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Not everyone enjoyed eating so much... at least Professor Snape didn't seem to.
That afternoon, after hearing about the commotion in Muggle Studies class, he said coldly, "I hope they don't bring such terrible operating habits to Potions class, or I'll regretfully have to let them taste their own concoctions."
"Is there a big difference between potion-making and cooking operations?" Anthony asked curiously.
Professor Sprout reached across two empty seats and patted Snape's arm soothingly. "Henry has no background in Potions."
"Does the order of adding onions and potatoes affect your soup?" Snape said sarcastically. "Oh, right, you'd certainly ensure your carrot chunks are uniformly sized. And dangerous sugar, Professor Anthony—so dangerous. I can imagine, just half an ounce too much and your little pot would explode."
"I didn't know you were a vegetarian, Professor Snape," Anthony said in surprise. "Why doesn't a single piece of beef appear in your examples?"
Snape glared at him for a while, as if finding him hopeless, then turned to discuss the newly harvested Bubotuber with Professor Sprout.
"Such a pity you weren't there, Severus. We certainly could have obtained more perfect Bubotuber," Professor Sprout said. "Ah, I'm not complaining. Your leg is more important."
Only then did Anthony notice the faint smell of blood coming from Snape's leg. He held his teacup, staring thoughtfully for a moment. Snape suddenly turned his head, meeting his gaze directly.
"What is it, Professor Anthony?" Snape hissed.
"How did you get injured?" Anthony asked thoughtfully.
Thanks to his identity as a necromancer, his perception of these... well, flesh and bone matters was far sharper than ordinary people. Even through the robes, he could tell it was a large wound. If he didn't know Fang's temperament, he might even say Snape had raided Hagrid's hut in the middle of the night (there were quite a few good things there) and been bitten by the guard dog.
"Magical experiment," Snape said.
"All right," Anthony shrugged. He liked using that excuse too when he didn't want to explain.
Professor Sprout had an Herbology class that afternoon. Before leaving, she wished Snape and Anthony, sitting at opposite ends of the room, "an enjoyable afternoon tea," then laughed at her own words. "Do as you please. Just don't argue, all right?"
Anthony asked in surprise, "Is that the impression I give you, Pomona? Someone who likes to argue?"
"No," Professor Sprout said with a smile. "But Severus likes to argue, and you like passive counterattacks."
Anthony had to admit she'd hit the mark.
"I merely humbly point out others' stupidity," Snape said. "Sometimes, some people's ignorance becomes unbearable. You're a professor yourself, Pomona. Go suffer."
Professor Sprout put on her patched hat, saying, "Students are all lovely." Before leaving the staff room, she added, "Colleagues are all lovely too, Severus."
She closed the door. Anthony stared at the sparks flying from the fireplace, sipping his tea.
"I'm warning you," Snape said suddenly.
"What?" He hadn't expected Snape to initiate conversation.
"I know what you are," Snape hissed. "Pomona may be a good person who believes everyone, but I'm not."
"What?"
"You needn't play dumb... Why did the Ministry come? Halloween, Professor Anthony." He added sarcastic emphasis to the word "Professor." "Where were you? Don't think no one's discovered your little secret. Look at your borrowing records—don't tell me you suddenly became interested in magical creatures."
"What?" This time Anthony genuinely had no idea what he was implying.
"Excuse me, am I talking to a parrot?" Snape stood up, limping toward Anthony's seat. Somehow, even in this state, he appeared condescending and threatening.
He suddenly leaned close to Anthony. "You know what I'm talking about, Anthony. Why don't you dare sit farther from the fireplace? Temperature dropping? The desire to explore life and death secrets gnawing at your bones?" Malicious light flashed in his eyes. "I didn't have to warn you... I'd love to see Dumbledore's expression. But I've had enough."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Have you really not drunk some... I don't know, Babbling Beverage?" Anthony set down his teacup, frowning as he increased the distance between them slightly. "To answer your question, Snape, on Halloween I was in my office. I didn't go anywhere."
"In your office?" Snape repeated with a cold laugh. "Doing what?"
Anthony spread his hands. "Well, magical experiments, you know. We might even be doing the same experiment."
He didn't know what he'd said wrong, but Snape suddenly showed a satisfied sneer. "Exactly right, Anthony. The same experiment."
"Listen, I don't know what madness you're having," Anthony declared. "I have nothing to do with that troll."
Snape nodded. "Well said. Nothing to do with the magizoologist you met through Pomona either, nothing to do with that oaf Hagrid. Already got the answers you needed, have you?"
"Listen to yourself, Snape," Anthony said bluntly, his own temper rising. "Unless you tell me that troll was the Basilisk's escape rations, you'd better get a psychiatric checkup—I don't know if St. Mungo's has that department, but I can recommend several well-reviewed Muggle hospitals."
Snape asked inscrutably, "Basilisk?"
"So glad you still seem to understand human speech, Snape," Anthony said. "If you've noticed, my office is right next to a crying student ghost. Has it occurred to you, even for a moment, how she died?"
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