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Tracy took a sharp step back. She looked at Anthony, then turned without a word and hurried to catch up with her classmates.
His conversation with Professor McGonagall came back to him. Is an argument a form of communication, Minerva? In a dispute, do the students from different houses come to understand each other, or do the divisions only deepen?
So many years of conflict had piled up into this high, solid wall. Simple—and not unfounded—biases had grown over time like damp moss, making any attempt to climb it slippery, difficult, and messy.
A few students returning from Hogsmeade waved and smiled at him. Anthony nodded back. A light breeze tugged at his robes. In the distance, shouts and whistles carried from the Quidditch pitch.
He was sure the other professors were aware of the problem. Most of them didn't treat students differently based on their house. They deliberately scheduled Gryffindor and Slytherin—the houses with the deepest rift—together frequently, even though it made keeping order in class a nightmare.
As for the small minority of professors… Anthony shook his head. At least, according to Dumbledore, Snape was the least terrible option among all the terrible candidates for Slytherin Head of House. The rest were either missing, unpopular, in Azkaban, or like Malfoy and Umbridge… or, of course, Voldemort himself.
Lost in thought, he made his way back to the castle.
Speaking of Voldemort, he still had some research into flesh magic to do. Since Umbridge was busy enjoying the power her position gave her to stir up resentment, she probably wasn't in the mood today to sniff around the castle for professors conducting slightly-illegal minor research.
…
Much later, Anthony decided it was time for some food. He was still utterly clueless about how Voldemort intended to transfer his soul into—according to Dumbledore and Snape—an artificial body. He couldn't stand to look at another grotesque illustration or page of speculative, uncertain magical theory.
Unlike Quirrell's case, a body cobbled together from unicorn blood, snake venom, or whatever other exotic ingredients wouldn't naturally have a vacancy for a soul—because it wasn't supposed to be alive in the first place. Honestly, if Voldemort wanted a good body, instead of relying on these obscure ancient magics, Anthony knew a great place that started with 'A' and ended with 'N'. It wasn't the Amazon rainforest.
"You alright, Henry?" Professor Burbage asked, reaching for a slice of bread. "You look terrible."
"Thanks to Voldemort," Anthony mumbled.
Professor Burbage tilted her head. "What?" She calmly dipped her bread into her soup, not batting an eye at the name.
He rubbed his forehead. "Sorry." He'd forgotten.
"It's fine," she said. "What's he done now?"
Anthony glanced down the table. Umbridge was talking to Snape, wearing a smug smile. Neither Professor McGonagall nor Sprout was at the staff table, leaving only Professor Flitwick sitting between Burbage and Umbridge, several empty chairs between them, intently sprinkling black pepper on his potatoes.
"Nothing. Just some magical research," Anthony said vaguely. "Speaking of You-Know-Who, Charity… why do the Slytherins still—or at least pretend to—buy into the whole pure-blood thing? Everyone says You-Know-Who was defeated. But those kids still act like they think they're his followers, even though it isolates them from the other houses—"
"First, and this is very important, Henry, most Slytherins outside these school walls don't openly claim to believe in pure-blood supremacy anymore," Professor Burbage said quietly. "Ever since the Dark Lord vanished eleven years ago, aside from the genuine madmen who followed him, most have… well, reinvented themselves. Claimed they never were pure-blood supremacists. Ha. What they say in private is another story."
Anthony nodded.
"But, to your point. Aside from the kids influenced by their families, I believe—I want to believe—many students in Slytherin don't actually believe in pure-blood supremacy. They're…"
She paused, slowly stirring her soup, choosing her words.
"They have to pretend?" Anthony offered.
"They're in conflict with the people who oppose pure-blood supremacy," Professor Burbage said. "You know, many people are prejudiced against Slytherin students too. Calling them future dark witches and wizards before they've even done anything…" She sighed. "You wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard in the Wizengamot—accusations spark anger, anger becomes conflict, conflict breeds hatred."
Anthony stared. "Then why don't we stop it? The conflict?"
Professor Burbage smiled faintly. "Because we're stupid humans, Henry. Honestly, by the time today's seventh-years graduate, a Slytherin might know more Gryffindors than Ravenclaws… And if you lived through the second war, you'd understand. Killing someone you know is harder than killing a stranger. No matter how much you dislike them."
Not feeling too bad about murder was hardly a comforting solution, Anthony thought later, lying in bed. He could hear his cat rustling in the nearly-empty bag of Fizzing Whizzbees in the corner. The Wraith Chicken was already roosting on his headboard, neck tucked in, dozing. He sighed, rolled over, pulled the blanket over his shoulder, and closed his eyes.
