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"Oh, I know her," Madam Pince said. "That acne-covered Ravenclaw girl who scribbled dreadful love poems in the margins of books. Let me think... Warren, Myrtle Warren, that was her name. Can't recall her middle name, though."
"Do you know how she died?" Anthony asked. Worth a try.
Madam Pince frowned, thinking for a moment, then shrugged in defeat. "No idea. This is an ancient magical school—accidents happen. Perhaps she simply mispronounced something while practicing spells and summoned a Welsh Green. You know, Professor, there are always a few students so stupid you wouldn't believe it."
"That's all right, thank you so much," Anthony said. "A name is all I needed."
He had to know Myrtle's surname to quickly filter through information about her. He wanted to find all the reports from that time.
He walked into the archive room, waited until Madam Pince wasn't watching, took a deep breath, and flicked his wand to summon books containing "Myrtle Warren"—a little trick he'd traded a few drinks for with a clerk at Flourish and Blotts back when he was still living at the Leaky Cauldron.
Last time he'd tried summoning publications containing just "Myrtle," at least thirty heavy registers, bound newspapers, and herbology journals had come flying at him with a whooshing sound. If he hadn't dodged in time, it would've been his skull that shattered, not the archive room's vase.
"Very clever Summoning Charm variant, Professor," Madam Pince had said irritably, rushing over at the sound of breaking glass. "But please don't attempt such things in the Hogwarts library—this is a library with a vast collection! There's a reason we've always forbidden students from casting spells on books."
Even though he'd immediately repaired the vase with a Mending Charm, she'd still been complaining as she left about how unreasonable it was to allow professors to cast spells in the school library. "As if professors can't damage precious materials or vases!" she'd said loudly.
But today Anthony decided to use the spell anyway. Worst case, he'd just repair another vase.
He stood apologetically in place, waiting for the materials to respond to his summons.
This time only two came.
Perhaps because he hadn't practiced in so long, his spell had grown rusty—they no longer flew quickly toward him but merely dropped from their shelves, hitting the floor with two dull thuds and a few puffs of dust.
"Hope Madam Pince doesn't notice," Anthony muttered as he picked up one volume.
A corner of the cover had bent, and Anthony's Mending Charm wouldn't work on it. This thick Daily Prophet collection contained five years of newspapers from 1940 to 1945, while the other was a register of over two thousand pages, containing all students who'd entered between 1935 and 1939. The yellowing parchment recorded in emerald-green magical ink tedious information about when students' names had appeared in the Book of Admittance, which house the Sorting Hat had called out, and so on.
Anthony sighed. Whether judging by the newspapers or the register's dates, Myrtle's death had occurred long before Professor McGonagall joined the staff. If he really wanted to take the fast track, his only option was to trouble the gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office by guessing passwords.
He carried both books to a table and sat down. For the next while, he had some... quite a lot of eye-straining work ahead of him.
Anthony rubbed his eyes and returned the register to the shelf. By closing time, he'd only gotten through three hundred-some pages of names. Perhaps he should consider a different strategy. The option of chatting with the gargoyle had never seemed so appealing.
The weather was growing colder, and night fell earlier and earlier. Except for a distant streak of crimson-gold, the entire sky was already shrouded in deep blue twilight. Students hurried through the corridors clutching textbooks, rushing to the Great Hall for dinner.
Anthony immediately spotted three red heads clustered in the corridor—Percy appeared to be lecturing the twins. Among the crowd of first-years, Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together, whispering about something. Neville walked far behind. The boy still hadn't found friends willing to be with him at any time.
"Ah, Professor Anthony," he encountered Professor McGonagall at his office door. "I was just looking for you. The Ministry has just sent word—they're sending someone tomorrow to investigate you."
"Investigate what?" Anthony's vision still swam with emerald-green lists, making it hard to process immediately.
"The troll." Professor McGonagall's face was tight as she entered the office with him. "They're clearly dissatisfied with the efficiency of Hogwarts professors and can't wait to subject you to their questioning."
Anthony invited Professor McGonagall to sit, asking in confusion, "Just me?"
"Considering your background before taking this position," Professor McGonagall said delicately, "and the fact that you weren't present in the Great Hall that day, the Ministry believes they've already gathered sufficient clues."
Wonderful. The Ministry really was sparing no effort to send him back to Azkaban.
Anthony didn't believe for a second that the Ministry was interested in the troll in the dungeon classroom. From his investigation into Myrtle, they hadn't cared much about the big yellow-eyed cat in the girls' bathroom. Presumably Dumbledore's firm guarantee had angered certain people—not that Dumbledore or Anthony cared about that.
"Considering my background before taking this position, they should realize I have better options than a troll," Anthony complained. "Even options more fitting for Halloween. And I was here the entire time on Halloween."
Professor McGonagall nodded seriously, stopping Anthony from pouring her tea. "I know, Professor Anthony, which is why I never thought the troll had anything to do with you."
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