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Extra: An Empty Grave
Author's Note: Someone came at me with a long, personal attack, and I got fed up with the insults. So, I decided to move up a story I originally planned to include later. This is also to explain Anthony's strangely calm and composed demeanor in the first few chapters. However, I obviously can't have Anthony and Snape discussing student education and childhood trauma in the dungeon one moment, and then have Anthony return to his office and start dreaming about his youth… That would be too irresponsible. Considering the reading experience, this update has become an extra (facepalm). Also, since this extra is quite long (for my slow writing speed), I might need a day to recover after finishing it. Apologies to those who don't want to read extras—I'm not in the best state and can only manage to write extras. If you're not interested, just consider today's update skipped. The main storyline will gradually reveal Anthony's resurrection story.
Mr. Wright was the happiest man in the world. He had always believed this.
Of course, his happiness had its source: he was a good man.
Even though his family already subscribed to the newspaper, whenever he saw newsboys on the street, he would call over the poor children and buy another copy from them.
He attended church every week, never missed a prayer before meals, and knelt by his bed every night, praying not only for himself but also for his dear wife, his lovely son and daughter, and the countless suffering people in the world—not that he actually knew who they were.
He was also enthusiastic about helping people in the community. Of course, this had something to do with his job—but it was undeniable that no one was more suited for this role than him. No matter what happened in anyone's household, he was always among the first to know. In this cold world, people as warm-hearted as him were rare.
"Darling, you can't imagine the day I've had," his wife said as she helped him out of his coat. He sank into the sofa, panting heavily.
"What happened?" Mrs. Wright asked half-heartedly, her eyes fixed on a loose thread in the suit's seam.
"Do you remember that boy named Henry? The one who lives at the end of the street?"
"Henry Anthony, right? The bookworm who used to live with the old Anthony couple?"
"He's done something heroic!" Mr. Wright announced excitedly. "He saved a nobleman's daughter from drowning, and they sent him back in a carriage! A carriage—that's rare! I also received a notice that the nobleman allocated a large sum of money for us to give him a proper burial…"
"Burial!" Mrs. Wright exclaimed, looking up. "You're not saying he's dead, are you?"
Mr. Wright was very satisfied with the reaction his story had elicited. He nodded smugly. "Yes, so now our community has a hero who saved someone, received a large sum of money, and has an empty house left behind. I must say, that Henry finally did something good this time."
His wife gave him a reproachful look. "Shh, don't say that! We should mourn for that young man." But a smile also played on her lips. "I suppose you've been busy today?"
"Of course, of course," Mr. Wright said. "It would be wonderful if we could have lamb stew for dinner tonight, darling… I think I can already smell it. Oh, indeed! You're an angel! Where are our little ones?"
"Upstairs. I'll go call them down," Mrs. Wright said, kissing Mr. Wright on the cheek before heading upstairs to fetch their son and daughter.
Mr. Wright moved to the dining table and sat down, feeling utterly content.
…
Following the nobleman's instructions, they arranged the finest coffin for Anthony and organized a grand funeral.
The young man had two or three friends, all of whom attended in grief. According to them, they hadn't been in touch with Henry for a long time, but hearing about his death was still shocking.
Apart from them, five or six "friends" also attended. They all claimed to be very busy, but upon hearing that he had died saving a nobleman's daughter, they suddenly became close friends who would make time for the funeral no matter how busy they were.
Disappointingly, the nobleman did not attend.
Such a beautiful coffin—and the flowers! In this weather, finding enough flowers to cover the ground was no small feat. The place was so beautiful it could have been a wedding venue… if only the large wooden box at the back weren't a coffin but a church's stained-glass window.
Even the priest was ready.
Mr. Wright looked regretfully at the wasted decorations.
But no matter what, from now on, a hero rested in this cemetery. Having a hero was always a good thing, no matter where you were. Tending to the tombstone, maintaining the cemetery—all of these required shiny silver or paper trinkets, and another dead good person was just another reason…
Mr. Wright thought leisurely to himself. The priest was still droning on about his… Oh, no, Mr. Wright was a devout believer. He crossed himself and bowed his head in sorrow.
…
Mr. Wright was a busy man, always needed to arrange everything. Without him, people simply wouldn't know how to live.
"I think we should organize an event," Mr. Wright announced.
"An… event, sir?"
Mr. Wright nodded. "Yes, it's rare to have a holiday. Men and women will want to get together and go out… The weather is getting warmer. What a lovely day. Here's the plan my nephew wrote. Take a look."
He stroked his mustache contentedly. He had trimmed it meticulously before leaving the house that morning. How annoying that no one noticed how dashing it looked… People with no taste…
"Of course, of course. But there's a small problem, sir. We need funds…"
"Funds?" He frowned. "Isn't the budget enough? Let me see…" He took back the plan and flipped through it, clicking his tongue. "Ah, young people. They always want everything to be perfect. This—we can skip the chairs and tables. Isn't it better to walk in nature than to sit all the time? And here, why rent a venue? I think the cemetery to the west is perfect."
