"A house-elf?" "He said his name was Dobby, a house-elf," Harry said.
Harry described to Anthony how this Dobby had suddenly appeared in his room, demanding that Harry not return to school for the new term ("No way!"), and then knocked over the violet pudding Aunt Petunia had carefully prepared, resulting in Harry receiving a warning letter from the Ministry of Magic ("It makes no sense, Professor, I didn't use magic"). In the end, Harry's uncle and aunt locked him in his bedroom, swearing they would never let him return to Hogwarts.
"I think that's exactly what Dobby wanted," Harry said bitterly. "The warning letter said that if I did anything like that again—I guess they weren't referring to letting some unknown house-elf ruin a perfectly good dinner, but anyway—I'd be expelled from school. I didn't dare use magic to escape my room, and the Dursleys would be more than happy to keep me locked up forever."
He sat cross-legged beside Anthony, absentmindedly plucking at the grass.
"Listen, Mr. Potter, if you ever take Muggle Studies in the future, please don't write what I'm about to say on the exam, or we'll both be in trouble," Anthony said. "Now, there's something I think you need to know: since Professor Dumbledore became headmaster, no one has ever been expelled. No professor—"
"What a shame," Harry muttered. Anthony felt he knew which professor Harry was referring to.
"—and no student, either. And our esteemed Ministry of Magic sometimes isn't particularly concerned with their own laws, especially those involving Muggles," Anthony said. "The other thing is, you were clearly wronged in this whole affair. If we could just find that house-elf… oh." He suddenly stopped.
"What is it, Professor?"
"I almost forgot. That elf mentioned his 'master,' right? Even if we found him, he'd likely be forced to give false testimony or have his memory altered."
What Anthony didn't mention was that families like the Parkinsons might even kill a house-elf outright. The little elf named Dobby might already be buried underground—if his master was merciful enough to grant him a patch of earth.
"You said Dobby believes something terrible will happen at Hogwarts this year, so he wants to stop you from going to school," Anthony mused. "He also mentioned Dark Magic…" An unpleasant suspicion crossed his mind, but he shook his head and didn't tell Harry about Voldemort still being alive.
Harry asked earnestly, "What do you think it is, Professor Anthony?"
"I don't know. Dark Magic that could deceive Dumbledore…" Anthony said. "Do you remember if he mentioned anything more specific?"
Harry frowned. "I was too angry after I found out he'd stolen my friends' letters… but I think he said my life would be in danger if I returned to school because it's already become a terrible place."
"Already?" Anthony repeated, confused.
"He also said he's known about this for months," Harry said. "But he wouldn't tell me what it was. I guess he couldn't… Every time I asked for details, he'd hit his head with a lamp."
"His master must be very strict," Anthony remarked. "I'll warn the headmaster to be on his guard. Thank you for telling me all this, Mr. Potter. Although the headmaster isn't here, I dare to assure you on his behalf that you won't be expelled."
Harry looked somewhat embarrassed and tugged hard at a few blades of grass. Anthony glanced at him and said, "And on the other hand, since Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are your current guardians, using magic in front of them probably isn't illegal. I think that letter was more of a warning not to… well, the guest who got hit by the pudding…"
"Mason," Harry said. "Their surname is Mason."
"Right, the Masons," Anthony said. "Though it might be a coincidence, I'm inclined to believe they were referring to the Masons when they mentioned non-magical people. Otherwise, it would be absurd, wouldn't it? 'Dear guardians of Harry Potter, your nephew isn't missing; he's just attending a magic school. But wait, you shouldn't know the magical world exists. Wishing you continued blissful ignorance! Yours sincerely, the Ministry of Magic.'"
Harry grinned. "They'd scream at the Ministry's owl but be more than happy to pretend they know nothing."
"Your aunt and uncle…" Anthony frowned, trying to find the right words. "They don't want magic disturbing their lives, do they?"
Harry shrugged. "I think they just hate me."
He seemed reluctant to talk about his guardians. No matter how casually Anthony tried to ask about Harry's situation at the Dursleys', he only got scattered fragments.
Harry wore secondhand clothes, did most of the household chores, lived in the smallest bedroom ("This summer was actually not too bad; they didn't make me move back into the cupboard"), and wasn't allowed to do his homework ("Thanks to Hermione")… In short, he was very unhappy, but as Anthony and the Grangers had guessed, not to the point where police cars would come screeching into Privet Drive.
Anthony tried not to let too much show on his face, and Harry seemed to relax more and more, half-lying on the grass, watching the Weasley children tossing apples to each other in midair.
Anthony talked about how nervous he was the first time he tried to fry an egg, unsure how much force to use to crack it, and Harry said he couldn't even lift the frying pan at the time.
"That egg burned," Harry gestured. "I wasn't tall enough, so I could only see the fire in front of me. So I'd take the pan off every now and then to check on it. But I got tired—the pan was really heavy, Professor—and finally, a huge cloud of black smoke came out, and Aunt Petunia was furious."
Anthony wondered how many people—especially how many wizards—knew what Harry's Muggle relatives were like.
…
On Saturday, Anthony returned to the Leaky Cauldron via the Floo Network, the resentful mouse curled up in his pocket, and asked Tom for a brandy.
He had left the ginger cat at the Burrow.
The cat had recently taken to chasing the plump brown-feathered chickens, making them cluck and run circles around the Weasley house. Anthony had tried to stop it, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley told him to let the cat be because it "didn't even extend its claws" and was "just playing."
Mr. Weasley said to him, "Molly happens to want a feather duster," and summoned all the feathers stuck in the flowers and hedges into the house.
