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"I suppose the matter is resolved," Dumbledore said lightly. "Biscuit?"
Professor McGonagall's expression remained stern. "Only partially, Albus. To truly resolve the issue, we'd need a broomstick to send her right out of Hogwarts."
"Are you referring to flying or sweeping?" Dumbledore asked slyly. "Well, my dear Minerva, that day may not be too far off—if she insists on ignoring my warnings. It's strange how quickly power has corrupted her… almost as if someone is pushing her along behind the scenes…" His voice trailed off.
"You mean… Death Eaters, Albus?" Professor McGonagall's voice lowered as well. "But what good would that do them?"
"I'm not certain. I have a few theories, but none have been confirmed yet. Some of them, let's just say, I hope never will be…" Dumbledore turned his gaze to Anthony (who was trying not to disturb the conversation as he passed biscuits to Hagrid). "You seemed to have something to say earlier, Henry?"
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"What?" Anthony said. "Oh, yes, it's nothing too important. Does Mr. Fudge not know about the Inquisitorial Squad, sir?"
Dumbledore smiled. "That's another thing I'm uncertain about. Of course, based on my understanding of Cornelius, I'd say he's likely heard of the squad's name but wouldn't care much about what they're doing—"
Hagrid snorted. "He's the biggest fool in the world, always making a mess of things." He carefully picked up a biscuit and popped it into his mouth.
Dumbledore shook his head at Hagrid and continued, "—Moreover, I'm at least certain of one thing: he wouldn't admit to me that he knows."
Anthony nodded in understanding. "That's enough, then."
Professor McGonagall complained, "When will he pretend he knows nothing about the Educational Decrees and the High Inquisitor? Albus, can't we strip the Inquisitor of her excessive powers? You know she nearly fired Sybill!"
Dumbledore's tone was calm, almost pitying. "As I reminded her, if not handled carefully, power can lead to unexpected consequences… However, there's a more pressing matter at hand." He stood up from behind his desk and smiled at everyone. "It's time for dinner."
…
Perhaps because the Inquisitorial Squad could no longer deduct points, Anthony found it difficult to encounter students with small "I" badges on their chests in the corridors.
Tracey still wore hers to Muggle Studies classes, seemingly oblivious to the cautious glances from her classmates. Whenever she walked into the classroom just before the bell rang, Katie would wrinkle her nose in disdain and turn away. During a demonstration of how steam provided power—energy conversion—Anthony saw Katie taking notes while watching a rapidly spinning soda can and whispering complaints to her desk mate about why Tracey hadn't dropped the class yet.
Roger Davies probably thought his sister had dropped the class too. When he ran into Tracey at the classroom door, he looked somewhat awkward but ultimately just nodded silently at her and sidestepped into the room. Tracey strode away without a word.
"Mr. Davies?" Anthony looked up in surprise as he tidied the items on the lectern. "What is it?" Because they had just covered the chapter on trains and the Hogwarts Express, a kettle and a steam engine model were still on the table, though the soda can had been discarded.
"Um…" Roger hesitated. "Can I be excused from class tomorrow, Professor Anthony?"
"Why?" Anthony asked.
"Quidditch practice," Roger said. "We're playing against Slytherin this weekend. Ravenclaw is currently at the bottom of the rankings, and besides me, everyone else is free tomorrow…"
Anthony thought for a moment. "Alright, Mr. Davies, but you'll need to write an essay. How about… 'The Relationship Between Muggle Radios and Wizarding Wireless'? Or 'Why Muggle Radios Are Electrical Appliances'?"
Roger complained, "You've never assigned essays before, Professor."
Anthony packed the last model back into its box and stuffed it into his bag. "True, but no one's ever asked for time off for Quidditch practice before." He cast a Drying Charm to evaporate the water on the lectern. "As far as I know, Mr. Wood would be thrilled if he heard his Beaters, Chasers, and substitutes could easily skip class for practice."
"Ah, Oliver," Roger sighed. "Fair enough, Professor Anthony. I'll write it. Is there a length requirement?"
Anthony paused. What was the usual length for an essay again?
"Same as a Herbology—no, scratch that, same as a Charms essay," he said. "Hand it to me before next week's class. You've already taken apart several Muggle radios, Mr. Davies. I'm sure this topic won't be too difficult for you. Deal?"
Roger smiled. "Deal, Professor Anthony."
…
The next day, Roger was indeed absent from Muggle Studies. His classmates had somehow heard about his reason for skipping class. During the in-class quiz, Anthony overheard several students urging Cedric, "Why don't you skip next week too? You have a match coming up!"
"No," Cedric whispered, casually crossing out two incorrect options.
His desk mate asked eagerly, "Why not?"
