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The celebration lasted until nearly curfew, when students finally hurried back to their common rooms under the stern, unwelcoming gaze of Filch. The Slytherins, of course, were the exception. They'd been unusually quiet and withdrawn at dinner. Not a single one had tried to join the celebration the professors had tacitly allowed. They vanished from their seats almost the moment they put down their forks.
Before leaving, the Weasley twins had hidden several heaping plates of chips under their school robes. Anthony was fairly sure they hadn't noticed Professor McGonagall watching them from the far end of the table while she chatted with Professor Flitwick. He himself had stayed comfortably in his corner, devouring an entire plate of peanut biscuits—pilfered from the Slytherin table—when no one was looking. The Slytherin table had been laden with the same food as the others, but no one had touched it.
"Coming with us, Roger?" Lee Jordan popped out of the crowd and slung an arm around Roger's neck. "And Emrys, where's he? There's another party in the Gryffindor common room—ice cream, Filibuster fireworks, some other stuff—Fred and George stashed some good things… You alright?"
"You stink," one of the twins said, shouldering him aside. "You stand accused of attempted olfactory murder of our fellow researcher Roger the Snake, Mr. Jordan."
"And you stand accused of receiving a Troll in Herbology for belittling dragon dung fertilizer, Mr. Weasley," Jordan shot back.
A few chips fell onto the path as they passed. Mrs. Norris, cradled in Filch's arms, eyed them suspiciously.
Roger stopped at the entrance to the Great Hall. "I should head back to the dorm, lads."
The Weasley twins spoke in unison. "Why?"
"Because a professor is staring at us?" Roger said.
The twins and Lee Jordan turned and met Anthony's gaze from his corner. Anthony, holding a glass of fizzy pumpkin juice, smiled at them and nodded towards the front. The heads of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor had stopped their conversation and were now staring at them with meaningful, authoritative expressions.
The three fourth-year Gryffindors adopted nearly identical expressions of innocent candor. They grinned and bid their Head of House a cheerful goodnight before scurrying away. More chips spilled from beneath their robes. But Filch was too busy muttering about what a "meddlesome, damned circus ghost" Peeves was to notice Mrs. Norris scratching anxiously at his arm, her raspy meows pleading to be let down.
…
Once the students had cleared out of the Great Hall, the faculty began to disperse. Professor Sinistra and Professor Trelawney were discussing something about one of Uranus's moons and Centaurs. Professor McGonagall marched away briskly, a stony expression on her face as she listened to Gilderoy Lockhart explain—rather insistently—that he was most reluctant to use his fame for special privileges, but the staff room was simply inadequate for his full talents. Even if the Duelling Club had changed venues, it did not mean he would abandon his dear colleagues. "The door is always open," and so on.
Professor Flitwick beckoned his colleagues closer.
"Look, Minerva is about ready to hop on a broomstick and fly out the window," he whispered to Anthony and Professor Sprout. "Merlin, Gilderoy, what a fool!" But the smile never left his face. Professor Sprout was also smiling indulgently, clearly in good spirits.
"Any plans later?" Flitwick asked. "The Three Broomsticks? With Charity? I daresay Minerva would love some violet water after escaping Gilderoy."
"Not today, Filius," Professor Sprout replied. "Some herbs need tending. You know, it's the full moon. I need to pollinate the flowering aconite."
"Professor Anthony?"
"Absolutely."
…
Madam Rosmerta greeted them warmly, as if it were an everyday occurrence for Hogwarts professors to appear at her pub late at night. Professor McGonagall ordered violet water, Professor Burbage requested rum, and Professor Flitwick declined the offer of soda, telling Madam Rosmerta he wanted to try the new cocktail. Anthony got a pint of chilled Butterbeer—purely out of curiosity, since Hagrid had always insisted that only hot Butterbeer was real Butterbeer, and the chilled version was just "sugar-riddled Doxycide."
Hagrid was right.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick debated for a while over whose office contained the copy of Illustrated Advanced Transfiguration, then roped Professor Burbage into two games of Gobstones. A wizard who claimed to be from Denmark approached their table, saying he was researching a potion that would allow one to pass through walls like a ghost but was having some financial difficulties. Anthony bought him a glass of the sugared Doxycide and politely declined the investment offer.
Professor McGonagall began explaining the amount of paperwork she needed to prepare for Professor Kettleburn and Hagrid's menagerie to remain legally within Scottish borders. ("Realistically, you don't need to prepare half of it," Professor Burbage commented. "'Educational purposes' is sufficient.") So they spent some time discussing how to legally avoid Ministry scrutiny.