Maybe it was because he'd been thinking about the house rivalry all day. Maybe it was the flesh magic research that had plagued him all afternoon. Anthony had a strange dream.
He was back in Scrimgeour's office. Dumbledore announced he would be enrolled as Hogwarts' oldest student. The next moment, he was sitting on a stool, a heavy hat pressing down on his head.
"He's a necromancer! He'll go to Slytherin for sure!" a voice that sounded a lot like Hagrid boomed. "That's where they keep the dark wizards!"
Anthony tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't open. The hat grew heavier… crushing… he couldn't breathe… Suddenly, the Sorting Hat became Quirrell's turban. Anthony looked up. Quirrell stood before him, pale and sweating, a giant garlic bulb balanced on his head. The garlic started trying to persuade Anthony to join some mad research project, to convince him that all fennel should be turned into garlic.
Quirrell's turban grew and grew, until it blotted out everything. Indistinct murmuring rose like a tide, washing over him, drowning him… He was back in that silent river, drifting, drifting…
Anthony jerked awake. The Wraith Chicken was pecking his fingers in concern.
"Thanks," he mumbled, scratching the chicken's head. His own head felt leaden, immovable. He pushed the cat off his face.
The cat cracked one eye open in displeasure, rolled over on the pillow, tucked its tail, and went back to sleep.
Anthony shifted to the other side of the pillow. He lay there for a while, but sleep was gone. He sighed, sat up, pulled on his dressing gown, and shuffled out of bed.
The room was wrapped in an awake kind of darkness. As if all the furniture was also conscious, just trapped in the pitch-black dream of the night outside the curtains.
Anthony stepped around the empty cat bed, washed his face in the bathroom, then went to his office and lit the lamp. Firelight played over the pen holder, ink bottles, picture frames, stacks of books, and scrolls of parchment, casting long shadows on the desk and walls. He flipped through textbooks and the past exam papers Professor Burbage had provided, wrote a few pages of lesson plans, then propped his head on his hand, idly nudging a leaf of Dittany with his quill.
His thoughts wandered. He pulled open a drawer, intending to take out his notebook and the research materials on flesh magic Dumbledore had given him.
The dragon model was pacing across his notebook. Inside the drawer, he also saw the Bloody Baron's Necromancer's Journal, and—he pulled it out—the Christmas gift from Quirrell.
Anthony remembered Quirrell's several attempts to recruit him for Voldemort, his frequent expressions of reluctance to be Anthony's enemy. Even as Quirrell kept repeating things about "power" and "strength," right up to the end, he hadn't harmed a single student (except by subjecting them to that suffocating stench). In contrast, he had killed an innocent unicorn.
Whether it was cowardice, reluctance, or just cold calculation, it made Quirrell's frail soul closer to human, closer to life than Voldemort's ever was—even if it was a cursed life. Killing someone you know is harder…
He stared at the book's cover for a long moment, then shoved it and everything else back into the drawer. He decided studying dark magic right after a nightmare was a bad idea.
The dragon model was struggling to climb the spine of a book. Anthony headed for the door, deciding a walk might help. Maybe he could feed the giant squid. Or catch up with Fluffy, the music-loving three-headed dog.
…
He saw an unexpected figure in the moonlit waters of the Black Lake.
"Moaning Myrtle?"
The pearly-white ghost jerked her head around. "Oh, hello, Professor Anthony," she said morosely. "Were you flushed down here too?"
"Er… no?"
"Yes, only Myrtle gets flushed down!" Myrtle said crossly. "Of course, I'm used to it by now. No one—no one ever—asks if poor Myrtle is still in the toilet before they flush! No one cares!"
"Hmm," Anthony said, crouching by the shore. "That's terrible."
"It's awful, Professor. You can't imagine." Myrtle eyed him suspiciously. "You're laughing at me inside, aren't you?"
Over a year of being neighbors had gotten Anthony used to Myrtle's ways. Compared to the times filled with wailing and floods, this was practically a good mood for her.
"No, I was wondering if you saw who did it," Anthony said. "Sounds like someone's out of bed."
A gleeful look flashed across Myrtle's face, then her mood plummeted again.
"I didn't see," she said. "I was in my favorite toilet, remembering my tragic fate. Someone came in. I was busy crying, so I didn't pay attention… She walked around the bathroom, and then—bang! My cubicle door was pushed open. And then I was flushed here." She sniffed. "So rude! Will you catch her, Professor Anthony?"
"If I get lucky," Anthony said. "Or if she gets unlucky. If I run into her, I'll make sure she apologizes."
"Lovely," Myrtle said, a hint of hope in her voice.
Anthony stood. "Well, have a pleasant evening, Myrtle. You've reminded me—I should see who else is wandering the halls tonight."
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