"Has the school board done something recently?" Professor Sprout asked with concern.
"Those photos by Mr. Creevey—Lucius Malfoy wasn't too pleased, you know," Professor Burbage said.
Professor Kettleburn looked confused. "What photos?"
Professor Flitwick leaned in and explained the story of Malfoy and the slugs. Professor Sprout nodded, taking a sip of tea. "I'm aware. He's been pushing to have Colin Creevey expelled from the school."
Professor Kettleburn, still listening to Flitwick, spoke without turning his head. "Wishful thinking. Albus won't allow it. They'd need to fire Albus first before they could expel Albus's student."
"Exactly," Professor Burbage said. "I suspect Malfoy has been fanning the flames quite a bit, which explains the Minister's sudden keen interest in meddling with Hogwarts. The Creeveys are Muggles, so Malfoy's hands are tied there."
Anthony said, surprised, "I thought he was a blood purist." He'd assumed Lucius Malfoy wouldn't care at all about Muggle lives.
"Since the Dark Lord's disappearance, he hasn't openly championed pure-blood ideology for a long time," Professor Sprout told Anthony. "Now, I know people say Malfoy was a Death Eater—"
Professor Burbage snorted. "He was."
"—but Malfoy insists that even if he did certain things during the Dark Lord's reign, it was all under the Imperius Curse. You might hear a lot of talk, Henry, but at least from the Ministry's official standpoint, Malfoy's actions weren't his own. He's always quick to proclaim himself a law-abiding citizen, and the Muggle Protection Act is in effect. The Ministry has never found any evidence of Mr. Malfoy violating it."
"I must point out," Professor Burbage said, shrugging and slowly eating a small piece of honey cake, "that might be because the great philanthropist Mr. Malfoy has been so sincerely generous in funding various Ministry projects ever since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanished."
"The Ministry needs its patrons," Professor Sprout said tolerantly. "More tea, Charity?"
…
Anthony excused himself early, wishing his colleagues a pleasant time with their tea and cake, as he still needed to prepare for tomorrow's lessons.
Students played in small groups on the lawn or strolled by the Black Lake, throwing small stones at patches of stubborn ice. The afternoon sun blazed on the rooftops of Hogwarts' towers. Meltwater dripped, freezing into glistening icicles hanging from the eaves.
Anthony took the less-traveled path back towards the castle, glancing towards the hospital wing. Ever since Sirius Black had gained a public, legal identity, reporters had swarmed for interviews. Letters of sympathy and apology had poured into the hospital wing like a blizzard, much to Madam Pomfrey's displeasure.
Both Anthony and Professor Sprout privately suspected Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't thrilled either—perhaps because he was no longer the daily champion of mail received at Hogwarts. A significant portion of his admirers' attention had shifted to Sirius. Students endlessly discussed ways to catch a glimpse of the convalescing Sirius in the hospital wing. The disheveled, wild-eyed photo in the Daily Prophet had only fueled their curiosity.
Another dozen students trudged out of the hospital wing, heads hanging, ears smoking. Madam Pomfrey's furious shout followed them. "This is a hospital, not a museum!"
As they passed Anthony, he overheard one say dejectedly, "Why can't we get near that area? Sirius Black wouldn't mind."
"Think that warning line actually works?" another asked. "I bet at least three hundred people step over it daily. They can't punish everyone, right?"
"The Weasley twins say they have a brilliant way around the line," a third student chimed in, eyes darting around. He met Anthony's gaze, promptly shut his mouth, straightened up, and marched past with an expression of utmost righteousness.
Anthony silently resolved to increase his nightly patrol frequency. On the other hand, he had to admit Sirius would probably be delighted to meet the Weasley twins. Judging by the stories he'd heard starring James Potter and Sirius Black, Sirius and the twins would have plenty to talk about.
…
In his office, the ginger cat was smugly devouring a bag of colorful fish jerky. The door opened, and the Wraith Chicken strutted out, looked at him, then strutted calmly back into the bedroom.
