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The night was uncomfortable for Anthony, thanks to his awkward sleeping position. He stirred awake several times but could never muster the energy to grab a pillow or move his feet onto the bed. A sharp whistle of wind through the window crack made him roll over, drowsy, but lying on his side felt even stranger. He rolled back.
What was the term for that again… a lumbar disc…?
He dreamt he was hunched in a small boat, sailing through the night. The cabin was tiny, with no lamps, the wooden seats creaking. Anthony tried to ask the person beside him where they were going, but when he turned, he vaguely glimpsed a massive turban wrapped around their head. It was Professor Quirrell. Delighted, he tried to strike up a conversation, but Quirrell never answered. He asked if Quirrell knew where they were headed. The professor suddenly burst into nervous laughter. "You know."
Confused and a little frustrated, he asked if they were going to Azkaban together. Quirrell fell silent again, but the cabin suddenly grew larger. Many people were sitting around him. Someone in the front row turned and said, "You know."
White light… Rumbling…
The lights in the boat flicked on. Everyone sitting there was someone he knew. Neighbors from the community, old classmates and friends, regular customers from his cashier days, Hogwarts colleagues and students… The person who turned to look at him was Mr. Wright. Next to Mr. Wright sat Snape. He turned his head—Umbridge and Dumbledore were sitting right behind him.
Another flash of white light… A tearing pain suddenly shot through his neck.
Anthony's eyes snapped open. He finally understood. These were all the people he had eaten. … "Seriously, cat. My neck?" Anthony asked, standing before the bathroom mirror and examining the wound slowly closing on his skin.
The Skeleton Cat ignored him. The Wraith Chicken stood at the edge of the sink, craning its neck as Anthony leaned closer to the mirror.
Tilting his head back, Anthony remarked, "Nick must have had a rough time of it."
The Wraith Chicken hopped onto the towel rail where a towel was drying, flapping its wings to maintain balance. Anthony tore his gaze from the mirror and steadied the chicken before it could topple over, towel and all. The bathroom light was on, but the bedroom beyond remained pitch black. Only the occasional white flare of lightning stabbed through the gap between the curtains and the window, casting long, flickering shadows of the furniture onto the floor in stark, abrupt light.
Anthony stepped out of the bathroom. The cat was sprawled on his quilt, tail flicking. The Soul Fire in its eye sockets burned and wavered, making the two bone paws it rested its chin on gleam faintly. Thunder rumbled. Rain hammered against the glass, as if trying to smash its way in.
Anthony sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke the cat. The cat turned its head away, giving him the back of its skull.
"Thanks, kitty."
The cat slowed its tail flicks, still facing away.
"Thanks for reminding me not to have such a healthy appetite," Anthony said, gently scratching the cat's bones with his index finger.
The nightmare images were fading fast, but his stomach still twisted with a faint, unpleasant clench, as if it had stayed behind in the dream, subject to a different kind of gravity. Weightlessness, he thought. Like sitting in a boat going over a waterfall… A river sliding off a cliff, becoming a cascade, and every boat following, tumbling down like cereal swirled into milk and sliding into the stomach…
The cat flipped over impatiently, dodging his finger.
Anthony laughed. He stood, shoved the quilt into a heap, wrapped the cat inside, and hugged the bundle.
The cat erupted into a furious struggle. Anthony thought he heard fabric tear. It shot out, leaped onto the wardrobe, and shook its bones with a rattling clatter. The next moment, the wardrobe toppled over. The cat pounced on him, jaws flaring open in rage. A skeleton's lower jaw was remarkably flexible.
A mental alarm bell screamed in Anthony's head.
The Wraith Chicken charged, its talons seizing the cat's spinal column, yanking it defensively away from Anthony. Momentum sent them both tumbling back into the heap of ruined fabric. Flapping wings, clattering bones, frantic scratching… A disheveled wraith and a dusty skeleton rolled in a tangle. Anthony hurriedly stood, giving them space.
More tears in the quilt. The bedsheet ripped. Tufts of stuffing were hooked out of the mattress (the Wraith Mouse carried the stray fluff drifting to the floor back to the cat's nest). The mattress thumped to the ground. The chicken and cat fought with heavy thuds. Wind and rain raged outside the window.
Anthony stood in the middle of the room, looking around.
"Want to go for a walk?" he asked the Wraith Mouse crawling over his foot.
