Anthony spent considerable effort convincing Hagrid to at least send an owl to the Weasleys asking about Charlie's workplace.
"What if they don't even take Norwegian Ridgebacks?" Hagrid sniffled. "What if it's all adult dragons who'll bully Norbert?"
Anthony handed the owl a dead rat—Hagrid had prepared a huge pile for Norbert—said soothingly: "If you don't like Charlie's reserve, we can try finding other suitable places. Dragon daycare... I think the wizarding world must have something like that."
The Weasleys must have been busy. Anthony didn't receive a reply for ages.
He arranged to stay in touch with Hagrid, then took his trunk home to London.
The cat crouched in his arms, glaring unfriendly at every passing pedestrian. The mouse kept moving in his pocket, trying to poke its head out, sniff the car exhaust and street food smells floating in the air.
Anthony carried his trunk, finally stepped onto familiar concrete again. The mailbox was stuffed with colorful flyers and donation requests. Weeds by the doorstep grew past his ankles. During Christmas break, bare branches had been covered in snow. Now warm breezes passed through lush leaves, carrying curry scents from somewhere in the neighborhood.
Anthony checked the utility bills, pulled keys from his bag, unlocked the door. The moment it cracked open, the cat slipped past his feet inside.
"Mr. Anthony, you're back?" his neighbor called. He was carrying a garbage bag, opened his door, ran right into Anthony.
"Yes, on holiday," Anthony said. "Everything good?"
"All good." The neighbor smiled. "So glad to see you again, Mr. Anthony. Want to come for dinner tonight? We're all curious why you suddenly went to Scotland to teach."
"I'd really love to," Anthony said. "But, you know, I just got back. Need to deep clean the house. Piles of clothes and sheets to wash."
The neighbor nodded understandingly, said goodbye.
The moment Anthony entered, he found the cat perched on its favorite sofa, purring contentedly. The scar-covered sofa still had a coat he'd worn last visit draped over it.
He pulled the mouse from his pocket, drew open the curtains, let sunlight into the room. Some spiderweb outside the window—his forceful window-push shattered it, left a spider dangling mid-air, frantically clutching its thread.
Anthony coughed at the rising dust, circled the house calling for the Wraith Chicken. Finally found it had nested in his wardrobe.
Before Christmas break ended, Anthony had cleared all food from the fridge, made sure he'd turned off the power when leaving. But the Wraith Chicken had somehow dug up several colorfully painted picnic eggs, piled them all in Anthony's wardrobe, was enthusiastically squatting on them incubating.
When the door opened, it stared at Anthony a moment, pecked at the striped shirt beneath it.
"I'm home," Anthony said.
A ginger blur shot past him. The cat that had been dozing on the sofa swished its tail, pounced excitedly at the Wraith Chicken.
"Fight outside," Anthony complained. "This is my wardrobe!"
Neither cat nor chicken listened.
The cat crouched on his tie box, watched the chicken flap up. The chicken squeezed between coats and suits, landed on an empty hanger. The hanger jerked sharply, hit the wardrobe back. The chicken flapped, trying to steady itself. As the cat leaped, the hanger groaned under the weight. Snapped.
"Hey!" Anthony protested.
The Wraith Chicken perched on the hanging rod, looked down at Anthony and the cat. The cat tumbled into a pile of shirts and sweaters, rolled, shook itself, stood up.
Anthony had just rescued his Christmas sweater from the cat's claws when he heard fluttering. The chicken descended from above, pecking and batting the cat. The cat jumped from one corner of the wardrobe to another, stirring the clothes in the narrow space into chaos. A blue picnic egg rolled out. The cat immediately pounced, opened its mouth threateningly.
"Squeak." Just then, the Wraith Mouse hooked the round drawer knob, climbed up the double drawers, clung to the wardrobe edge, twitched its nose questioningly, looked at the mess inside.
The Wraith Chicken flew down, lowered itself, tilted its head majestically, examined this rodent wraith. The mouse flinched, slid down the drawer, hid by Anthony's shoe.
"This is Mouse," Anthony said, cupping the mouse. "This is Chicken."
The chicken pecked the mouse gently. Accepted this new companion. The cat dropped the picnic egg, snatched the mouse in its mouth, jumped back into the wardrobe, tossed the mouse onto checkered pajamas.
"I think I've found a way for you to come to school with us," Anthony said. He simply pushed aside the clothes on the rod, sat in the wardrobe too, told the chicken: "I've been searching for flesh magic, never thought of using curses. Now I just need to know one thing... Do you want to go to Hogwarts?"
The chicken jumped onto his lap. Anthony hugged it.
"I'll take that as yes," he said thoughtfully. "Next, we need to find a living person willing to curse a chicken."
The chicken said nothing. The mouse buried itself under the clothes pile. The cat was happily digging, trying to find its companion. Anthony caught pajama pants that nearly swung onto his neck.
"You really can't... hey, that's a button!"
The chicken pecked off one of his buttons.
About a week later, Anthony finally received an owl from Mr. Weasley. Not Elon from the shelter, not Percy's owl Hermes, but old Errol.
Elderly Errol nearly crashed into the window. Fortunately Anthony was just opening it to water the Dittany Neville had sent. He'd spent some effort buying proper hooks, hung the small pot outside the kitchen windowsill—a place less affected by his nightmares.
The cat was rolling around on the sofa hugging the chicken. No time for this half-dead owl. Anthony got Errol some bacon from the fridge. But Errol wobbled weakly, nearly fell straight into the sink.