Anthony glanced in their direction, and the students quickly lowered their heads, pretending to focus on the quiz. But the silence didn't last long before Cedric's desk mate leaned over again. "If Slytherin loses this week, they'll have almost no chance of winning the Quidditch Cup. Of course, if we can beat Gryffindor—oh, by the way, I heard Gryffindor's Beater got detention. Is that true? I heard they don't even have time for practice…"
Anthony coughed.
"It's true, but that has nothing to do with Muggle Studies," Cedric said, flipping to the next page and kindly reminding his desk mate, "We have about five minutes left."
The other student immediately fell silent.
While his desk mate scribbled furiously, the student sitting behind Cedric poked his back. "Hey, Cedric! Are you going to skip class?"
Cedric leaned back and said patiently, "Probably not. I don't want to miss class for practice."
"Good point," the student behind him agreed immediately. "We still need your notes. What's the answer for question four?"
"I chose 'battery,'" Cedric said.
Another student joined the discussion. "Why not 'antenna'?"
Anthony had to speak up. "Ladies and gentlemen, I've been trying my best to ignore you, but it's becoming increasingly difficult."
Half the classroom chuckled.
…
Saturday was an overcast day—neither too cold nor too hot, with a gentle breeze, perfect for a stroll or Quidditch.
However, Anthony didn't go for a walk or watch the Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin match. He spent all his time repairing the relationships among his three pets.
The ghost rat was angry at the cat for tearing up the cat bed, and the ghost chicken was displeased to find the rat curled up sulking in its favorite corner of the wardrobe when it returned. All of this was because the skeleton cat had been particularly irritable lately, throwing a tantrum after the ghost chicken rejected its fifty-eighth invitation to fight. It howled and shredded Anthony's pillow, quilt, mattress, several wizard robes, dressing gown, a box of coconut sorbet, the newspaper lining the bottom of the box, and the cat bed—totaling four Galleons, six Sickles, and twelve point nine pounds. In terms of monetary loss, Anthony optimistically thought the cat had become much gentler.
After negotiations, his tie box now belonged to the ghost rat, the rest of the wardrobe belonged to the ghost chicken, and the space on top of the wardrobe was shared by all three pets.
"Wait, I thought this was my wardrobe," Anthony said. "Can I still put my clothes in here, Your Excellency?"
The ghost chicken tilted its head, gave his finger a gentle peck, and graciously agreed. The rat squeaked in approval.
The skeleton cat received a small packet of colorful fish balls and a shallow half-bowl of white wine, forcing it to lie on the floor, swishing its tail as Anthony repeated that it should get along with its roommates while crunching loudly on the fish balls.
"There aren't that many undead creatures in this world, cat," Anthony lectured it. "If you can't get along with them, you're already disliked by most of the undead magic world."
Judging by the force with which the cat crushed the fish balls, it seemed utterly unbothered by the prospect of being equally disliked by the so-called undead magic world. Its ears flattened irritably, as if trying to seal off its ear canals. Anthony couldn't help but laugh and reached out to flick its ears open.
"Are you bored?" he asked, watching the new cuts on his hand slowly heal. "How about we go watch a Quidditch match next week? There'll be—ow!"
The cat irritably wrapped its paws around his wrist and bit his hand. "Let go—" Anthony tapped its head with his other hand. "I said let go, you sharp-toothed shredder!"
He sat on the floor, pulling the cat close as it released his hand.
"Don't want to watch the match, huh? No?" Anthony said. "What about you, chick? Rat? There'll be a dozen flying broomsticks, a few balls, and a whole crowd of noisy living people. If we're lucky, there might even be accidental injuries and fights. Sounds tempting, doesn't it?"
Perhaps Quidditch matches were too tempting, because when another Saturday arrived, Anthony woke to the sound of a gentle breeze and the faint rattling of the window. Bright sunlight streamed through the crack of the open window. All his pets had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a few tattered curtains.
"Great, everyone's made up," Anthony muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and hesitating for a while before deciding to ask the house-elves in the kitchen to make him a sandwich instead of going to the Great Hall for breakfast.
It definitely wasn't because he didn't want to run into Umbridge, or Lockhart, or Snape. Slytherin had won the match against Ravenclaw and was now the most likely team to win the Quidditch Cup. Whenever Snape pretended to inquire about Gryffindor's match preparations ("Ah, I forgot, Mr. Weasley is temporarily unable to attend practice"), Professor McGonagall's expression turned rather sour.
He left his room a bit late, and many students were already awake. They were strolling leisurely toward the Great Hall, discussing dreams worthy of Divination homework, complicated emotional entanglements, yesterday's misfortunes, Zonko's latest magical gadgets, and, of course, the upcoming Quidditch match.
