It seemed as if in the blink of an eye, the holiday was drawing to a close. Summer had lasted only a brief while before the weather began to cool again. The small freezers between the shelves at the Wheezes supermarket were no longer stocked with ice cream cones, popsicles, and boxed ice cream but had been replaced with frozen chicken and fries. The large freezers were also holding their final clearance sale on ice cream, for if they weren't sold before the golden leaves covered the lawns, they would have to hibernate like bears through the cold weather, missing this fleeting autumn.
Anthony never found the time to visit the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary, and Snape, it seemed, hadn't found a suitable substitute for unicorn blood either. However, Anthony had made some progress on curses and rituals: regardless of what the records said, he was quite certain that Quirrell had cut his left arm, and he had even found a bit of supporting evidence tucked away in the margins of some texts.
"I know it doesn't follow convention," Anthony said. "Most of the flesh and blood magic we've found sacrifices the right side: right leg, right hand, right arm, right eye, right ear. But look, Snape, the purposes of these two rituals are actually different—Quirrell wasn't trying to reshape my flesh and blood back then; he was trying to expel me."
Snape, his head bowed, concentrated on adding some dark green, sticky substance to the cauldron and snorted.
"And I don't remember him pulling out any knives, so he must have used magic to make the cut—biting open a blood vessel doesn't sound right either, does it?" Anthony recalled. "Considering he's right-handed, if he had deliberately switched his wand to his left hand, I'm sure I would have noticed his posture. So it was blood from the left arm. I found a similar case in a secondhand book at Flourish and Blotts, where they were trying to expel Inferi… Are you listening, Snape?"
The small hourglass on the table suddenly chimed.
Snape flipped it over roughly, never pausing as he poured chopped plants, brown powder, some kind of animal skin, blue stones, crushed insects ("Ew"), and—"Wait, is that a pile of eyeballs?"
Snape let the eyeballs fall into the cauldron like a bag of peas, stirring slowly, his brow furrowed in irritation. He still didn't answer.
"Why does mimicking unicorn blood require so many eyeballs?" Anthony asked, taking a small half-step back as Snape turned up the heat. "I assume unicorns only have two eyes." The eyeballs bobbed and rolled with the stirring and boiling.
"Astonishing powers of observation, Anthony," Snape said, tapping the hourglass twice impatiently. Some of the sand suddenly flew back to the top and began slowly falling again.
"I'm serious. Why so many eyeballs—and are you actually planning to drink this stuff in the end?"
"This stuff," Snape repeated. "No, I plan to jar it and let Dumbledore spread it on his toast."
"You're joking."
Another hourglass chimed.
"I'll remember to send you a jar," Snape said. Anthony laughed and found a cushioned armchair to sit in nearby. Their discussions had become so frequent that Anthony already knew which chair was the most comfortable.
Snape turned the flame a strange shade of pink, put the lid on the cauldron, and turned around. "Chatting, joking, and relaxing, hmm? Do you need a box of biscuits and a picnic blanket? Anthony, I would be immensely grateful if you could remain quiet while I work. As you may have noticed, Potion-making is a precise discipline."
"Sorry, it's just that I remember we were supposed to discuss this part today," Anthony said, holding up their research schedule in front of Snape. "A minor reminder: my home is quite a distance from Hogwarts, and I didn't Apparate here in four stages just to admire your elegant potion-making posture."
Snape sneered. "You must be quite surprised, Anthony, to discover that the world doesn't revolve around you. If you bothered to inquire, my residence is also not particularly close to Hogwarts."
"Alright, sorry. I mistakenly thought you had moved back into the school," Anthony explained. "I heard you usually return before the holiday ends."
"Yes," Snape said softly, dangerously. "Unlike some people, I am not idle and lazy all day, with my greatest concern being how to liberate my pet chicken…"
"Let's not go through that again," Anthony sighed. "Seriously, I am very grateful to you, Professor Snape. But if this is causing you so much trouble, you don't have to do it. It really isn't your responsibility."
"Pray tell me, Anthony, how do you plan to find other alternatives?" Snape said smoothly. "Because I am truly eager to know… Ah, I see, you'll just pray every day, and then Quirrell will slide down your chimney into the fireplace on Christmas, won't he?"
"First of all, my fireplace is sealed shut, so I'm not expecting such a Christmas gift—or such a Santa Claus. But if Quirrell does decide to visit me at Christmas, I'll make sure to bring him back to Hogwarts to complete his resignation formalities," Anthony declared.
He spoke again before Snape could sneer and comment: "And as for the question of alternatives… I don't know yet, but there are always other paths. It just takes trying and waiting. As my grandfather used to say, if you can't catch fish, try catching shoes."
"Catching shoes," Snape mocked.
"My grandfather loved fishing," Anthony smiled. "He could sit by the river all day and come back to show off the cans and shoes he'd caught. He always said those shoes must have floated all the way from Italy. Before I went to school, I thought we were neighbors with Italy."
"Very touching," Snape interrupted his reminiscence coldly. "You can tell that story to Dumbledore. He'll surely be moved to tears and swear to sacrifice his left hand to liberate your little pet. But in front of me, you might as well save it."
Anthony snapped back to attention and looked at Snape searchingly.
He suddenly remembered the last time he and Snape had discussed Kevin's family, and Snape's words, tinged with jealousy and resentment.
He remembered how Snape had almost accused him when asserting that Anthony had had a happy childhood.
Ah… so that was it.
Anthony didn't know what expression had appeared on his face, but Snape suddenly became enraged. His face twisted, the long nostrils of his hooked nose quivered, and his teeth clenched so tightly they seemed to grind audibly.
A furious fire danced in his eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper: "Anthony…"
Anthony immediately knew he had made a mistake. He jumped up from his chair: "I'm sorry—"
It only added fuel to the fire.
"Sorry? For what?" Snape pressed, his thin lips twisting into a terrible smile in the face of Anthony's silence.
Before he could say anything else, Anthony tried: "For, uh, whatever hurt you—"
"Save it. You're disgusting," Snape said. "Oh, that gentle, good man Anthony… How dare you say you don't want to trouble me? Wasn't it you who told Dumbledore how much you needed your pet's company, prompting him to assign me to fulfill your wish? Wasn't it you, in your turtleneck sweater, sitting in my office, chattering away? And those insincere, heartwarming memories…"
Anthony tried to change the subject: "Isn't your potion almost ready for the next step? That hourglass—"
But Snape had already asked his final, cutting question: "I truly wonder, Anthony, if you really loved your so-called grandfather so much, why didn't you ever think of resurrecting him after you became a necromancer?"
(Note: The author's note at the end is omitted as it is not part of the story content.)
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