The burst of Sunday sunshine seemed to have been nothing but a whim. For the rest of the week, Anthony's windowsill was never dry. Even when it wasn't raining, the sky remained a solid, oppressive grey. Every morning, a thick, white, misty curtain hung outside his window, broken only by the wet, dripping trill of birdsong filtering through the fog.
Today, Anthony finally carved out a moment from his suddenly packed schedule. After lunch, he sank comfortably into an armchair in the staff room. He planned to grab a few biscuits and chat with a colleague before his afternoon class with the third years.
"Busy week, hm?" Professor Burbage asked, sliding a biscuit tin toward him. Rain like bullets hammered the windows. Clang-clang-clang.
"Peanut butter, excellent." Anthony leaned forward and took one. "Yes. A busy week. Everything decided to pile up at once for some reason. Like an avalanche. But not as bad as yours, Charity. How did you find the time to be here?"
In recent days, he'd confirmed with the chocolate factory that sixteen teenagers would be pouring through their doors, spent time studying the Guide to Mediaeval Sorcery, reviewed his notes from his discussions with Quirrell, gone over his third-year lesson plan once more, and confiscated two photos of Draco Malfoy regurgitating slugs in the corridor.
Meanwhile, from snippets of conversation at meals, he could piece together Professor Burbage's week—which wasn't even over. She'd attended at least two Wizengamot trials. Submitted a journal article still undergoing peer review (A Comparative Analysis of Muggle-involved Cases: The Muggle Protection Act and its Efficacy). Taught her sixth and seventh years as usual. Marked their essays. Taken ten points from Gryffindor after receiving two identical papers. Taken five from Hufflepuff after bumping into a student out of bed while she was flying back from the Ministry on her broom.
"Article's submitted. Essays are marked." Professor Burbage picked up her teacup, took a sip, and picked up a quill. "And I have no class this afternoon. The Daily Prophet hasn't requested a Wizengamot consultant's endorsement for any articles. The Ministry hasn't sent an owl. Glorious free time!"
"And your definition of glorious free time is sitting in the staff room writing a second article?" Anthony shook his head with a smile. "I stand by my opinion: the Wizengamot and the Journal of Muggle Studies should be honoured to have you."
"This was supposed to be the first article, actually," Professor Burbage said. "But I thought it better to start with a less… contentious topic."
Anthony leaned in curiously. "What contention?"
Professor Burbage sighed. She set down her quill and rubbed her forehead.
"The truth is, I've already been told that even if I do write this, it might not be publishable. At least, not now." She turned a photograph towards Anthony. "The defendant is a dark witch. She accused us of enacting laws to protect Muggles and declared this is how the magical world rots."
"Merlin." Anthony stared at the wizened face of the old woman in the photo. "I've seen her. I was in Diagon Alley when she and the Aurors chasing her practically landed on me. A dark witch who opposes Muggle protection but got caught… I don't see the controversy."
"The controversy is that a fair number of people might agree with her." Professor Burbage frowned. "After the verdict, she laughed hysterically. Demanded of the Wizengamot: 'Who are you? Wizards or Muggles? Whose court is this, a wizard's or a Muggle's? Magic's status rises, and you're unhappy!'"
"Oh, Charity," Anthony said sympathetically.
Professor Burbage continued. "She asked when we'd ever heard of Britain enacting a Frenchman Protection Act. When had we heard that humans should protect locusts? 'You filth who side with Muggles!' she screamed at us. 'You're traitors to wizardkind!'"
Wordlessly, Anthony picked up the teapot and refilled her cup.
Professor Burbage placed her hand over his and patted it encouragingly. "I'm telling you this, Henry, because you'll hear it too, eventually. I'm already the 'eccentric witch', the 'lunatic', and the 'magical traitor'. I'm curious what titles they'll dream up for you."
"Hm." Anthony thought for a moment, then grinned. "I hope they come up with 'Mad Muggle Martin Miggs'. I'd be quite pleased with an alliterative title."
…
"Speaking of which," Professor Burbage asked, "do you know that Muggle-born student who started this year?"
"Who? Kevin Jones?"
Professor Burbage shook her head. "No. Colin Creevey. Your comment about alliterative names reminded me."