Anthony smiled and greeted them, lingering for a while on the stairs leading to the Hufflepuff common room. Once the area was clear, he quickly found the fruit painting and tickled the slightly peeling pear.
The pear giggled and turned into a doorknob. Anthony slipped into the kitchen—after all, the kitchen's location was supposed to be a secret, at least officially. He'd heard it was the house-elves who requested the kitchen be hidden because they enjoyed the awe when food appeared out of thin air on the Great Hall tables and firmly believed the best elves shouldn't let wizards notice their labor.
"Professor Anthony!" several high-pitched voices chimed the moment he entered.
A few elves directing various dishes to fly onto the tables eagerly asked, "What can we do for you, sir?"
One of the elves patted a table, and the gleaming silver plates laden with mountains of roast potatoes, sausages, beans, and bread vanished. The next moment, a large pile of plates reappeared, scattered with half-eaten fried eggs, irregularly shaped sauces, dirty napkins, and deliberately picked-out carrot chunks…
"Is there anything we can help you with? Anything at all!"
"Oh…" Anthony said, momentarily taken aback.
Previously, when he'd visited, the long tables near the kitchen entrance had been covered with neat velvet cloths, as if they would sleep forever beneath the covers. He had indeed noticed their layout matched the Great Hall tables perfectly, but this was the first time he'd seen the elves using them to transport food directly above their heads.
"Henry?" He suddenly heard his name. Turning, he saw Professor McGonagall emerging from the inner kitchen, holding a sandwich.
Anthony smiled. "Good morning, Minerva."
"Good morning," Professor McGonagall nodded. "What are you doing here?"
"Having breakfast, or at least that was the plan. Any sandwich recommendations?"
"Bacon is never a mistake," Professor McGonagall said. "Cheese and onion is also good."
Anthony thought for a moment. "What kind is that in your hand?"
Professor McGonagall conjured a chair and sat down beside the table corresponding to Gryffindor's. "This? Coronation chicken."
The elf who was a step late in conjuring a chair drooped its ears, looking utterly dismayed, so Anthony had no choice but to sit down and thank it.
The elf immediately perked up, its ears unfurling as it set a plate in front of Professor McGonagall and gazed eagerly at Anthony. "What would sir like to eat?"
"A bacon sandwich, please."
"Yes, sir!" the elf squeaked. "Would sir like something to drink? Pumpkin juice? Milk? Tea?"
Anthony said, "The sandwich will be enough—"
Before he could finish, there was a soft pop, and a plate with a bacon sandwich appeared in front of him. Coco stood proudly between him and Professor McGonagall, holding the plate.
"Bacon sandwich, Professor Anthony!" Coco said triumphantly. "Coco made the bacon sandwich!"
Another elf stared wide-eyed, glancing between Anthony, Coco, and the sandwich.
Professor McGonagall said, "Dippy, could you fetch me another plate, please?"
The elf immediately relaxed, beaming with joy. "Of course, Professor McGonagall!" It immediately directed a plate to fly over, afraid that another elf might beat it to fulfilling Professor McGonagall's request.
Anthony took the plate from Coco. "Thank you, Coco. How has your morning been?"
"You're welcome, Professor Anthony! Coco is very happy!" Coco squeaked. "Coco washed five hundred and seventy-six plates, wiped the tables three times, and picked out forty bags of very good potatoes!"
"That sounds very productive," Anthony smiled at it. Dippy placed the plate beside Professor McGonagall and vanished with another pop.
Coco nodded vigorously. "Yes, Professor Anthony! Coco must go back to picking potatoes now!"
"Enjoy your picking, Coco," Anthony said. "I look forward to the future potatoes."
With a soft crack, Coco vanished too.
Professor McGonagall placed the new plate under the original one and ate elegantly and silently for a while. Suddenly, she said, "Speaking of the future, are you planning to watch the match today, Henry?"
"Speaking of matches, have you ever considered replacing the Quaffle with a potato?" Anthony said. "No, Minerva, Quidditch matches aren't on my schedule. Why?"
"Nothing, Dolores will be pleased," Professor McGonagall said, her face tight. "She was just telling me yesterday that the Weasleys brought it upon themselves and that dangerous games like Quidditch should be reviewed by authorities before being held, preferably with an authoritative referee—meaning herself."
"Is she refereeing this match?"
Professor McGonagall said disdainfully, "She wishes! I suggested she and Madam Hooch take a lap to test our broomsticks, and she backed off immediately. Still, I'm sure she'll find some way to prove the importance of the Ministry's High Inquisitor at a Quidditch match."
Anthony said, "In that case, I suddenly feel very inclined to watch a bunch of students flying around in the sky."
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