Outside, the sky was pitch black. Insects, drawn by the warm yellow light of The Three Broomsticks, rode the summer night breeze through the open windows. They circled the hanging lamps, bumping softly against the shades with tiny pat-pat sounds. A few half-drunk wizards started a loud argument and were promptly ejected by Madam Rosmerta. There was a soft pop as they Disapparated away. A joke about Splinching from a nearby table drew hearty laughter. Glasses with dregs of liquid and plates scattered with breadcrumbs hopped together into a pile and trotted towards the door behind the bar.
Before Anthony realized it, he had drunk most of his chilled Butterbeer. Professor McGonagall's violet water, Professor Burbage's rum, and Professor Flitwick's cocktail were also finished. Professor Flitwick asked Madam Rosmerta for another, this time an iced soda with an umbrella and maraschino cherry syrup.
"I knew it, Professor Flitwick," the witch said as she set the glass down. She glanced at Anthony's still-unfinished Butterbeer, hesitating for a moment.
Professor Burbage caught it. "What is it, Rosmerta?"
"Oh, nothing," Madam Rosmerta said breezily. "Just wondering what brings you professors out here tonight. Term isn't over yet, is it? It's not the weekend."
"A good thing," Professor Flitwick said happily. "If you haven't heard yet, you will soon."
"A good thing?" Madam Rosmerta raised an eyebrow.
Professor Burbage said, "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"What have you heard, Rosmerta?" Professor McGonagall asked as well.
"Oh… Never mind, just rumors, Professors. Enjoy your evening."
"No, no, come back, Rosmerta," Professor Burbage caught her sleeve. "Tell you what. We'll tell you the good news, and you tell us the rumors. Fair trade?"
Madam Rosmerta laughed. "Alright, but you'll regret it. Now that I think about it, it's rather absurd… I heard Professor Anthony was gravely ill and leaving Hogwarts."
"You must have misheard, Rosmerta," Professor Burbage said, utterly baffled. "That's Dolores. Our Undersecretary."
Madam Rosmerta gasped softly. "Really? What happened to her?"
"Don't know," Professor Burbage shook her head. "A nervous breakdown, perhaps?"
"I don't think my name sounds much like Madam Umbridge's," Anthony mused.
"Exactly!" Professor Flitwick piped up. "I don't see how you could confuse them, Rosmerta."
"Fine," Madam Rosmerta surrendered. "So, what's the good news then?"
They looked at each other.
"Tonight is a full moon," Professor McGonagall said calmly. "Excellent for pollinating flowering aconite."
…
Bright moonlight spilled onto the street, casting a faint silver glow on the cobblestones. Most shops had closed for the night. Doors were locked, mannequins dozed on posters, signs hanging from eaves swayed gently in the night breeze, and the darkened glass windows faintly reflected their passing figures.
Even in June, the night air was cool. A gentle breeze rustled through the tall grass. Professor Flitwick recounted the time he'd startled a toad in the grass, and the amphibian had nearly landed on his hat.
They skirted the edge of the Black Lake, soon leaving Hogsmeade behind them. They pushed open the castle doors, now under curfew, bid each other quiet goodnights, and headed to their respective offices.
The room was pitch dark. Wind rushed in as Anthony opened the door, causing the half-open window to knock rhythmically against the wall. Something cold and fluid as water brushed silently against his ankle, winding halfway around his leg.
"Evening, Cat," Anthony greeted, lighting the lamps.
The ginger cat raised its tail and ambled between his feet, returning to the bedroom. It jumped onto the pillow and lay there, watching Anthony move between the office and bedroom—hanging up his robes, shaking the Wraith Mouse out of a slipper, boiling water, washing up, cleaning the aftermath of a skirmish between the Cat and the Wraith Chicken, watering the Dittany potted plant hanging outside the window, closing the window, shooing the Wraith Chicken on the windowsill into the room, checking tomorrow's schedule… Finally, he settled on the edge of the bed with a book.
"Why are you staring at me, Cat?" Anthony asked it. "Hmm?"
The cat rolled over and stretched. It stood on the pillow to stare at him a moment longer, then suddenly walked over and jumped onto his lap. Anthony had to put an arm around it and set the book aside. The Wraith Chicken, perched on the ceiling lamp, fluttered down and landed beside him, tilting its head to look at him. The lamp let out a loud groan of protest, creaking and swaying.
"What's going on?" Anthony scratched the cat's head. "Did something happen? Did Professor Quirrell break in again?"
The cat settled down and closed its eyes. The Wraith Chicken gave his finger a gentle peck, then nestled against him, tucking its head under a wing as if dozing.
Baffled, Anthony sat with them for a while. Finally, he decided it was time for bed. He Levitated the book to the nightstand, waved his wand to extinguish the lights, and fell backward onto the bed. Just before sleep took him, he felt the Wraith Mouse sneak up near his neck and curl into a ball.
He fell asleep like that, slippers still on, legs dangling over the edge of the bed.
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