With Anthony's rough recollections, they finally managed to piece together Quirrell's tone and mood from that day. By the time they settled on a time for the next experiment, it was already time for lunch. Dumbledore happily accepted the invitation, walking with him into the Great Hall.
The Hall was noisy and bustling. As they passed the Gryffindor table, they saw a group of students trading Chocolate Frog cards. One of them declared loudly, "No, I don't need Dumbledore anymore!"
"Oh dear," said Dumbledore.
Only when he saw the horrified looks on his friends' faces did the student realize someone must be standing right behind him.
He spun around, eyes wide, and stared at the smiling Dumbledore. Dumbledore waited with evident amusement.
The student froze for a moment, then stammered, "No, Headmaster, it's just… you've got too many of you… I mean… you have too many Chocolate Frogs…"
Dumbledore considered this seriously and nodded. "Quite true. I do have an awful lot of Chocolate Frogs."
He leaned over, studying the card over the student's head. The Dumbledore on the card winked, gave a smiling nod, then abruptly turned and vanished.
…
Anthony slid into the seat next to Professor Burbage. "Afternoon, Charity."
"Afternoon," Professor Burbage said brightly. She seemed in a good mood. "The stew is quite good today."
"Oh, excellent," Anthony said, ladling minced meat and diced carrots onto his plate.
Professor Burbage watched him with a smile. "I heard your practical project concluded successfully?"
"Well… more or less," Anthony said. "I haven't written the report yet, but Minerva hasn't chased me for it. If there's a chance she's forgotten, I'm certainly not reminding her."
Professor Burbage nodded. "Minerva's been busy lately."
"With what?" Anthony asked curiously, spooning some stew into his mouth.
"Quidditch season is almost here," Professor Burbage whispered, leaning in. "Minerva is fighting Severus for the Quidditch pitch training slots—don't ask her about it, she'll deny it."
"Who's winning?"
"I hear the Gryffindor team is complaining about how much they've been practicing lately," Professor Burbage replied, then swiftly changed the subject. "Speaking of which, do you know the new afternoon tea location?"
Anthony nodded. "Greenhouse Two." He couldn't help but grin again. "Quirrell tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone, and now you lot are making me suspect Professor Lockhart is trying to steal our three-sickle, seven-knut printed teapot."
Professor Burbage peeked over at Lockhart—who was sitting beside Dumbledore, apparently trying to impart some club-organizing wisdom to the Headmaster—then looked back and whispered, "Are you attending Lockhart's 'Lock Your Heart Club', Henry?"
"No," Anthony said. "I have a 'very important' academic discussion with Professor Snape. Four to six PM. Fancy that."
Professor Burbage gave him a knowing look. "And I just so happen to have a meeting at the Ministry at that exact time."
They shook their heads in shared, utterly insincere regret. Such a pity the professors were all so terribly busy these days.
…
While Lockhart held forth on how to improve the Albacore Club, the other professors exchanged glances and enjoyed a rather pleasant lunch. Professor Sprout passed behind Anthony and Burbage, rested her hands on their shoulders, and jerked her head meaningfully towards the greenhouses outside.
"See you later," Professor Burbage nodded.
"I'm afraid I can't make it today," Anthony said. "I was just about to head back to my office to write up my practical project report."
Professor McGonagall turned from her seat beside Burbage. "Quite right, Henry. I was just about to remind you. I'm still waiting on them."
"Minerva, it's Sunday!" Professor Flitwick squeaked in protest. "It's time for rest."
"But, Filius," Professor McGonagall reminded him, "you'll be discussing charms and magical theory with that graduate in a while, and you'll forget the time entirely."
"Oh. Right. Yes," Professor Flitwick conceded.
Anthony asked, "Do you have plans later, Minerva?"
"I plan to review your practical project reports," Professor McGonagall said.
Anthony just looked at her.
"At least give me the second set from last semester," McGonagall compromised. "If I recall, you told me you'd finished it before the holidays."
…
After returning to his office to hand the botanical garden report to McGonagall, Anthony stared at his open lesson plan, scribbled a few lines for the zoo summary, and finally gave in to curiosity. He decided to take a quick stroll past the staff room door.
Most students had retreated to their cosy common rooms, but Anthony still passed quite a few who greeted him in the corridors. At a stairwell landing, a pack of students rushed past him like a gust of wind. Anthony stopped, puzzled, and peered after them.
"Make way, make way!" Fred and George yelled, sliding down the banister one after the other. "Afternoon, Professor Anthony!"
Anthony and the other students quickly moved aside, watching them whiz past. Their pockets were stuffed with colourful things. A snake's head poked out, swaying with their movement, its tongue flicking.
A second later, a fuzzy grey shape shot past Anthony's feet. Right behind it came Filch, wheezing, face purple with rage, teeth gritted. "Once I catch you…!"
The watching students scattered. Anthony was swept along in the flow, taking some effort to break free. By the time he circled back, Filch had diverted to chase Peeves.
…
Just as Professor Sprout had told him, two gargoyles now stood guard outside the staff room door. Unexpectedly, two students were also there: Roger Davies and his roommate, Emory Thyme.
"Why can you talk?" Emory asked, a notebook in hand.
"Because we have lovely mouths," one stone beast answered.
The other gargoyle said, "Why do you speak to us, Jolly Jim?"
"Because I have questions," Emory said. "Why don't the gargoyles in front of Dumbledore's office talk?"
"Oh, are you asking us?" the first gargoyle snorted. "When you become a gargoyle, you'll learn we don't all know each other."
