The next morning, Anthony was woken early again by a cat. The rat was curled on the pillow beside him. He lay in bed for a while, absently winding the rat's tail around his finger, when he suddenly remembered his appointment with Dumbledore that morning.
With Nicolas Flamel's help, their Wraith Chicken experiment had progressed with unbelievable smoothness. They needed to finalize the records and nail down the exact ritual steps for the curse.
The Great Hall showed almost no trace of the Lock-In-Your-Heart Club. The House tables were back in their usual positions. A handful of students were eating breakfast, some chatting about yesterday's event, others whispering what they thought were clever solutions to their Transfiguration essays. Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, throwing a sharp glance their way. But just then, Professor Flitwick launched into a discussion with Professor Sprout about a new Vanishing Spell paper in the latest Charm Innovation.
"Oh, Charm Innovation accepted it?" Professor McGonagall turned, interest piqued. "I heard Transfiguration Today rejected it. Something about trying to use the Muggle principle of conservation of mass to explain…"
Professor Sprout spotted Anthony and waved him over. Filch was sitting at the far end of the staff table. Anthony gave him a nod and a smile, then pulled out the chair beside Sprout.
"Morning, Pomona, Professor Flitwick," Anthony said. "Morning, Minerva."
"Good morning," said Professor Sprout. "I was wondering how to tell you, Henry. Did you miss the staff room yesterday?"
Anthony shook his head, puzzled, and helped himself to a glass of pumpkin juice.
Professor Sprout glanced around and leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's full of balloons… If you fancy a spot of afternoon tea with us, the Second Greenhouse is the new place."
Professor Flitwick piped up from across Sprout. "It's perfectly lovely. Apart from the dragon dung smell."
"Do you know where the Second Greenhouse is, Henry?" asked Professor McGonagall.
"I do," Anthony said, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "But is this really necessary?"
Professor Sprout whispered again, "You'll understand when you see the staff room, Henry. Gilderoy plans a full renovation!"
"Any plans besides your discussion with Severus today?" Professor Flitwick asked brightly. "You're welcome to take a peek at the staff room, Professor Anthony."
"I was planning to," Anthony admitted. "I need the Headmaster's password, actually."
"It's still Sherbet Lemon," Professor McGonagall told him. "Albus meant to change it yesterday, but the gargoyle at the entrance persuaded him otherwise."
Anthony blinked. "There's a gargoyle at the staff room now?"
"Yes," said Professor Sprout, holding up two fingers. "More than one."
…
"Sherbet Lemon," Anthony said. The gargoyle at the Headmaster's door leapt aside. The wall split open. He stepped onto the slowly rising spiral staircase, unsurprised to find the office door standing wide open, as if expecting him.
Anthony knocked on the doorframe. Dumbledore sat behind his desk. On it sat a stone basin, brimming with a mysterious, silvery-white substance. It shimmered, swirling gently, casting a soft, silvery light across the entire office.
"Take a seat, Henry," Dumbledore said cheerfully. Fawkes spread his wings and took flight, settling on top of a cabinet once more. Anthony noted the cabinet door was slightly ajar.
Anthony sat. His eyes were drawn to the basin. Its rim was carved with runes he couldn't decipher—more alchemy, probably.
"How have things been?" Dumbledore began. "I've noticed quite a few students talking about your Muggle Studies field trips."
Anthony smiled. "Yes, sir. All four trips are done. I think the students had some fun—I mean, I believe they've gained some experience interacting with Muggles."
"Splendid, Henry," said Dumbledore. "I expect you'll have a relatively peaceful stretch ahead?"
Anthony nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Excellent." Dumbledore looked pleased. "I need a favor, Henry."
"Of course, sir. If I can."
"Two old friends of mine plan to visit London on the first Saturday of November. We have some academic matters to discuss." Dumbledore's tone was light. "Unfortunately, I own no property in London. And they, being recluses, would prefer a place free from disturbance. So, Henry, I wondered if you might permit us the temporary use of your home?"
Anthony stared for a second. Then he caught the glint of mischief in Dumbledore's eyes. He understood.
"Professor…" he said, disbelieving. "These old friends… they wouldn't happen to be a married couple, would they?"
Dumbledore's smile widened. "To the best of my knowledge, they are."
"Merlin's beard, sir… Merlin's beard." Anthony shook his head, momentarily speechless.
While Dumbledore was widely considered the greatest wizard of the age—some said of any age—he was still the Headmaster living at Hogwarts. Nicolas Flamel was another matter entirely.
Dumbledore nodded. "I take that as a yes."
"Of course," Anthony said, still struggling to believe that Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel would personally observe the Wraith Chicken curse ritual.
"Then I suppose we should finalize the curse procedure before our guests arrive…" Dumbledore gave a soft chuckle. "Merlin, I sound like I'm plotting something dreadful."
Anthony pulled out his notebook. "No problem, sir. I've reviewed most of the books on the list, but I still have a few questions—"
Dumbledore held up a hand. Anthony stopped.
"No need to rush, Henry," Dumbledore said. "There is something else I'd like you to see."
He tapped the misty, liquid substance in the stone basin with his wand. Anthony watched, astonished, as a silvery, miniature version of himself rose from the depths. Its feet remained in the basin. Its face moved, its mouth opening, and his own voice emerged, slightly echoed: "Yes, sir. I believe he said 'flesh,' not 'blood'…"
"You still think so, correct?" Dumbledore confirmed.