"Okay… chairs and tables… okay… cemetery…" The pen scratched furiously in the notebook.
Mr. Wright nodded in satisfaction. Problem solved. He had always been good at solving problems. Without people like him, the world would have fallen into chaos long ago.
…
It was a rare beautiful day. A gentle breeze blew, and the early spring sun shone warmly. The lawn in the cemetery was neatly trimmed.
Mrs. Wright packed three picnic baskets to the brim, wearing the pale yellow dress she had worn when she first met Mr. Wright. She walked arm in arm with him through the woods beside the cemetery. "Be good, don't run wild! Come, sweetheart, hold Mommy's hand! Good boy, hold your sister's hand."
Mr. Wright walked with his family, as happy as he was every day.
Whenever someone greeted him with envy and respect, he nodded reservedly. How well he had organized this event! How beautiful his wife was! How well-behaved his children were!
"This is lovely," Mrs. Wright said, choosing a clearing and spreading out a red-and-white checkered picnic blanket. The washed fruits sparkled in the sunlight.
"Darling, I'm going for a smoke," Mr. Wright said, watching his busy wife.
Mrs. Wright sighed and smiled. "Go ahead, Mr. Wright."
"I love you too, Mrs. Wright," Mr. Wright said with mock seriousness, giving her a playful kiss on the hand that made her giggle before walking out of the woods.
He shook out a cigarette but didn't light it. He just wanted to take a walk… to see how the event he had organized and managed was going, to admire the results.
How wonderful. People were picnicking everywhere… Ah, why was that young man frowning again? Mr. Wright hadn't forced him to attend the event. He only ever gave suggestions—but his suggestions were always undeniably correct.
He frowned slightly, scanning the less-than-perfect people.
Like that couple over there—they were actually arguing… Goodness, their child was crying again. Was no one going to do something about it? Why were they still arguing?
The world needed warm-hearted people like Mr. Wright. He immediately walked over and asked the little boy sternly, "You, why are you crying?"
The boy wailed shrilly, "I need to pee! Mom, Mom, I need to pee!"
"Then go pee!" Mr. Wright frowned at the boy's lack of elegance.
"I can't find a toilet!" he cried.
Mr. Wright waved his hand impatiently. "Just find a place where no one can see you!"
The boy stopped crying, scrambled to his feet, and ran off to a place Mr. Wright couldn't see. His parents were still arguing about why they had forgotten to bring a picnic blanket.
Thank goodness Mrs. Wright always kept everything in perfect order… Mr. Wright thought contentedly, walking away from the quarreling couple.
…
The boy ran around but couldn't find a place without people. He had wanted to find a tree, but every clearing was occupied by one or several families, and someone was always watching.
He was getting desperate. Pouting, he looked around and suddenly noticed that no one was near the rows of square or cross-shaped stones. He happily ran over and began to enjoy the happiest moment of his day.
As he sang along to the sound of water, he suddenly noticed that one of the stones in the outermost row seemed to move. How strange—how could a stone move? Weren't stones supposed to be dead? The stone seemed to want to jump out, and the mound of dirt in front of it was trembling too.
He pulled up his pants and ran back. "Dad! Mom! Can stones move?"
His parents were still arguing, but his curiosity burned in his chest. He wanted to ask someone else… Then he saw the kind gentleman, Mr. Wright.
"Mr. Wright! Mr. Wright!" he called as he ran over.
Mr. Wright took a deep breath. "What is it, child?"
"Can stones move?"
"Of course not," Mr. Wright said. "If it moves, something else must be pushing it."
The boy pointed at the distant cemetery. "But there's a moving stone over there!"
"Nonsense," Mr. Wright said.
By then, the couple had stopped arguing and started looking for their son. Mr. Wright said, "Go on, your parents are looking for you."
The boy went to pester the people he was supposed to pester with his question about why stones moved. Mr. Wright really wanted to find a place to smoke now… The cemetery seemed like a good place—quiet, undisturbed…
He walked toward it.
…
This thing opened its eyes. Or, if we consider it a person, he opened his eyes.
He couldn't entirely be called a "person." A more accurate description would be "corpse" or "the deceased." This corpse had been placed in a very beautiful and grand coffin, but that wasn't why it was so well-preserved. As everyone knows, no matter how you die, in the end, molecules return to molecules, atoms return to atoms, and everything dissolves into something not quite suitable for description.
The reason he still looked like a person was due to three very important factors. First, he hadn't been cremated. Second, he hadn't been dead for too long. Third, yes, there was a bit of magic involved. All three factors were crucial, though one seemed a bit odd.
But that's how it happened. A bit of magic was involved, so the corpse opened its eyes intact and found itself lying next to a pile of dried flowers.
He had no feelings about the dried flowers, but he felt very uncomfortable. If he still remembered how to frown, he would have frowned.
