The weather grew hotter each day. Summer had fully arrived. Every room felt stifling. Less than halfway through class, Anthony noticed students were drenched in sweat and irritable. Wide-open windows brought no relief—even the occasional breeze carried a stuffy, humid smell. Even the Weasley twins had no energy, just sprawling on their desks, pushing a ball of scrap paper back and forth, pretending to play ball.
Anthony stopped. After several seconds of silence, students who'd been listlessly scribbling notes realized something and looked up at him.
"Too hot, isn't it?" Anthony asked a student in the first row. He really wasn't very sensitive to temperature anymore.
"Yeah, this bloody weather," Angelina said listlessly. "Never mind, Professor, keep going. It's like this every year." She glanced at Anthony, who didn't have a single drop of sweat, and sighed.
Anthony considered. "If you don't mind, should we move class to evening?"
"I have Astronomy at night, Professor," another student said.
"All right then," Anthony said. "How about this—we finish class quickly, then you can rush to the Great Hall for the first batch of ice cream. Sound good?"
Fred drawled: "Better."
George said: "But not much."
"Professor Anthony, tell us something new," a student requested. "Tell us about Muggles—how do they handle summer?"
"I know, they send themselves to the moon," another student said dully, drawing a simple rocket on the airplane illustration in the textbook, right on the stick-figure Muggle pilot's helmet. "Then it's only night. Ha, clever Muggles! And we wizards sit in little rooms learning how well they live without magic."
Her seatmate said reasonably: "That must be very expensive."
"Right," the student thought for a moment. "Poor Muggles can go to the stars."
Anthony listened in amazement, wondering if magical astronomy differed greatly from Muggle astronomy too. If his memory wasn't confused, most stars seemed to be things similar to the sun. But students would soon face their Astronomy finals too. Anthony didn't intend to scramble their brains, especially not on such a sweltering afternoon.
Before students could devise a method to stuff themselves into refrigerators, Anthony interrupted their discussion.
He said: "Muggles use methods similar to yours—opening windows, drinking cold beverages, eating ice cream, reducing daytime activities, and of course, long endurance, very, very long endurance... Except for one thing—electric fans." He inevitably recalled those days eating ice cream while blowing electric fans, and said somewhat nostalgically: "Like the refrigerators you just mentioned, that's also an electrical appliance that can continuously produce wind."
He could see students imagining a giant feather fan tirelessly waving under electrical power.
"Some of you have seen them," Anthony prompted, scanning the slowly focusing students. "When we visited the pet rescue center, some people asked me what that 'iron flower in a cage' in the corner was—"
Some exclaimed in realization, while others still looked confused.
The Weasley twins started quietly discussing their future owl (they'd decided to call it Erol), and Angelina—whose practical activity had been postponed to next term—couldn't bear it anymore. She slammed her chair backward. The twins' desk shook violently. Both brothers, who'd been talking with their heads on the desk, nearly bit their tongues.
"Angelina," Fred groaned.
"You deserved it," Angelina said, but moved her chair back anyway. She looked up, met Anthony's eyes, and smiled sheepishly.
Anthony decided to ignore this small incident and continued: "It's hard to describe what it looks like through words alone, so there's a multiple-choice question on the exam asking you to select which one doesn't use electricity. Among those pictures—besides refrigerator, television, electric light, telephone, and the correct answer, airplane—the remaining one labeled 'for summer cooling' is the electric fan."
He looked at students' bright eyes and smiled. "You can pay attention to that electric fan then."
Stebbins said: "Professor, can you repeat that? Refrigerator, television, electric fan, and airplane—what else?"
Anthony said: "One can only let something slip once."
For the remaining half of class, students were noticeably more enthusiastic. They all stared at Anthony, hoping he'd "let slip" another exam question, but after reviewing key points, Anthony cheerfully announced class was dismissed.
"Professor Anthony, do you want to chat more?" Stebbins said eagerly. "Let's talk more about Muggles?"
Anthony said: "You've raised a very large topic, Miss Stebbins. What about Muggles do you want to discuss?"
"Um... Muggles'..." Stebbins elbowed her seatmate, signaling for help.
Her seatmate read from the textbook title: "Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles."
Anthony laughed. "Good question. I think this question deserves a whole book, don't you? If such a book existed, I'd be very willing to read it carefully several times. I'd even base exam questions on its content."
He closed his book, packed it away, and walked to the door under students' disappointed gazes.
"By the way, a tip—Florean has provided Hogwarts with a batch of chocolate nut ice cream. I hear it's coming tonight," Anthony said.
Another piece of news was that the house-elves were very displeased with the ice cream shop owner's eagerness—tomorrow Hogwarts' tables would probably feature about twenty flavors of ice cream. But no need to tell students that.
Anthony strolled out of the classroom amid the sounds of students frantically packing their bags.
...
Another week passed. Even Anthony could feel summer's temperature now. Every evening he left his window wide open, reading while feeling the evening breeze's temperature gradually drop. Only when his cat jumped through the window would he rescue his parchment from its sharp claws, close the window, draw the curtains, and stroke the ginger cat's cold fur, asking aloud where it had been today.
After learning it and the wraith rat had fought Voldemort to protect his office, Anthony—feeling guilty for wrongly suspecting them—added many things to the room: a patchwork cat bed modeled after Fang's bed, plenty of white wine, a hamster wheel, several of the reddest, prettiest apples from the supermarket, and a small apple tree.
