Anthony had just opened his door with books borrowed from the library when the ginger cat shot out, claws hooked firmly into his coat, climbing and jumping toward his head.
"Wait, wait!" Anthony shouted, heard his trousers and coat make ominous sounds. "What's wrong with you?"
He pushed aside the cat tail dangling before his eyes, struggled to reach back for the doorknob, pulled the door shut.
Oh. Right.
Before him was disaster. The house was a complete mess: the sofa's springs exposed, missing a leg, standing shakily. Cushions all on the floor, cotton pulled out—looked like a crime scene with victims foaming at the mouth. Half a curtain barely hung on the window. The other half had joined the cushions in death.
In the kitchen, the watering can hung precariously at an awkward angle on the indoor windowsill edge. Water slowly trickled down the wall. Fridge magnets all lay on the floor. Several had shattered into pieces.
Cupboards open. Dining table overturned. Chairs too. Beside them, ceramic shards. Anthony saw teacup, plate, bowl pieces—wait, was that wood a spatula?
He circled the ruins, opened the fridge. A milk bottle had tipped but hadn't spilled. Vegetables and meat were fine. A Wraith Mouse huddled beside the lettuce. Anthony watched it. In his perception, it was steadily sending him "pleasant and peaceful" emotions.
He'd left the door open too long. The fridge groaned reluctantly, started humming.
"Very nice. The destruction wasn't thorough," Anthony said, reached in, scooped out the mouse, closed the fridge door, went to check the bedroom.
The bedroom was unbelievably intact. Bed not broken. Pillow neither. Wardrobe stood properly against the wall. Everything normal except he didn't know why his shirt was hanging on the chandelier.
Anthony opened the wardrobe. Unsurprisingly found the Wraith Chicken crouched inside. Under it, the colorful picnic eggs had been replaced with billiard balls. He didn't even know where it found billiard balls.
Anthony pulled the cat off his head. "What happened?"
He knew that sofa-overturned posture too well. Cat and chicken had fought again.
The cat stared with round yellow eyes. "Meow."
"Try something else, kitty," Anthony said, transformed the cat back to Skeleton Cat.
The cat shook its bone frame in surprise. Anthony reached into the gaps between its bones, poked around, laughed. He hadn't let the cat return to Skeleton Cat state in a long time. But since last month he'd felt he could do it again.
When practicing, he'd discovered his necromancy seemed to be gradually strengthening. If he had to say—it was a bit like he was digesting the basilisk's soul.
Anthony shook his head, somewhat nauseated by the thought. Recalled raspberry jam and tomato meat sauce lasagna in his mind, pushed the basilisk's image back.
Anthony tidied while communicating with the Wraith Mouse. At times like this, he had to admit he was sincerely grateful for magic—though then again, if magic didn't exist in the world, he probably wouldn't have his cat and chicken. Wouldn't need to clean the room like this either.
If there were no magic, he probably wouldn't be in this world anymore.
The Skeleton Cat lay atop the wardrobe, peered through the loose sideboard gap at the Wraith Chicken inside.
The dittany outside the window still grew vigorously. After tidying the kitchen, Anthony watered it a bit more.
According to the Wraith Mouse's feedback, all this was purely because the cat was too bored, wanted to fight the Wraith Chicken. The Wraith Chicken wanted to incubate its absolutely-impossible-to-hatch picnic eggs.
The cat decided to steal eggs—Anthony had been wondering what those paint-like things Scourgify removed were—and the Wraith Chicken was naturally enraged. Created the scene he'd seen coming home.
"Billiard balls are pretty good, right?" Anthony asked the mouse, put the last repaired cup in the cupboard.
"Squeak."
After a week reading about unicorn blood efficacy and historical records of cursing the undead, Anthony couldn't take it anymore. This day was Saturday. The best weather in a week. Sunny and mild. Sparrows hopped on the lawn.
The illustrated forbidden books borrowed from the library were one thing. The book bought from the bookstore, Horrifying Magical History: Everything You Don't Know, was the problem. It wailed and shrieked at least a minute per page turn. Occasionally dripped dark red viscous liquid from the spine.
The three pets united in not allowing him to read in the bedroom. So he had to spread his notebook on the dining table, secretly hoped neighbors thought he'd just developed a new hobby of watching horror films.
He finally knew why the Flourish and Blotts clerk friend had unhesitatingly given him thirty percent off. Even joyfully found him a bag for easy transport home.
He announced to mouse, cat, and chicken: "I'm going out for a walk."
The mouse climbed into his pocket, then shook its whiskers, hesitantly climbed out. It recently liked stacking apples on the windowsill. Couldn't bear to leave even briefly.
"That's fine. Need me to bring anything?" Anthony said, then stopped the Wraith Chicken. "No, I won't buy more picnic eggs."
Ultimately his shopping list held only what he needed. Anthony bought frozen peas and chicken from the supermarket, grabbed two bags of bread from the bakery section, went to the South Bank.
One benefit of being a wizard: no worrying about frozen food in bags. It absolutely wouldn't become a wet, mushy mess by the time he got home.
The river flowed through the city, crisscrossed with passing vehicles. Anthony carried shopping bags, walked through crowds. Long queues at stalls selling popcorn and cotton candy. Burger and hot dog aromas drifted in the air. Everywhere people's conversations. A child crying over ice cream dropped on the ground.
Seagulls constantly vigilant for any possible food, circled with urgency. Their harsh calls merged with street performers' melodies.
Anthony sat by the shore, purposefully pulled open his bag, took out bread. Seagulls above the river immediately noticed the food, flew before him.