The mouse hesitated. Thud. The cat and chicken rolled off the bed together.
"Squeak." The Wraith Mouse lifted its nose, agreeing. … Pale, forked lightning lanced from thick, dark clouds, tearing the sky open and violently illuminating the gloomy corridor. Bean-sized raindrops hammered against the windows, seeping through cracks and winding down the stone bricks until every seam in the corridor floor was soaked and cold.
The Wraith Mouse stood on Anthony's shoulder, claws gripping his collar tightly, twitching its nose and sniffing the accumulating scent of the summer storm. Anthony faintly heard a few portraits whispering complaints about the rain and mold, but as his pattering footsteps drew near, the portraits fell warily silent, as if they'd been discussing something shameful.
Just as he was about to quietly skirt past the portraits feigning sleep, Anthony suddenly caught the sound of fragmented speech. But when he strained to listen, he heard only the endless rain and thunder. Just as he doubted his own ears, the Wraith Mouse suddenly jumped to the floor. It rose on its hind legs, whiskers twitching as it scanned the surroundings, then gave a soft squeak, dropped to all fours, and scurried toward the stairs.
"Hey!" Anthony called softly. "I'm not that curious, okay?"
The mouse glanced back at him at the stairwell entrance, then kept running, disappearing into the darkness. Anthony hurried after it, following its nimble form up the stairs, wondering where their destination might be.
As they drew closer, Anthony realized it wasn't fragmented speech—it was a hushed, heated argument.
The mouse crouched in a corner of the stairwell landing, watching the doorway expectantly. Anthony waited with it, bewildered, as a dozen tomatoes bounced in single file.
The arguing voices grew clearer. "You'll get us points deducted! You know everyone's against us right now—"
"Good point. So why are you following me? All you have to do is pretend you don't know—"
"And then you'll tell everyone I forced you, right? You freak! I've figured it out… If you get caught, you'll find a way to pin all the point losses on me, just like with Anthony that time!"
The Wraith Mouse zipped out and snatched a tomato. The tomato kicked and struggled violently. Anthony quickly scooped up the mouse (along with the tomato) into his pocket and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself. The voices in the corridor fell silent. A pause.
"What happened?" Pansy Parkinson whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "Your tomatoes… what's wrong with them?"
Another moment passed. "Probably a rat or a snake," Tracey Davis said. She paused. "If you keep making such a racket, you're more likely to call Mrs. Norris."
The diminished tomato squad continued its cheerful march upstairs, unimpeded. Facing a particularly high step, the tomatoes stacked themselves in wobbly, clumsy pairs, performing an awkward acrobatic maneuver to clamber up, leaving one lone tomato bumping its head against the stair. The mouse poked its head out longingly, but Anthony stroked its head and nudged it back into his pocket.
Pansy seemed to regain some nerve, her voice gaining confidence. "I know what you're trying to do, Davis. You're going to find your mudblood brother." She even sounded a bit smug.
"Hey, Mrs. Norris!" Tracey called out. "Mr. Filch! Peeves! Moaning Myrtle—"
Her voice was suddenly muffled. Then Anthony heard something heavy hit the floor. The two Slytherins seemed to be fighting just outside the door. Lightning flashed.
"Locomotor Mortis!" Tracey whispered clearly, low and sharp.
"Davis!" Pansy gasped, her voice a strained hiss.
"You're even dumber than I could have imagined," Tracey said, her voice dripping with scornful sarcasm, nearly drowned by a rumble of thunder. "Is this what your pure-blood family taught you? Covering someone's mouth? With your hand? And you claim pure-bloods are somehow more magical?"
"And you think your half-blood brother still cares about you?" Pansy shot back. "The descendants of those blood-traitor muggle-lovers naturally have betrayal in their blood."
Tracey didn't speak.
"You think he cares how many Gryffindors are trying to turn the Inquisitorial Squad badges into dungbombs? Or how many people are secretly tripping us up? You know perfectly well they're his so-called friends, hah! Maybe he was even one of the planners! With Umbridge gone, poor little Tracey runs crying to her dear brother. You really think he'll take you back?"
"You can say whatever you like," Tracey said, then muttered another spell. Several tomatoes came bounding back past Anthony and the mouse, beginning to tap-dance just outside the door to create a distraction.
"Goodnight, Pansy," Tracey said softly. "Good luck."
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