What was this feeling of being squeezed called…? Right, confinement. This skin was very confining… He needed more space, much more space… Something burned in his throat—not the throat of this skin, but his real throat… He needed to eat something, anything…
There were many corpses and bones in the distance, he could sense them. But no, he was too hungry. He didn't need to call them up to compete for food…
Something was moving above his head, producing a dull, thumping vibration. The corpse stared at the coffin lid. The sound of water in the distance, and then the thing left. Then—maybe the next second, maybe the next century—another thing came. Bigger, more fragrant.
Like a long loaf of bread, he thought, even though he had forgotten what that was.
The corpse opened its mouth. It was just an instinct, an intuition—the thing inside the corpse felt that the object would taste good. And it was big, which was important. After eating it, he would have more space to… do whatever, stretch, if he had a waist.
But first, he needed to reach that tempting (tempting to a corpse?) object. He needed to get out, wherever that was, just not here.
He remembered the world was supposed to be bright.
With just that thought, his world brightened. Wood splinters flew, dirt scattered, and the long loaf of bread sat on the ground, staring at him in terror.
As all this happened, only one thought crossed Mr. Wright's mind: he shouldn't have skimped on the coffin's wood thickness to save money. He would now gladly pay out of his own pocket to add a silver outer layer.
…
The thing inside the corpse turned its gaze to the obese man.
The mustache trembled violently. The man sat on the ground, unable to move, his mouth open but no sound coming out, frozen in a comical half-sneeze pose. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. You'd be surprised how much water was inside him. Judging by his appearance, one would think he should melt like butter on a hot pan into a sizzling pool of grease.
But the thing inside the corpse—it's too cumbersome to keep calling it that. Let's call him Anthony, since that was the first name he could remember—Anthony wasn't interested in the outer shell. Inside this watery butter was something very sweet, falsely cloying, but at least sweet… If Anthony still remembered human language, he would say it smelled like "happiness from trashy TV dramas."
That was enough to attract him.
Anthony walked over… or rather, he swung his legs over. His head considered for a moment and then rolled over too.
"Ah—!" This time, the man screamed. "Anthony! I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I, I shouldn't have…" He racked his brain but couldn't figure out what he shouldn't have done. Anthony's head stopped in front of him, staring quietly as if expecting an answer.
Then the answer came like a revelation.
"I shouldn't have organized this Easter event! I shouldn't have forgotten to visit your grave! I shouldn't have stopped the community from fundraising for your grandfather's illness! I shouldn't have delayed notifying you when Mrs. Anthony was critically ill!" Mr. Wright shouted. "I shouldn't have pretended you weren't struggling when you applied for financial aid! I shouldn't have gossiped about you behind your back!"
Anthony remained expressionless. He didn't know what this mouth in front of him was shouting about, but that sweet fragrance was gradually changing… Perhaps it was best not to let him continue shouting. While he hadn't fully repented, while he was still smug about his happiness… let him become Anthony's dessert…
"Dad!" Mr. Wright's daughter called from far away in the woods. "Dad, if you don't come soon, we'll eat all the brownies!"
Her voice flew out like a cheerful little bird, landing on the tips of Anthony and Mr. Wright's confronting noses. For some reason, even through dozens of rows of tombstones and countless chattering families, both Anthony and Mr. Wright heard her happy call.
His son ran over directly. "Dad, Mom is calling you—" His voice cut off abruptly.
Anthony looked at the little thing in front of him. He was small and emitted another kind of sweetness. A more pleasant sweetness. Anthony rolled over.
"No! Please, Anthony, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Mr. Wright shouted, still frozen on the ground, unable to move. He didn't smell sweet at all now… He was a bit pungent, making one's nose itch. If Anthony could remember, this smell was called "spicy."
Anthony's hand crawled over, touching Mr. Wright, then touching his son.
This one was bigger, that one was smaller. Choose the bigger one. His simple mind decided.
So he focused on the bigger one. That pungent smell grew stronger, and within the spiciness, a hint of sweetness emerged. Sweeter than before, sweeter than anything.
"Yes, yes, choose me…" Mr. Wright sobbed, trembling weakly. Then he took a deep breath and commanded gently but authoritatively, "Son, sweetheart, close your eyes."
"Dad?" his son asked, confused.
Anthony pulled the delicious thing out of that shell and stuffed it into his throat.
Mr. Wright's battered shell trembled, letting out a surprised "oh," as if he hadn't expected it to be done so cleanly. Then he collapsed to the ground like a sack filled with cement.
His son, who hadn't closed his eyes, still called out in confusion, "Dad?" He couldn't believe he had really seen a dismembered person playing a game with his dad. This must be some kind of magic trick. In the next second, a dove would fly out from behind his dad.
The sweet thing in Anthony's throat burned. It was delicious—and then he remembered.
This taste was like lemon cake.
The simplest lemon cake, the first cake he had ever eaten… baked by his grandmother. She wore an apron and printed oven mitts, proudly and carefully taking the cake out… It was Anthony's seventh birthday, and his grandfather lit the candles…
Memories flooded into his brain, which had been dead and dried out for over
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