Looking at the pile of feathers, Anthony thought Mrs. Weasley could make at least three dusters.
In the end, she made an exceptionally large feather duster.
…
"Delighted to see you again, Henry," a voice came from beside him. "I hope Tom hasn't watered down the brandy too much."
Dumbledore was sitting in the seat next to Anthony, smiling at him. His silver-white hair and beard stood out in the shabby, dimly lit bar, making one wonder how they hadn't noticed him earlier.
The wizards sitting near the bar jumped to their feet. Tom quickly put down his ledger and wiped the table in front of Dumbledore repeatedly with a cloth: "An honor, Professor Dumbledore—is there anything I can get for you?"
Anthony was also startled. He finished the remaining brandy in his glass, stood up, and said, "I—I didn't see you, sir."
"Thank you, Tom, but I do need a clear head. Another time," Dumbledore said with a smile, walking out of the pub with Anthony. "Of course, I'm glad to see you enjoying your brandy, Henry. Now, if you're ready—"
"Yes, sir," Anthony said, quickly transforming his wizard robes into a T-shirt and jeans.
"Then take hold of my arm," Dumbledore said. "Hold on tight."
Anthony placed his hand on Dumbledore's sleeve and gripped it.
Then the world spun, and the familiar squeezing sensation returned. Anthony closed his eyes, holding firmly onto the strong forearm in his grasp. The next moment, with a soft pop, Anthony found himself standing in the seldom-used alley behind his house. A cat leaped out of a trash can in alarm and scurried away.
"I noticed you haven't concealed your residence," Dumbledore explained. "Appearing at the front door might be a bit risky."
"Of course, you're right, sir," Anthony said, leading Dumbledore around to the front of the house. Dumbledore, dressed in blue wizard robes trimmed with silver, strode beside him, and no one seemed to have any issue with the tall man's attire.
Anthony took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The resentful mouse poked its head out and locked eyes with Dumbledore.
"We meet again," Dumbledore greeted the mouse with a finger. Hearing the commotion at the door, the resentful chicken flew out.
"This is… well, as you can see, a chicken," Anthony introduced as he changed his shoes. "This is Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore bent down and examined the resentful chicken closely. He looked over the top of his half-moon spectacles for a while, then peered through the lenses.
"Interesting, very interesting."
"What is it, sir?" Anthony asked nervously.
Dumbledore straightened up. "Oh, nothing. I've never seen a transparent chicken before."
…
Anthony, Dumbledore, and the chicken sat in the kitchen. To be precise, Dumbledore sat on a kitchen chair, the resentful chicken stood on the dining table, and Anthony stood in front of the open refrigerator, debating whether he should go buy some cola.
"I believe you remember today's experimental procedure?" Dumbledore asked.
Anthony said, "Yes, sir." He turned around and decided to pour Dumbledore a glass of water from the tap.
"Excellent, let's begin," Dumbledore said cheerfully.
"But—I thought we had to wait until 3:47 p.m.?" Anthony said. "Because of some angle involving the sun, moon, and stars?"
Dumbledore waved his hand. "Forget it, Henry. Although Nicolas suggested it, I don't think it's that important."
"Oh… all right," Anthony said. "Do I need to tidy up here?"
Dumbledore said lightly, "I don't see the need."
He simply tapped the dining table with his wand, and it transformed into a stone round table. The chairs on either side turned into stone pillars. Nicolas Flamel had sent a complete set of gleaming alchemical instruments, which Dumbledore arranged on the stone table, instantly filling the room with a golden glow.
"Could the experimental subject please touch the instruments?" Dumbledore asked solemnly.
The resentful chicken tilted its head and looked at Anthony.
Anthony encouraged it. "Go on, touch it? Isn't that your favorite thing to do?"
The resentful chicken hopped onto the table curiously and pecked at the instruments. A low hum reverberated through the kitchen, startling the chicken.
"Very good," Dumbledore said with satisfaction. "Now you, Henry. Touch it."
Following the instructions in the letter Nicolas Flamel had sent to Dumbledore, Anthony reached out and rubbed the golden sphere at the highest point in the center of the instruments. Anthony felt a long-lost sense of relaxation, as if he were surrounded by earth and bones, as if he had returned to where a corpse belonged.
A softer hum emerged.
After five minutes, Anthony asked, "Is this correct, sir?" The hum, mixed with the sound of the refrigerator running and the gentle hiss of the electric light, had become something close to noise.
"Nicolas said we need to wait. Let me see why…" Dumbledore said, scanning the instrument maker's notes (Anthony couldn't understand the terms written in celestial symbols and runes at all). "Ah, yes, yes. A truly brilliant idea, Nicolas… I thought it should be this way too…"
Anthony waited patiently. But the hum refused to dissipate, and the resentful chicken, unable to bear it any longer, hopped onto the stone table, opened its beak, twisted its head to grab a thin rod, and bit down.
"Don't—" Anthony tried to stop it, but Dumbledore held him back.
The resentful chicken easily snapped the thin rod, and then, like dominoes falling, every component of the instruments underwent dazzling changes. Copper spheres dropped onto scales, and sand grains rolled into rotating translucent tubes.
Finally, the instruments shook twice, and a small door opened in one corner. A small, stone-like object rolled out, looking rough and cheap, as if picked up from outside Anthony's door.
"Excellent," Dumbledore said calmly, picking up the stone. "Next, the experimental subject must eat it… Chickens eat stones because stones help them grind food for digestion… At least, that's what Nicolas wrote."
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