Mr. Weasley apologized in his letter for the late reply, thanked Anthony for the owl he'd given the twins.
"We went with Fred and George to pick up the owl. We took trains and the Underground—Fred and George bought tickets!" Mr. Weasley wrote. "How clever Muggles are! They keep so many cats and dogs, even designed special houses for them! Ms. Howard said she hadn't expected such a large family, but she was very kind. Fred said Elon used to be a Ministry messenger owl. Molly's a bit worried adopting it might cause trouble. But George said since the leg band's gone, it doesn't belong to anyone.
"They won't send the owl away, but Elon's a picky eater. The Ministry fed it too well, so did that Muggle... station. Won't eat anything but dead rats. Ron's not happy about it—he happens to keep a rat.
"He says Elon always looks at Scabbers with hungry, malicious eyes. Will eat Scabbers someday. Fred says it's because Scabbers is too fat—perfectly normal for Elon to think it looks tasty. (Honestly, I personally think that rat eats too much too.) Percy says Hermes never thought about eating Scabbers. Big row at home.
"Anyway, Elon's locked in a cage now. As for the dragon reserve location you asked about—Charlie's raising dragons in Romania. His work address is enclosed. We were going to send him a letter directly, but neither Errol nor Hermes can definitely fly that far.
"He probably won't come back this summer—already used a week's leave in March. If you really go see him, please tell him Molly and I love him, Bill wants to give him fireproof gloves when he returns, Percy sends regards, Fred and George look forward to him coming home, Ron thanks him for the Christmas gift, Ginny kisses him.
"Oh, Molly hopes to invite you to the Burrow at the end of the holiday. She usually takes the kids to Diagon Alley for textbooks then. We can return from Diagon Alley together. Of course, if you have other time arrangements, please let us know. The Burrow welcomes you anytime. Regards, Arthur."
Anthony pushed aside the mouse sleeping on the table, hastily wrote a reply. Told Mr. Weasley he'd love to meet them in Diagon Alley, would definitely write Charlie.
Errol was trembling, trying to drink from the watering can for the Dittany. Cat and chicken maintained their hugging position, watched it quietly. They rarely saw such a comical owl. Anthony almost felt sorry tying the letter to its leg.
The old owl ate a few bites, flapped its wings, jumped out the window. Anthony leaned out worriedly, watched until it barely grazed the plane tree canopy, flew into the distance. Then picked up the watering can.
Hagrid sent Anthony a letter as promised.
No teapot could contain Norbert anymore. It now lived in the crate that previously stored dead rats. Its teeth and claws had grown much stronger. The Monster Book of Monsters had burned in the previous small fire. Hagrid asked embarrassedly if Anthony could contact the author.
"If possible, don't reply, Henry. Norbert's been practicing flying lately. It's fallen in love with hunting flying things."
Anthony put down the letter, looked at the tawny owl watching the Wraith Mouse with great interest. The cat tried pouncing. Anthony immediately grabbed its tail. It whirled around, gave him a fierce scratch. The owl flew up nimbly, landed on the kitchen cupboard.
"All right, no reply," he told the owl. "By the way, how far can you fly? Would Romania be too far?"
The owl turned its head, called softly, looked reproachfully at the person questioning its professional abilities.
"I guess that means you're capable," Anthony said thoughtfully, handed it another piece of bacon. "Please wait a bit. I have a letter going to Romania... Just hope the dragons there aren't practicing their flying skills."
Over a week later, Charlie's reply arrived. The owl was exhausted, feathers disheveled, furious.
"Professor Anthony, thank you for your letter—what a surprise. Is the owl that delivered it Hogwarts' messenger owl or your personal owl? I'm sorry my dormitory is in the deepest part of the reserve. She passed at least a dozen Romanian Longhorns to get the letter to me. Very brave girl. Pecks hard too.
"We'd be delighted to take a Norwegian Ridgeback hatchling. In fact, even though Romania isn't their native habitat, the reserve houses several Norwegian Ridgebacks. So you can fully trust our expertise.
"But transporting a dragon from Britain to Romania isn't easy. Fortunately Hogwarts is still on holiday. I contacted some friends who fight international dragon smuggling—they know several convenient routes, and happen to be going to Britain in a week. So if you and Hagrid agree, you can meet my friends in Hogsmeade in a week. You can discuss the specific location yourselves, but I suggest the Shrieking Shack. No one goes there.
"If you don't know how to get the hatchling to Hogsmeade, ask Fred and George. They'll definitely have a way—I caught them in Hogsmeade last year. Please don't tell Mum.
"Give my regards to Mum and Dad, to all the Weasleys. I love them too. Looking forward to your reply. Yours sincerely, Charlie."
Given the owl that passed a dozen Romanian Longhorns had fully proven her professionalism, Anthony confidently let her carry a reply to Hagrid too, asking his opinion on the arrangements in a week. The reply arrived that evening—different owl, the previous one had probably gone on strike—just one short word: "Okay."
The parchment edges were slightly yellowed and curled. The ink was blurred, like someone had let huge tears fall uncontrollably on it.
Anthony locked the cat in the bedroom, received this Hogwarts visitor in the kitchen. The cat scratched at the door. The chicken jumped onto the table, faced off cautiously with the owl.
"I don't think a reply's needed," Anthony told the owl, opened the fridge. "And I'm out of bacon. Want some... broccoli?"
The owl spread its wings, flew out the window. Nearly knocked off Neville's Dittany. Anthony quickly brought the Dittany inside, planned to hang it out again before bed.
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