The next day dawned clear. Sunday's sun glared down on bone-white snow, and the distant mountaintops reflected a golden light, brightening the whole world.
The Daily Prophet had finally printed its report on Peter Pettigrew. An old photo of Crouch had been dug up, his stern, grave face placed right beside a giant headshot of a weeping Pettigrew.
Shockingly, the decision to award Peter Pettigrew the Order of Merlin, First Class, came from none other than the former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Barty Crouch. He prided himself on rigor and integrity, but according to one source with knowledge of the matter, he frequently sent the accused to Azkaban forcefully, regardless of whether there was evidence they were Death Eaters. The author is reluctant to mention here Barty Crouch Jr., Mr. Crouch's son, another 'Death Eater,' but…
"Barty Crouch Jr.?" Anthony asked, surprised. He hadn't known the man had a son.
"Yes. He was also sentenced to life in Azkaban," said Professor McGonagall.
Professor Sprout whispered to Anthony, "If not for that business, there's no telling who the Minister would be now."
Anthony glanced toward the nearest student table. Most students weren't in the Great Hall, and the closest group was engrossed in watching one of their own demonstrate how to down a goblet of pumpkin juice in one go. The Daily Prophet lay discarded beside them, open to an advertisement for a weedkiller.
The professors fell silent, reading. The article vaguely mentioned the Ministry's recent capture of an important supporter of You-Know-Who, waxed dramatic about the shock of Pettigrew's reappearance, and gave a very detailed introduction to this 'friend of James Potter, recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class' for any readers who didn't know who he was. Sirius Black got a mention in a few small paragraphs before the focus quickly shifted to how the Ministry—under Fudge's leadership, of course—had immediately recognized they might have been deceived and methodically pursued the truth.
"Nothing noteworthy," Professor Flitwick chirped.
While Anthony was still parsing a certain paragraph's subtle praise of the current Ministry ('We can expect…'), Flitwick had already skimmed the entire article and moved on to the news about the French Ministry restricting exports of giant snails.
"In a few days, the Ministry will cleverly and bravely find that man's wand," Professor McGonagall said with distaste.
"Tuesday or Wednesday," a voice said cheerfully behind them. "Cornelius is quite invested in the matter."
After all this time, Dumbledore had finally reappeared by the staff table. Everyone was startled.
"Albus!" Professor Sprout turned, chiding. "You gave me a fright!"
"My apologies, Pomona. I had hoped for a warmer welcome," Dumbledore said cheerfully, pulling out his chair and sitting. "What do we have this morning? Spotted dick? Hmm… Would you pass the toast, Minerva? And the raspberry jam? Excellent."
Professor McGonagall handed Dumbledore the toast and placed the jam jar by his hand.
"Albus, tell me—" she began.
Click. The sound cut her off. Dumbledore unscrewed the lid, lifted the jar, and peered inside at the remaining jam.
"A bit left," he said with satisfaction. Then he looked up at McGonagall, his gaze mild. "What is it, Minerva?"
Professor McGonagall lowered her voice. "Charity says Peter Pettigrew's sentence was commuted. From the Dementor's Kiss to life in Azkaban. Is it true?"
"Ah, regarding that…" Dumbledore began, then stopped. He looked around. It wasn't just McGonagall. Sprout, Flitwick, and Anthony were all watching him.
Dumbledore nodded. "From what I have heard, I would say it is true."
Professor Sprout sighed and began spreading layer after layer of butter on her bread. Professor McGonagall's face was stern. She was silent for a moment.
Professor Flitwick piped up, "That news will be announced Tuesday or Wednesday, yes? Along with the wand?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said lightly. "I don't think Voldemort will be particularly pleased."
Like a chill wind sweeping the staff table, the name made everyone pause. Professor McGonagall agreed. "He won't be."
"Will he cause trouble for the Ministry, Albus?" Professor Sprout asked worriedly.
"I don't believe he is strong enough for that yet," Dumbledore said. "Regardless, I warned Cornelius. He does not seem concerned."
"Hmm…" Anthony said hesitantly. "I don't think You-Know-Who subscribes to The Daily Prophet."
"A fair point," Dumbledore said with a quiet laugh. "By the way, Henry, any plans today?"
Anthony blinked. "No, sir. Nothing crucial." He mentally pushed back the spell study and lesson planning he'd scheduled. Dumbledore hadn't specifically sought him out since the Wraith Chicken arrived at Hogwarts.
Dumbledore nodded, focusing on spreading raspberry jam on his toast. "Excellent. Would you mind joining me for a cup of tea, or perhaps pumpkin juice, in my office after breakfast? Hot chocolate?"
"Pumpkin juice sounds great," Anthony said.
…
Dumbledore's office was unchanged from Anthony's last visit. The instruments on the desk still whirred and puffed smoke. The portraits of past Headmasters still lined the walls. Sunlight still streamed through the high windows… Except for one thing.
Dumbledore settled behind his desk and seemed to understand what Anthony was looking for with a single glance.
"Fawkes is not here at the moment," Dumbledore explained. "Nicolas has borrowed him again. He's been exploring Britain lately, and a phoenix is an adventurer's favorite companion. Instant post, tears that heal, and the ability to carry heavy loads in flight…"
"I see," Anthony said, accepting the goblet of pumpkin juice Dumbledore slid over. "What did you need, sir?"
"I have a question requiring your opinion," Dumbledore said. "Henry, what is a corpse?"