Anthony opened the packaging, tore the toast into pieces. Half fed to seagulls. Half he slowly chewed himself. More and more seagulls gathered, nearly blocked the sparkling river surface before him. Before Anthony's eyes, all flapping wings. His ears filled with their cheerful ugly calls.
"Go! You've eaten enough!" Anthony waved away a seagull trying to snatch bread directly from the toast bag, clutched the bag tightly to his chest. Even among seagulls, it was a large bird.
"Dear, you should throw the bread into the water. As far as possible," an old woman beside him said. "Then they won't pester you."
Anthony looked at her. She smiled at him kindly, gestured for him to try. Anthony tossed a small piece of bread out. The seagull flock fluttered away, circled back.
"Indeed," he said, handed her the toast bag. "Would you like to feed them?"
The old woman laughed, shook her head. "No, dear. God bless. I fed them enough when I was young."
"Oh," Anthony said, tossed a few more bread pieces. "I used to feed them casually when passing with friends. Never came specially."
"My husband—he thought this was a wonderful date spot. After the fifteenth time feeding seagulls, I told him clearly if he wanted to continue with me, he should take me to see a show."
"And then?"
"He became my husband, dear," the old woman said with gentle reproach. "Though after marriage he still liked coming to feed seagulls... I got angry at him. He was extremely surprised." She smiled in memory.
"My grandfather liked fishing. My grandmother also got angry at him," Anthony said. "'I think you like trout more than me!' I remember that's what she said."
The old woman nodded. "Yes. What did your grandfather say?"
"'But that was a twenty-one-inch trout!'" Anthony said, also laughed.
He remembered that day they ate pan-fried fish. He'd been delighted. Street food behind him sold fish and chips. He seemed to smell again that day's butter and fish fried together, with a bit of pepper, mixed with parsley and lemon wedge fragrance.
He recalled Grandfather later complaining Grandmother was obsessed with knitting wool, completely ignored him. Grandmother returned it in kind.
"But this is a twenty-one-inch sock!" she'd said.
Anthony left a few bread slices for the old woman. After saying goodbye, went to the fish and chips stall, bought a small portion.
He critically realized it was far inferior to Hogwarts' kitchen. But sunlight shone on him. He felt lazily warmed. So didn't mind much.
Seagulls watched him closely. Anthony stingily guarded his small portion of fried food. The old woman started feeding them bread again. White large birds hurriedly gathered beside her.
After returning, a few more days of reading accompanied by painful wails. Then one morning, an aged owl crashed into his window. Anthony cautiously fed Errol a small piece of chicken, shut the Skeleton Cat back in the bedroom, untied the letter from its leg.
Mrs. Weasley's letter. She confirmed the specific meeting date with Anthony, told him Mr. Weasley was very busy recently.
"He's still drafting the Muggle Protection Act..." Anthony read again in surprise. He'd always thought this was already current law. Mr. Weasley's letters always sounded confident. Professor Burbage also spoke as if the provisions had long taken effect.
"...while also handling magical items that harm Muggles," Mrs. Weasley wrote. "Arthur's been working overtime. So unsure if he can accompany the children to Diagon Alley that day. But he promises he'll welcome you at dinner.
"He says he has a 'brilliant thing' to share with you. I guess it's that old car. I told him Henry's long used to such things. But he won't listen. Whatever it is, please act surprised—he's been exhausted lately. Needs some happiness."
Anthony let Errol rest a while before starting his reply.
He assured Mrs. Weasley he'd meet them in Diagon Alley. Whatever Mr. Weasley brought out, he'd act very surprised, praise his unique eye.
As for the booklist she asked about, he could only guarantee Muggle Studies had no plans to change textbooks temporarily. As far as he knew, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Potions probably didn't either. Defense Against the Dark Arts professor wasn't confirmed yet. So textbooks weren't either.
After writing, he had to let Errol rest again. Because he'd clipped his pen in that screaming book. Errol was startled by the sudden wail. While frantically trying to fly away, crashed headfirst into his cupboard.
A few days later, another owl flew to his windowsill. Carried a surprisingly heavy envelope.
Anthony opened it. Found two literature reviews inside. One organized last century's potions researchers' studies on simulating unicorn blood—about forty sheets of parchment. The other was a collection of conjectures about curse and ritual factor connections—a full seventy pages.
He flipped through a while before seeing a note in the upper right corner of the first review. Written directly in the margin: "For reference. Free next Friday? Regards, S.S."
Anthony sighed at this message without half a greeting. Tore a sheet from his notebook.
"Dear Professor Snape, Yes. Thank you for the materials. I'll read as much as possible before next Friday. Regards, Henry Anthony"
He sent the owl away—carrying such a light paper, it looked much easier to fly—returned to the dining table, started studying Snape's literature.
He roughly scanned, skipped the long author list, skipped paragraphs discussing the importance of researching unicorn blood substitutes. Then was immediately overwhelmed by the next page's tedious potion materials and processing methods.
Different names added different materials as powder or granules at different temperatures. Stirred clockwise or counterclockwise how many times... The author enthusiastically compared and analyzed their differences ("As Pollach pointed out, moderating materials dropped from the cauldron center obviously transform more easily than other materials"). Anthony just felt Snape was definitely doing this on purpose.
He decisively abandoned those forty-plus pages. Turned to curses and rituals instead. Immediately breathed a long sigh of relief. With Professor Quirrell's—now thinking about it, Voldemort's—Christmas gift book, plus his usual studies, he could at least understand what this was saying.
Though he immediately put it down when seeing an illustration of skinning a person.
"I haven't eaten yet," he muttered, took a frozen pizza from the fridge, tossed it in the oven.
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