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"Here. This should help you get a proper night's sleep." Madam Pomfrey handed Tracy a large goblet of potion. "It's a good thing I keep a steady supply for the OWL-level students. To avoid you dropping off on the way, I suggest you just take a bed here—nightclothes are over there."
Tracy accepted the cup, staring at the liquid inside. "How long will it put me out?"
"Depends on how much sleep you need." Madam Pomfrey gave Tracy a sweeping look as she directed a curtain to fall with a flick of her wand. "I'd say eleven to fifteen hours."
Tracy hesitated. She placed the goblet gently on the side table.
"I have classes tomorrow morning." She offered Madam Pomfrey an apologetic smile. "Is there… a weaker version?"
"No." Madam Pomfrey's voice was firm. "You, Miss Davis, need proper rest."
Anthony cut in. "What classes tomorrow morning?"
"Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration."
"I'm sure Professor Lockhart and Professor McGonagall will understand."
"No," Tracy said stubbornly. "I need to go."
"You wouldn't have to miss them if you'd come to me sooner," Madam Pomfrey said sternly.
Tracy opened her mouth to argue, but Madam Pomfrey shut it down. "I've yet to hear of a third-year lesson so vital it can't be missed. Go change, Miss Davis. Then drink."
"But I'm fine!" Tracy protested. "I don't need a fifteen-hour dream—two or three is plenty! I don't need a potion like this at all! I've been managing fine for ages—" Her voice hitched violently, teetering on the edge. She drew a deep breath, steadying herself. "I've been managing for ages. I know I'll be okay."
"And that's precisely why you're a patient." Madam Pomfrey was immovable. "Don't raise your voice at me."
Tracy looked down.
"Admirable, but no," Anthony agreed. "Don't worry about your lessons, Miss Davis. Missing one or two won't hurt. I'd say the same if you had Muggle Studies tomorrow. Or is there something else bothering you?"
Tracy glanced at Madam Pomfrey, then Anthony, then back at the matron. Finally, she sighed, a touch of exasperation leaking through. She surrendered.
"Fine. Fine." She sounded weary. "Sorry for the trouble, Madam Pomfrey."
"Don't be ridiculous. You're the one making trouble for yourself." With another wand motion, a bowl of porridge floated wobbly from a side cabinet, landing with a clack beside the potion. Her tone softened. "Eat something before the potion if you're hungry, then get to bed. Thank you for bringing her, Professor Anthony."
Anthony smiled. "Why do I feel like I'm constantly escorting students to your doorstep? Thank you for taking care of them."
Madam Pomfrey returned the smile. "It's my job. And for the record, I think you could use some rest yourself, Professor."
"Point taken, Madam Pomfrey. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Anthony looked down at Tracy—still perched on the chair, clutching the porridge bowl, resisting the nightclothes and the potion. He crouched. "I'll let Professors Lockhart and McGonagall know you're unwell and will miss the morning classes. I'm certain they won't mind and will be happy to provide notes. Lockhart's notes were probably just his books, though."
Tracy nodded. "Thank you, Professor." She still looked frustrated. Deflated.
"I know having your schedule thrown off is annoying, Miss Davis. I'm sorry."
Tracy managed a faint, shaky smile. She shook her head.
"Right, I'll leave you to it." Anthony stood. "Try to sleep well."
…
The corridor outside the hospital wing was dead silent. Light from the windows behind him cast faint, blurry outlines on the uneven edges of the flagstones. Anthony hesitated at the door. He decided to wander the castle a little longer. Maybe he'd run into another night-walker.
He passed his own door and Lockhart's, went up a floor, and paused by a group of clanking suits of armor on the third floor. He wondered if any student had ever hidden inside one to avoid Filch. He hurried past Umbridge's office. Her light was still on, for some reason. He then killed some time in a room crammed with plaques, cups, and statues.
He found plenty of familiar names. Filius Flitwick: Champion, 33rd British Dueling Tournament. Champion, 34th. Champion, 35th. Lifetime Achievement Award, 36th. Minerva McGonagall: Most Promising Newcomer, Transfiguration Today. Pomona Sprout: First Place, 'Herbology Know-It-All' Contest… Judging by the long row of medals in a crystal case, their edges engraved with twisting vines, it seemed a rather historic and official competition.