"Afternoon, cat. Afternoon, chicken," Anthony said, taking off his coat. "Where's the rat?"
The cat, face-deep in the jerky and torn packaging, offered no answer. The Wraith Chicken flew onto his head and settled down. Judging by the state of the room, the cat and chicken had definitely fought again.
Anthony hunched his neck, unable to lift his head under the chicken's weight. "Right. I'll find him myself." He closed his eyes and felt for the small, familiar light in his mind that was the Wraith Rat. The chicken tugged at his hair.
Following the guiding light, Anthony found himself in the bathroom. He searched for a moment before spotting the rat curled up asleep inside his toothbrush cup. He looked down at the transparent creature, then gently placed the cup back on the shelf.
…
Prompted by Professor Burbage's reminder, Anthony decided the next class would review how to use the wizarding postal service. As he looked through last year's lesson plans, he was struck by how much he now felt he could change.
The sky shifted from pale blue to pink-purple, then a deep blue rose from the horizon, slowly swallowing the whole sky. The light grew dim. The Wraith Rat climbed onto his desk and squeaked at him. Anthony lit the lamps, idly scooped the rat into his hand, and tucked it into his pocket. The rat scrambled out indignantly and went to find its apple.
Only when the golden-red glow of sunset had faded completely, and deep night draped the sky over Hogwarts, did Anthony realize with a start that he'd missed dinner again.
"Were you trying to remind me about dinner earlier?" he asked the Wraith Rat, rubbing his forehead.
"Squeak." The rat's reply was ambiguous.
"Well, thank you anyway," Anthony said, smiling. He checked the time. "I suppose I must visit the kitchens. Let's hope the house-elves aren't too cross with me."
He tidied his lesson plans, slotted his pen back into its holder, stepped around the cat sleeping amidst a sea of wrappers and the Wraith Chicken pretending to doze, threw on his cloak, and left his office.
The corridor was empty. The dim torches offered no warmth. Moaning Myrtle sighed dramatically in her bathroom. Nearly Headless Nick seemed to be talking to her, his voice echoing and vibrating in the cold air. Anthony heard Lockhart proclaiming loudly, "That's it, Gilderoy, spot on!" so he lightened his footsteps even more.
This was one reason Anthony loved the night. Every day was different, but nights always carried a familiar, comfortable sense of unchanging peace. This night felt like any of the countless nights before it at Hogwarts.
Anthony passed an open window and stopped. Moonlight glowed on the unmelted snow patches dotting the lawn. Three sets of lopsided footprints appeared abruptly on the snow and stretched onward, as if three invisible people were heading for Hagrid's hut.
A name immediately came to mind. Harry Potter. Owner of a top-tier Invisibility Cloak and two very loyal best friends.
Despite Hagrid's firm assurances that he would never let students near the Chimaeras, for some reason, Hagrid didn't seem to consider Harry and his friends as Hogwarts students. Anthony strongly suspected that while Hagrid was busy shoveling snow, feeding chickens, polishing broomsticks, or patrolling the Forbidden Forest, Harry and his friends were helping Hagrid care for those Chimaeras. He'd just never found direct proof.
Several of the Chimaeras had finished teething. Their majestic manes were starting to show. They often pounded their crates thunderously with hard hooves and powerful tails. Only a constant supply of meat could calm them briefly. Thankfully, they still hadn't produced the Chimaera's signature venom.
Anthony had looked it up in the library. Only after consuming enough toads, venomous snakes, and scorpions would a Chimaera develop toxins. He'd firmly stopped Hagrid when he found the groundskeeper preparing to catch snakes.
…
A warm glow shone from the hut's windows. Hagrid's huge figure moved between them. Anthony could even make out Hagrid hanging some meat from the ceiling, tidying the stove, then sitting under a lamp to mend something.
His shaggy head was still for a moment. By then, the three lines of footprints had reached the door. The cold wind carried Fang's excited barking and the jingle of his chain. Hagrid's head lifted. He went to the door. It opened. A moment later, thump, thump, thump. Hagrid closed all the wooden shutters, blocking out every last bit of light.
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