Roger followed up. "What's it like? Being a gargoyle?"
"Hmm…" the other gargoyle mused. "I feel rather chilly in the posterior."
Anthony walked over, studying these chatty gargoyles. He saw Emory's notebook had messy scribbles: "Roger the Snake," "talking," "Parseltongue," "alchemy."
"If it's not too rude, might I ask where you came from?" Anthony inquired curiously. Both Roger and Emory jumped, turning to look at him.
The gargoyles glanced at him. Seeing he was a professor, their tone became markedly more cordial.
"Professor Lockhart brought us out," they told him. "He rescued us from that room full of junk."
"Room full of junk?" Emory said.
Anthony thought. "The house-elf junk room?"
The gargoyles answered reluctantly. "I suppose so, Professor."
"The Room of Requirement," Roger whispered to Emory. "Fred and George said it used to be the elves' room."
…
Worried Lockhart might arrive early to admire his handiwork, Anthony only peeked inside the staff room before leaving. That one glance was enough to explain why the professors had decided to relocate afternoon tea.
The room shimmered with drifting gold dust and confetti. Golden stars and pink hearts plastered the walls. A large blank space in the middle had a sign above it: "Lockhart Taught Me This." Balloons blocked the snack cupboard door. Where the Care of Magical Creatures books usually sat, a neat stack of new books now stood.
Just from the familiar covers, Anthony recognized them as Lockhart's autobiography, Magical Me. Beside the stack stood a huge easel with a promotional poster: "New Book in Progress: Happy Hogwarts. Lock Your Heart Club Exclusive: YOU Could Be Featured in Gilderoy Lockhart's New Book!"
Anthony gently closed the door.
"The back of my head feels itchy," one gargoyle grumbled beside him.
"Oh, sorry." Anthony brushed away a stray piece of confetti. "Better?"
"Much."
…
To avoid bumping into Lockhart in the halls, Anthony knocked on Snape's office door a full half-hour early.
Snape's expression was sour, but he seemed to also be thinking of the staff room decor. He gave Anthony a stiff, marginally polite nod. Even in late October, Snape's gloomy office held no fire in the grate, as if he too were some dark creature impervious to cold.
"Find yourself a chair, Anthony," Snape said with thinly veiled impatience. He stepped around Anthony, who stood before the empty fireplace, and returned to the cauldron emitting silvery steam. "Or are you waiting for me to serve butter biscuits and tea?"
"I wouldn't say no if you're offering," Anthony said, sitting down.
By the flickering fire under the cauldron, he surveyed Snape's office. Amusingly, nothing had changed. Snape had restored it exactly as it was before Anthony's little demolition, right down to the slightly irritating spring in the chair cushion.
Snape snorted but didn't reply. Anthony looked over, surprised. The Snape by the cauldron seemed… almost cheerful.
"What happened?" Anthony asked.
Snape didn't spare him a glance. In fact, he seemed determined to ignore Anthony completely for these extra thirty minutes. Anthony was perfectly fine with that. He called for Coco and requested a generous amount of butter biscuits and tea.
Half an hour later, Snape extinguished the flames, lit the candles, and carefully poured the thick, silvery liquid, still bubbling softly, into crystal phials.
Anthony munched a biscuit, eyeing it curiously.
"You succeeded?" he asked. The liquid looked very, very much like unicorn blood.
Snape held the phial up to a candle, studying it intently, his hooked nose almost touching the glass. Abruptly, the silvery-white liquid turned milky, then immediately shifted to a dull, lifeless white.
Snape raised an eyebrow, set the phial down, and took the seat opposite Anthony.
"If you recall," Snape said dryly, "I mentioned the unicorn blood's efficacy seems inextricably linked to its curse."
"Yes," Anthony set his biscuit down. "But I didn't know how you reached that conclusion."
"There," Snape tilted his head toward the white phial, "is my closest attempt. At a high temperature—one that would scald anyone attempting to drink it into an excruciating half-life—it barely retains the life-extending properties. The moment the temperature drops to a tolerable level, the effect rapidly fades."
Anthony nodded. "But I thought… I don't know… Magical medicine can heal burns rather easily?"
Snape gave an impatient snort, seemingly swallowing a sarcastic remark.
"Potion burns, Anthony," he said curtly.
"Right," Anthony said, still unsure how he could help. He reached for the phial, looking questioningly at Snape. Snape's expression darkened, but he said nothing. Anthony took that as permission and picked up the potion, examining it.
"I'm going to try Necromancy on it," he warned.
Snape seemed to pale slightly. His gaze fixed on the phial, heavy and intense.
Anthony pressed his hand to the glass, closing his eyes to focus. The shelves nearby held readily available corpses, many imbued with magic. He could manipulate them effortlessly. But he felt nothing in the phial responding to his call.
"Any… changes?" he asked.
"Of course, Anthony," Snape said. "I see the ghost of the crystal phial."
Anthony sighed. He decided to try again, focusing harder.
The corpses nearby… No. Don't think about them. Focus on what's in front… In front… Is that the smell of butter biscuits and tea, or something else? Is that what the potion smells like?
Anthony suddenly knew what it was.
His eyes snapped open. He gasped. Snape sat across from him, contemplating the phial, utterly unaware that Necromancy had just been eyeing his soul with predatory interest.
His practice in the Room of Requirement had finally paid off. Meeting Snape's impatient stare, Anthony happily set the phial down and announced, "No. I can't sense anything within that responds to Necromancy. You've stewed the life out of it."
He felt clear-headed. Elated.
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