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Anthony listened quietly as Baron recounted his life—his mentor, Hogwarts like home, Helena Ravenclaw beautiful and elegant enough to take his breath away, his unforgettable mad way of showing love, and the tragic ending.
Perhaps because after so many years he'd only met Anthony, one necromancer, Baron almost couldn't control pouring these stories to Anthony like a breached tide.
He used his hollow hoarse voice to describe how he lost reason, how when coming to his senses he felt warm blood splattered on himself slowly cooled by forest breeze, how he couldn't believe what he'd done and held the corpse in anguished regret, how he frantically tried waking Helena—just like he saw how Anthony held his cat with eyes flashing with mad flames and rushed upstairs hastily. That very moment, Baron confirmed he'd met a necromancer—he was very familiar with that determined madness.
He looked haggard and described how his heart died like ashes, decided to abandon Necromancy that betrayed him—because it was originally magic researching crossing life and death, if he completely couldn't remedy his mistake, what use was such magic—and for the first time deeply understood why Necromancy was called "Death's toy."
"Why?" the Bloody Baron asked quietly with jealousy. "Why are you also an apprentice, yet receive Death's favor? Why does it allow you to resurrect that cat?" His hands trembled slightly from suppressed agitation and shackles made clanking sounds.
Anthony shook his head. "That's not resurrection... You're a necromancer, can't you see? My cat has no soul."
When people say "I want a sandwich," they don't mean "I want bread," "I want tomato," or "I want chicken," but a complete, proper sandwich with everything arranged according to rules.
Similarly, when people say "I want her alive," they don't beg for any part of "alive," but consciousness, soul, body together—all of it, everything must wake up vibrantly.
Anthony never raised a living cat. He wasn't greedy—whether cat or chicken, both were consciousness or will, things necromancers were most familiar with... Living things might die, only dead things made him feel safe. They shared death's secret with him and souls rooted together in death's soil.
The Bloody Baron said hoarsely, "I'm no longer a necromancer, can't you see?"
Anthony looked at him questioningly... As the only existing necromancer, he truly didn't know how to distinguish whether others were necromancers.
"I'm a ghost," Baron said.
Anthony examined his milky white transparent body and silver blood dried on his robes, then nodded. "Yes."
The Bloody Baron became a ghost after abandoning Necromancy.
To explore death's secrets, necromancers were the group closest to Death... They proactively mortgaged their souls to death to ensure they were always in a half-dead state and exchanged for quite terrifying magic.
"If not too presumptuous, Mr. Baron, I've always had a question," Anthony said. "Why did necromancers go extinct?"
Baron laughed hollowly and said hoarsely, "Because we brought destruction upon ourselves."
The weak died in witch hunts and the strong died by themselves. Some necromancers were so weak they could be burned to death on stakes like corpses they once tried toying with over bonfires and emitted burnt meat smell, while strong necromancers usually step by step traded away their souls and uncontrollably slid toward dark deep abysses.
Another portion of necromancers maintained that delicate balance and carefully passed Necromancy to their students, but when the wizarding world gradually separated from the Muggle world, this magic requiring massive raw materials that shouldn't easily appear before people gradually declined.
However, because of spellcasting's special nature, even among wizards, wizard society also—quite understandably—greatly rejected necromancers. Meanwhile, as other magic flourished and developed, wizards had other simpler methods to achieve goals and no longer needed Necromancy with extremely high intimidation toward Muggles.
"So I really am the only one left..." Anthony murmured.
"I guess so," the Bloody Baron said hoarsely. "What's your name?"
"Henry," Anthony said. "Henry Anthony."
"Then listen well, Anthony," the Bloody Baron floated up and said condescendingly with shackles dragged long over students' test parchments. "This is a failure speaking to you. Don't walk my path."
He nodded at Anthony with eyes vacant and floated out.
The sky had already brightened slightly. Stars disappeared and pale white moon hung by the western mountain. Bird calls came from the Forbidden Forest. Anthony exhaled and picked up his arm.
Black blood flowed sluggishly in the arm. To prevent the still-beating heart from dutifully pumping poisoned blood to every body part, Anthony simply drained blood from this arm, then reattached it to his body.
Blood hesitantly flowed into dried blood vessels and slowly connected it to the torso. Anthony leaned against the chair back, raised his hand to cover his eyes, and for the first time felt somewhat anemic.
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