Anthony hesitated. "We've exchanged a few words. I wouldn't call it 'knowing'. Why, Charity?"
Professor Burbage's expression turned sly.
"I have a gift for you," she said. "It was developed last Tuesday, but I've been too busy to find you all week. Almost forgot—here, take it. All thanks to Mr. Creevey's camera."
Anthony looked down at what she handed him. For a moment, he was speechless.
It was a photograph. The lighting was dim. Right in the centre was Percy Weasley, crouched by the shore of the Black Lake, speaking solemnly down at something. Judging by his expression alone, you'd think he was delivering a Head Boy campaign speech. Beside him, a girl had her face in her hands, occasionally turning to speak to another girl, her long, wet curls plastered down her back. Anthony vaguely remembered her as one of the Ravenclaw prefects.
Following Percy Weasley's gaze was a figure with hair as wild as lake-weed, wearing a strange necklace, laughing uproariously with a mouthful of jagged, broken teeth. Anthony had to lean in and squint to distinguish, in the monochrome photo, where the churning patterns in the distance were the Black Lake's waves and where they were silver fish-tails.
Yes. It was a merperson.
Anthony stared for a long moment. He set the photo down, his emotions complex. "So the textbook illustration was… realistic."
Professor Burbage chuckled. "Your face, Henry! When those merpeople surfaced and Albus went to speak with them—that truly wasn't a sound humans should make—we were all commenting on the students' expressions. Minerva said right then: 'We should have kept Henry here.'"
"I'm deeply touched," Anthony said dryly. Then he laughed. "No, truly. Thank you. I'll keep it safe." He looked down at the photo again.
"Do you see Albus?" Professor Burbage leaned over, searched for a moment, and pointed to half a robe and a leg at the edge of the frame. "That's him. He was walking past Mr. Creevey."
"And conveniently not blocking the shot," Anthony said, studying whether the merperson's necklace was made of sharp stones or shark teeth.
"Oh, no," Professor Burbage said. "After we bought the photos from Mr. Creevey, we found another one where you could only see Albus's robe and beard. We gave that one to Albus."
…
Anthony carefully slid the photograph between the pages of his textbook, said goodbye to Professor Burbage, and headed for his classroom. A few students, clearly late, sprinted past him toward the staircase, their hurried footsteps echoing in the corridor. Anthony recognized second-year Harry Potter, third-year Katie Bell, and fourth-year Angelina Johnson.
"Transfiguration! I'm going to kill Oliver Wood!" Angelina gasped as she ran, leaving a trail of muddy footprints. "And Fred and George—they just ran off! What do you have, Harry?"
"Potions…" Harry groaned, thundering down the stairs.
"Good luck, Harry!" Katie called.
Angelina took the steps two at a time. "And you, Katie? What—do you—have?"
"Muggle Studies," Katie said, close behind her. Her voice echoed clearly in the stairwell for Anthony to hear. "Professor Anthony really doesn't take points, right?"
"He's never taken any in our class," Angelina called back. "But Professor McGonagall will!"
…
When Anthony entered the classroom, Katie was already in her seat. She was still breathing a little heavily. Her robes were damp. She was twisting her hair to one side, water dripping onto the floor.
The seat next to her was empty. Her friend Leanne was in the hospital wing; a wand backfire during Monday's Transfiguration had turned her left arm into a wing. The wing kept flapping uncontrollably, trying to fly away, so Madam Pomfrey had her lying on her side to pin it down. All teachers had been notified to excuse Leanne from homework this week.
Tracey sat in her usual seat. The space beside her was also empty.
During the lesson, Anthony noticed Katie glancing toward Tracey several times. She seemed to be debating whether to move over. In the end, she turned her head back.
"…While short sleeves with trousers are very common, and trench coats with trousers are also common, the combination of a short-sleeved dress with trousers is slightly… risky," Anthony explained, sticking various outfit illustrations onto the blackboard.
He deliberately didn't include the dress-with-trousers combination. According to Professor Burbage's experience, if you ever made the mistake of writing the incorrect example on the board while telling students 'don't do this', it would inevitably appear on the next essay or exam.
"However, more important than the style is understanding that Muggle aesthetics regarding patterns differ from wizarding ones. Black is seen as a very solemn, formal colour, not the most mundane, everyday colour of wizarding life…"
Several students looked down at their own school robes, baffled as to why this would be considered 'formal' in the Muggle world.