However, that apple tree withered one night when he had nightmares. And Anthony discovered his Necromancy apparently didn't understand what an "apple tree Inferius" was, much less summon any apple tree skeleton or wraith.
Compared to the cat bed, the ginger cat preferred his pillow or the foot of his bed. The second after Anthony placed it in the cat bed, it jumped out, shaking its fur in disgust.
The wraith rat, however, adored that cat bed, so it had become its daytime hangout. It hid all its apples deep in the cat bed. Anthony secretly worried it would mold someday.
One evening, just as the cat squeezed through the window, a tawny owl flapped over. Anthony rewarded the messenger with the cat's colorful fish treats. Under the cat's gloomy stare, the owl pecked at the treats briefly, then flew away disdainfully.
The letter was from Hagrid. It contained just one simple sentence: "About to hatch."
...
It was past curfew. No one was around. Anthony parted from Nearly Headless Nick at the castle entrance, then walked along the quiet path toward Hagrid's hut.
Wildly growing grass blades brushed his calves. Insect chirping stopped for a moment as he passed, then resumed vigorously after his footsteps faded. Anthony heard several toads chorusing in the grass. He glanced over, remembering he'd heard this afternoon that Mr. Longbottom was looking for his Trevor again.
Anthony knocked. A rough voice immediately came from behind the door: "Who is it?"
"Hagrid, it's me," Anthony said. "I got your letter."
The door opened. The moment Hagrid saw him, his face broke into a huge smile.
"You're late, Henry," he said, impatiently pulling Anthony inside. "Come, look quickly."
His curtains were tightly drawn, the door locked, only a few lamps lit. The copper kettle with the burned-through bottom sat in the middle of his table, wrapped in a boldly patterned knitted cozy. The lid kept being pushed up. From the sound, the baby dragon probably had a very hard head.
"Very lively, isn't it?" Hagrid said proudly. "In the teapot, I almost missed the moment it broke shell. If I hadn't heard this kettle rattling and looked carefully, I wouldn't have found that crack... By the time I finished writing you, the shell was almost completely broken... Such strength, can't wait to see this world, right?"
He pulled Anthony to the teapot, proudly unfastening the clasp on top. A wrinkled, blackish little creature immediately poked out its head. It glared with orange-red eyes, surveying the two people surrounding it with malice, then its hind legs could no longer support it standing. With a clang, it tumbled back into the copper kettle.
The kettle immediately filled with harsh scraping sounds and ominous creaking. Anthony looked in—the dragon's claws scraped at the charred black chunks on the kettle wall, trying to flap its not-yet-grown wings. The copper kettle made strange sounds, as if its belly contained eight hundred metal moths.
"It's cute, isn't it?" Hagrid said, his voice softening. He reached out, wanting to lift the baby dragon from the teapot.
The wrinkled hatchling sniffed Hagrid's extended finger with its long black nose, sneezed, and sprayed out several sparks.
"Oh, healthy, very healthy!" Hagrid said delightedly, then the dragon bit his finger. He carefully lifted this strange thing from the kettle. The dragon's wings fluttered anxiously, its neck stretched long, biting tightly without letting go, dangling from Hagrid's finger. Anthony couldn't help thinking of his grandfather fishing.
Contact with the world outside the teapot made the newborn very uneasy. Hagrid cupped it in both hands, placed it on the table, softly calling "little darling," but the first thing the baby dragon wanted was to return to its dark teapot. It wobbled and flapped on the table, hooking the knitted cozy on the copper kettle with tiny claws.
Even though the weather was so hot Fang was panting—the big dog now pressed tightly against the wall, whimpering softly—for a dragon, an English summer night might still be too cold. The baby dragon made several climbing attempts, shook its head, and gave a tiny sneeze. Several sparks sprayed from its nostrils, igniting the dragon egg pattern on the cozy. Soon the teapot cozy blazed. In the firelight was a tattered teapot, with a dragon looking longingly at the copper kettle beside it.
"No, no, that's a teapot," Hagrid said. "Come here, Mummy's here."
The hatchling turned to look at the chattering big fellow, then resolutely tried climbing back into the teapot. Hagrid put his hand in front of it and got bitten again.
"Good boy, that's right, this is Mummy," Hagrid said lovingly, casually brushing off the black ash from the burned yarn. "See, Henry, it recognizes Mummy."
"I think it almost took the teapot for Mummy," Anthony said reasonably.
"Nonsense," Hagrid said, lowering his head to coax the baby dragon. "Oh, oh, I'll take good care of you."
The baby dragon sneezed again, setting his beard on fire.
Anthony said: "Since it's hatched, you can tell the Headmaster now, can't you?"
Hagrid turned a deaf ear. "You're still too young, can't give you food yet... The book says to wait a day. You must be good, be well-behaved, and after one day I'll feed you right away... Brandy's ready, chicken blood will be the freshest. You'll grow up healthy and happy..."
"Hagrid!" Anthony said. "You must tell Dumbledore."
Hagrid muttered: "I think Dumbledore already knows... Nothing at school can be hidden from Dumbledore."
"Whether he already knows and whether you tell him are two different things," Anthony said. "You need some protection. I can't help you with this—if I tell him, it becomes reporting. You must tell Dumbledore yourself."
Hagrid said dismissively: "What protection?" He was examining the baby dragon's spiky wings.
"Protection so you orphan and widow won't be bullied by the Ministry," Anthony said.
Hagrid agreed perfunctorily, humming a lullaby. The baby dragon was furiously biting his beard.
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