large, curtain-like cloth over the whole pile. Anthony quickly scanned the room, trying to confirm no other Chimaeras had escaped.
Outside, worry was setting in. "Hagrid, are you okay?" Hermione asked. "It's us! Harry, Ron, and Hermione!"
"I'm fine!" Hagrid called back loudly. He strode to the door, pulling it open just a crack to stick his face out. "What is it?"
"Listen, Hagrid, no one blames you," Hermione said. "Madam Pomfrey was just a bit cross, that's all. You don't need to feel guilty about almost letting Sirius leave the hospital wing."
"Er… right. Good. That's good." From behind him, Anthony could clearly see one of Hagrid's hands fidgeting nervously on the doorknob, the other unconsciously clutching the Chimaera-mangled book cover.
"What's that?" Hermione asked. "A book? Are you reading?"
Hagrid jerked the cover behind his back. "Nothin'. Now, off you go. You lot shouldn't be hangin' about askin' questions."
"I remember now. That's The Monster Book of Monsters," Hermione said, a sudden thread of suspicion in her tone. "What exactly are you doing, Hagrid?"
"Oh… I…" Hagrid floundered.
Anthony sighed and stepped up behind Hagrid. "He's demonstrating how… playful this particular book can be."
"Henry!" Hagrid said, voice thick with gratitude, moving aside a little. Outside, the three second-year Gryffindors looked up at them. Harry still wore a slight frown, his eyes scanning the hut. Ron took half a step back, startled.
"Professor Anthony!" Hermione looked suddenly, immensely relieved.
"Good afternoon," Anthony said with a smile. "Hagrid was just showing me how hard the Monster Books can bite, and how much damage their covers can withstand. So we put two of them together. A minor mishap, but we'll sort it out."
"That's right. We will," Hagrid chimed in, his tone oddly fervent. Harry was watching him with a probing look.
"By the way, Mr. Weasley," Anthony said, shifting focus. "Please thank Arthur and Molly for the holiday invitation. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I'll have time. And again, I'm truly sorry about Scabbers. However, I feel I should warn you, Minerva isn't entirely satisfied with the student body's understanding of Animagi. You might have a surprise theory test in Transfiguration around the time that news hits the papers."
…
"A surprise test!" Hermione exclaimed as they walked away from the hut. "It'll definitely cover the definition of a Switching Spell, but do you think she'll ask about the role of commonality and similarity in second-category transfigurations?"
"Hagrid's hiding something in his hut," Harry said, firm and unwavering.
Ron groaned. "Yeah. He's hiding a professor. Bloody terrible."
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