Anthony had once curiously asked his colleagues how Hogwarts's uniform colour had been decided. As far as he knew, Beauxbatons's robes were light blue, and Durmstrang's were blood red, so black certainly wasn't some wizarding world standard.
Professor McGonagall had simply told him: "Cheap and hides stains."
…
"That's all for today. Class dismissed," Anthony said. "Miss Bell, you're responsible for bringing the class notes to the hospital wing, correct?"
"Yes, Professor Anthony," Katie said, suddenly wary. "But Madam Pomfrey said Leanne needs to rest, not spend too much time on schoolwork…"
"I know, Miss Bell," Anthony said soothingly. "I just wanted to give you the handout, so you don't have to worry about notes."
"Oh. Brilliant." Katie exhaled in relief. "Thank you, Professor. Goodbye!"
"And wish her a speedy recovery from me." Anthony nodded with a smile. "You could ask Madam Pomfrey for a Pepper-Up Potion as well."
"Will do, Professor!" Katie's voice floated back from the corridor.
Anthony stood at the lectern, watching the students pack up and leave. Then, Tracey approached the desk. "Professor Anthony, may I have a copy of the handout too?"
"Hm? Of course. I made a few extras." Anthony said, pulling one from his bag and handing it to her. "Is everything alright? Was I going too fast today?"
"No, Professor," Tracey said. "I just… I'm sorry. I wasn't really listening."
Her fingers were unconsciously worrying a corner of the parchment. Anthony remembered the last time he'd caught Tracey out of bed. She'd seemed to be on her way to brew a potion, and had left him with a cryptic message before he sent her back to her dorm.
"What's going on?" Anthony asked, as gently as he could.
"Nothing," Tracey said. "Thank you for the handout, Professor. Have a nice day."
"Do you have a class next?" Anthony asked.
"Well…" Tracey hesitated, then finally conceded. "No, Professor Anthony."
Her gaze was fixed downward. Anthony suddenly remembered his conversation with Roger last term about Tracey, about Roger's career plans. Roger had stood in roughly this same spot, his eyes full of optimistic hope and confidence for the future.
He asked abruptly, "Is there a field you'd like to go into, Miss Davis? What do you want to do?"
"I heard career advising usually happens in fifth year," Tracey said.
"Yes. And it's with your Head of House," Anthony said. "So this is just a chat. And… I suspect Professor Snape might not be a better conversation partner than I am."
A small smile touched Tracey's lips. "You're probably right, Professor. I…" She lifted her eyes. "I want to live to possess wealth and status." She watched Anthony carefully.
"Sounds reasonable," Anthony said encouragingly. "Any specifics?"
"'Sounds reasonable'?" Tracey repeated.
"Isn't it?" Anthony said. "You didn't say 'I want to chop off all Muggle heads' or 'I want to invent a Summoning Charm for meteorites'."
Tracey blinked, confused. "What's wrong with a Summoning Charm for meteorites?"
"I don't know, but magical dinosaurs suggest it's best not to try," Anthony said. "I noticed you used a very interesting qualifier, Miss Davis. 'Live'. What did you mean by that?"
"I don't want a posthumous Order of Merlin. I don't want wealth only after I'm dead," Tracey said. "Roger was so happy before, Professor. He went from reserve Chaser to a starting position. His Captain said he'd be appointed the new Captain after he graduates next year. No one objected. Everyone welcomed it. But, I mean… his injury almost followed him for life!"
"It was a close call," Anthony agreed.
"I'm a half-blood," Tracey said. "If I accumulate too much wealth and status in the magical world, but don't have enough power to back it up, I'll die young." She glanced at him. "Professor Dumbledore is a half-blood too. Look at his power. Look at the position he holds. People still attack him relentlessly. Draco goes on every other day about how incompetent Dumbledore is. Pansy loudly mocks him. The Daily Prophet always has articles criticising him. And people don't trust him as much as some naïve Gryffindors think…"
The words seemed to have been waiting. They tumbled out now. Outside, the clouds gathered thickly. In the flickering candlelight of the classroom, Anthony finally saw the fire glinting in Tracey's eyes.
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