Passing the humpbacked, one-eyed witch statue, Anthony briefly considered a trip to the Honeydukes cellar to kill time and check for new products. He dismissed the idea and headed downstairs towards the kitchens instead.
…
Even deep into the night, the Hogwarts kitchens blazed with light.
A few house-elves huddled together, supervising a self-kneading lump of dough in a basin while directing a parade of carrots to hop in circles into a sink for washing. Further off, others inspected eggs. Ovens hummed. The whole room swam with the warm, rich scent of butter. Anthony spotted Coco pouring bright orange pumpkin juice into a line of crystal jugs.
"Professor Anthony!" an elf he didn't recognize cried happily. "Does Professor Anthony want something?"
Anthony smiled at him. "Hmm, I might find a snack here…"
"Of course he can! What does Professor Anthony want to eat?"
Anthony thought. "Something sweet?"
"Certainly, certainly! Chocolate? Cake? Biscuits? Doughnuts? Ice cream? Crème brûlée? Apple pie? Would Professor like some tea too?"
Another elf hoisted a large basket of plump, round bread rolls. "Fresh bread, Professor Anthony? Just baked!"
"Pumpkin pie?" an elf offered, several golden, tempting pies floating beside him.
"Sausages?" Crisp, plump sausages.
"Chips?" Hot chips, ends slightly blackened, glistening with salt.
Anthony said, "Uh…"
"Almond cake, Professor Anthony!" Coco called. "Very good almond cake today!"
"Perfect. Almond cake, then. I'll take it to my office." He still wasn't comfortable eating under the collective gaze of a dozen house-elves.
"Coco will bring it to the Professor's office! The Professor needn't carry it all the way back."
Before Anthony could refuse, Coco vanished with a soft pop.
Anthony paused. "Thank you," he said to the other watching elves. They brightened instantly, bowing repeatedly as they ushered him out of the kitchen with palpable reluctance.
…
The chicken was staring at the creature that had just appeared. The creature snapped its fingers. The lights came on, illuminating the thing it carried on a plate. The thing smelled interesting. Especially the white flaky stuff on top. The chicken felt curious. It wanted a peck.
So it fluttered onto the table, cocking its head to examine the offering. The plate was whisked away. The chicken looked at the plate, now perched on a stack of books, and flew over. The next moment, the plate vanished from before it, reappearing in the dead center of the table.
Annoyed and stubborn, the chicken flew down, planted its claws on the plate's edge, and lowered its beak. A thin, bony hand closed around its leg, lifting it upside down with practiced ease.
"No," the creature said.
The chicken flapped its wings in fury, craning its neck to peck at the hand. The grip was firm. Unyielding. The creature holding it walked in a circle, seemingly unable to decide where to put it down.
"If Coco puts you down, will you stop being angry?" the creature asked in a high, squeaky whisper. "Coco should not make a pet unhappy. But you are a chicken. Bad Coco! Coco should not make excuses!"
Still dangling, the chicken watched as the creature began tugging miserably at its own ears, heedless of the jostling it gave the wraith chicken in the process.
The cat padded out from the bedroom, eyes wide at the scene.
The chicken tried to vanish. It couldn't. The cat flicked its tail, stretched, and pounced. The sudden movement jolted the creature from its remorse. It stumbled back, bumping into the cat tree, nearly sitting in the lowest platform. The grip slackened. The chicken dissolved into air, reappeared on top of the creature's head, and beat its wings in a valiant attack. The cat, delighted, joined the fray, scattering chairs and knocking over a small shelf in its zeal to defend its cat tree from the intruders.
The noise woke the rat. It crept out from the bedroom to investigate.
"Oh, please don't be angry!" the creature squealed, magically righting all the furniture at once. "Don't be angry! Coco will get you wheat and rice! Coco can groom you!"
The door opened.
"Wow," said Anthony.
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