Anthony nodded. "Yes. I'm quite sure."
The silvery, pint-sized Anthony, dressed in very Muggle-looking shirtsleeves, stared straight ahead, slowly rotating with the swirl of the basin. "The curse I remember went like this… 'I curse you with the flesh of the living, I curse you with bones disturbed by Necromancy'…"
Outside the basin, Anthony murmured along: "'In death's witness…'"
"Then it gets fuzzy, sir," the basin-Anthony said.
"Can you recall anything, Henry?" Dumbledore asked.
Anthony hesitated. "I remember it meant something like 'you shall be banished from this land.'"
Dumbledore nodded. He cradled the basin, giving it a gentle turn. The shirtsleeved Anthony vanished. In his place rose another Anthony, this one in a dressing gown, seemingly seated. Anthony stared, perplexed, at himself. His tone carried a thread of exhaustion. His expression held something familiar yet alien—something cold.
"'Banished from this land of the living,' or something similar," he heard himself say. "Anyway, Professor Quirrell's wand shot out a light…" He paused, as if listening. "Yes, I think it was a curse. Probably designed to banish a necromancer. But the rat blocked it."
Anthony nodded. "Right. That's the line. I remember now."
"Good," Dumbledore said softly, making a note on a piece of parchment. "Nicolas and I found no issues either. Now, most importantly, Henry. Do you remember Quirrell's tone? His emotional state at that moment?"
Anthony gazed at his slowly spinning self. "He wasn't stuttering," he answered instinctively.
Dumbledore seemed amused. "Tone and emotion, Henry. Anything else?"
"Well… I think he was terrified," Anthony recalled. "But also confident. Absolutely sure the curse would banish me."
Dumbledore repeated thoughtfully, "Terror and confidence."
"And maybe some anger. Because I'd refused his offer." Anthony could still remember standing in that troll-stinking room, listening to his neighbor—someone he'd thought could be a friend—tell him how utterly wrong he was.
"Quite complex, isn't it?" Dumbledore murmured.
Anthony nodded, then shook his head. "If there was anything else, I can't recall."
Dumbledore studied him for a moment over his half-moon spectacles. In the basin, a face Anthony didn't recognize floated up. A boy of maybe fifteen or sixteen. Even in the silvery memory, he looked pale. His demeanor held that particular blend of sharpness, intelligence, and placid self-assurance Anthony associated with 'model students' like Percy and Hermione.
"I don't understand, Professor Dumbledore. The culprit was caught, wasn't he?" the handsome boy said. "Why did you need to see me?"
"Who is that, sir?" Anthony asked.
Dumbledore sighed softly and prodded the basin's contents again with his wand tip. Anthony saw several blurry figures appear, but they wavered and were swiftly churned apart by the swirling silver. The boy's face surfaced once more.
"But, Professor Dippet, I don't deserve the medal." He sounded genuinely troubled. "The monster got away… I didn't stop it completely. I should have reported it sooner, but I just thought Hagrid had a pet against the rules… maybe a dog… I never thought…"
Anthony knew who it was the moment he heard "Hagrid." But he didn't understand why this man's image was being shown to him now.
"Tom Riddle?" he said. "I thought he was missing. That's what the Ministry said when we cleared Hagrid's name."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "He is missing." He watched the swirling image of Tom Riddle in silence for a few moments, then gave the basin a firm shake, scattering the memory.
"Would you like to try, Henry?" Dumbledore invited.
"Try what?" Anthony asked, confused.
"I know it's an impertinent request," Dumbledore said. "But if you were willing to share your memory of Quirrell—of Voldemort—we could not only more precisely identify the required emotional tone for the ritual, but with luck, we might also glimpse how Voldemort has been faring these past years."
Anthony hesitated. He wasn't keen on Dumbledore seeing exactly how his Necromancy worked. And if he were honest, he wasn't keen on seeing himself fully consumed by it either.
"What would I need to do?" he asked cautiously.
"This is a Pensieve," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the basin. "With willing consent, you focus on a specific memory. Place your wand tip to your temple…" He demonstrated as he spoke. Fine, silvery strands, like spider silk, clung to his wand tip. Dumbledore gave a flick of his wrist, severing them. "…and you can extract the memory. Then view it."
He carefully lowered the memory from his wand into the Pensieve. Harry's face bubbled up, wearing his Gryffindor Quidditch robes, laughing joyfully. Dumbledore watched it sink back down in silence.
"We look to the past for clues to the future. To memory for clues to reality," he said. "I often use the Pensieve to organize my own memories. There are so many. They can clutter the mind."
"Will I lose the memories?" Anthony stared at the Pensieve.
"No. Not at all," Dumbledore assured him. "They simply become… information, rather than lived experience, if you don't return them."
"But I can return them," Anthony verified.
"Yes."
Anthony sighed. "Alright."
"I am most grateful, Henry."
Anthony pressed his wand to his temple. He focused on that night. The memory began to draw out. A strange feeling of lightness followed, as if some weight he hadn't noticed was easing.
Oddly, when his thoughts turned to how he'd let the Necromancy flood his body, how he'd extended himself, claiming the troll's corpse… the silvery strands of memory suddenly severed. They hung from his wand tip with a clean cut, as if sliced by a giant scythe.
"Oh," said Dumbledore. For the first time, he looked genuinely surprised. Anthony looked at the memory on his wand, then stirred it into the basin. Quirrell's turbaned face rose to the surface.
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