"What?"
"What is a corpse?" Dumbledore repeated patiently. "I recall you telling me you could control skeletons, wraiths, or corpses. Remus also mentioned you said you controlled corpses, not Inferi. Within the realm of Necromancy, what is a corpse?"
"A corpse is… well… broadly speaking, I'd say it's a skeleton that still has flesh, untreated," Anthony said. "A skeleton has no flesh. A wraith is just a bundle of desires. An Inferius—from the books I've read—is likely a corpse treated with Dark Magic, a byproduct of resurrection research in Necromancy. A roast chicken is a corpse, but one burned to a crisp isn't… Wait." He remembered facing Quirrell, pulling the troll's ashes back together into a corpse. "Though magical creatures' corpses seem different."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, watching him with focused interest.
"Necromancy is better at controlling the corpses of magical creatures… remains, skeletons, post-mortem residue, whatever we call it," Anthony said, recalling the Bloody Baron's notes as he took a sip of pumpkin juice. "One theory is it's because these creatures' bodies are better suited to holding magic, so Necromancy flows through them more smoothly."
"Better suited to holding magic…" Dumbledore mused. "Do you consider wizards magical creatures, Henry?"
Anthony had no idea where this conversation was going, but the question sounded too much like a belated Muggle Studies job interview.
He chose his words very carefully. "I believe wizards do fit the broad definition of a magical creature, but their essence remains human, no different from Muggles. Compared to creatures born with inherent magic, like, say… unicorns or phoenixes, a wizard's magic still requires learning. Squibs and Muggle-born wizards prove the distance between Muggles and wizards isn't vast…"
Dumbledore chuckled and raised a hand, stopping Anthony's Muggle Studies lecture. "My apologies, Henry. That wasn't a good question, merely my personal curiosity. Let us return to the real issue. First, a corpse is dead, correct?"
"I can find no fault with that statement," Anthony said.
"For something to die, it must first have life?"
"I suppose so."
"And Necromancy finds it easier to control shells better suited to holding magic?"
"I believe so."
Dumbledore asked, "Then, Henry, if someone were to magically create a body, would that be a shell even more suited to magic? Would it be a body that could die—or rather, could live?"
"Potentially," Anthony said. "Isn't that the pursuit of Flesh Magic, sir? Using magic to achieve what life can do—even better than life?"
"But, Henry, what if not through Flesh Magic?" Dumbledore asked.
Anthony said, "Then I doubt the person could truly create a body. No, to my knowledge, aside from Flesh Magic, there is no better method to obtain a body favored by both magic and life."
Dumbledore pondered. "Hmm…"
Anthony asked, "What is it, sir? Why are you asking this?"
"I am trying to deduce life through death," Dumbledore said softly. "Henry, do you recall your last conversation with Severus?"
Anthony tried to remember what Dumbledore meant.
"Severus must have forgotten to inform you it was a rather significant discussion," Dumbledore said. "He was troubled by how to simulate unicorn blood at the time…"
Anthony remembered. "The discussion he cut short? The one where he suddenly left? I never understood what was happening."
"I apologize on his behalf," Dumbledore said.
Anthony shook his head, indicating it didn't matter. "You know, sir, I think I'm starting to get used to Snape." Especially during this period where they hadn't spoken much. Snape had become much more tolerable.
Dumbledore chuckled lightly. "Simply put, Henry, Severus believed a mixture of unicorn blood and snake venom could create a shell sufficient to contain Voldemort."
"Huh?" was the first word that jumped to Anthony's lips. He swallowed it and replaced it with: "Why?"
He didn't think this question was much better than the exclamation, because Dumbledore soon tried to explain in simple terms a certain inference derived from a Potions principle ('If we consider unicorn blood as aqua regia and introduce conflicting ingredients…'). When Dumbledore realized Anthony hadn't heard of the principle, he began using examples and analogies. In the end, Anthony had to admit he was utterly clueless about Potions.
"It's alright, sir, I'm not questioning it," he said before Dumbledore could switch to an even simpler example. "I'm just… surprised."
"I know," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. "But I've always found that being prepared for what one might face is seldom a mistake, Henry."
"Might face?" Anthony said. "Just to confirm, sir, Fawkes isn't going to fly back carrying Voldemort, is he?"
"Regrettably, I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said. "I must ask a favor of you, Henry."
Anthony watched as Dumbledore rose from his chair, walked to the tall bookshelf, and pulled out a book.
"Voldemort will not be satisfied with a body made from unicorn blood and snake venom," Dumbledore said. "As you just told me, it would not be a body well-suited for using magic. I hope you will continue your research into Flesh Magic—Severus has been experimenting with various ratios and brewing methods in the meantime. The more we understand our enemy, the stronger we become. We can strive to prevent him from creating a suitable body for himself."
Anthony took the book. It looked like an ancient manuscript. Faded parchment, florid script: Secrets of the Darkest Art (Volume III). He flipped through it quickly. It seemed to be detailed material on Flesh Magic from start to finish.
"I found it among the items delivered from Flourish and Blotts," Dumbledore said, his gaze seeming to see right through Anthony. "This is an extremely dangerous book. Do not underestimate its peril. I sincerely hope this day never comes, but one day, we may need Flesh Magic. Use it well, Henry. Use it cautiously."
"I will," Anthony promised. Somehow, he felt a familiar thrill—like receiving an important essay topic or exam paper back in school. He felt he was facing a crucial test.
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