Anthony didn't sleep well all night.
Rain hammered the windows. Lightning tore through the sky. Midnight—a thunderclap like an explosion startled the Wraith Mouse. The mouse shot straight into the patchwork cat bed storing five apples, woke the cat sprawled on top. Cat and mouse fought. Knocked over the coat rack. Coat rack hit the storage cabinet. Cabinet slammed his headboard. The trunk on top slid right onto his bed. Landed on Anthony.
"All right, all right." Anthony sat up, fumbled under his pillow for his wand. "Reparo."
Second half of the night: the mouse insisted on hiding in his freezing sheets. The cat wanted wine. Anthony had to pour some into the food bowl for the yowling undead creature. Got the mouse an apple.
Wind howled outside his window. Glass rattled constantly. Anthony held up his glowing wand, lit the lamp, prepared once more for the upcoming phone interviews.
Fortunately, when dawn broke outside, the rain finally eased. The sun floated out from the clouds. The air carried that distinctive post-thunderstorm smell.
Roberts arrived at Anthony's office door right on time. Looked like he hadn't slept either.
Completely on edge. Kept asking Anthony if his prepared answers had any flaws. Nearly slipped in the muddy path.
Anthony assured him he was more than ready. Roberts still asked anxiously: "Do Muggles feed cats dried rat meat?"
"Uh... I don't know," Anthony said. "I think you just say 'cat food.' If they press—which I doubt—you can say 'I'll consult a veterinarian to find the most suitable food for my pet's condition' or something. Basically, ask the vet about everything."
"Ask the vet about everything," Roberts repeated seriously.
"You remember what a vet is, right? I recall you wrote the definition on your exam."
"Muggles opened hospitals for their pets," Roberts said. "Vets are humans who work in pet hospitals. Healers for pets."
"Exactly. Probably similar to magical creature experts or pet shop employees in the wizarding world."
Roberts laughed. "If the Owlery owls got sick, I don't think Professor Kettleburn would want to climb all those stairs."
After getting his Apparition license, this was Anthony's first time taking someone along. He told Roberts to grip his arm tightly. Roberts looked like he was considering whether they should just walk forty minutes through the soggy wilderness.
Anthony grabbed Roberts' arm in return. "Ready. Three—two—one—"
They spun. Anthony felt that familiar compression. Roberts clutched his arm with nearly enough force to tear a hole in his robes. The moment the scenery stopped spinning, Roberts went pale, apologized, collapsed miserably onto the inn's shabby little bed.
Anthony surveyed the room he'd booked. It had that particular moldy smell of old houses.
Only one window. Tattered curtains let through weak light, casting a dim glow on the cracked wooden floor. Faded floral wallpaper peeled at the edges. Brown-green water stains crept up from the corners. The nearly bald carpet was dull. The bed springs creaked. Roberts lay on it, fighting the nausea from Apparition.
The phone sat on the wooden nightstand. Plastic cord tangled. Keys yellowed. The numbers "3" and "6" almost completely worn off.
Roberts rolled over, saw the phone. "Oh, push-button. Have Muggles really stopped using rotary dials, Professor? I loved that clicking sound."
"Some places might still use them, but most are push-button," Anthony said. "Much more convenient than rotary."
"But rotary dials are really interesting," Roberts insisted. "I hope they keep using rotary phones."
"All right, Mr. Roberts," Anthony said. "There are two ways to Apparate. One is what we just experienced. The other is... let's say a genius wizard invents an improved version twenty years from now. It skips all the concentration, spinning, compression, twisting. You just close your eyes, wait a bit, open them—you're there. If both methods were equally easy to learn, which would you choose?"
"The second one." Roberts wound his finger around the phone cord. "All right. I get it."
"You can still see rotary phones in some places. Museums will definitely keep them," Anthony said. "And if you really love rotary dials, visit the Ministry of Magic visitor's entrance. Just pretend you forgot the magic number. I think you could dial for hours there."
Anthony tried calling his own home, confirmed the line worked. Roberts spoke a few sentences into the receiver. Anthony told him he didn't need to shout.
They sat in the inn, staring at the possibly-inaccurate clock until the appointed time. Roberts jumped up immediately, fumbled with the phone and the string of numbers Anthony had written down, pressed each key carefully. Anthony saw his hands trembling slightly—like if he pressed wrong, this old phone would turn into a Norwegian Ridgeback egg.
The shelter employee sounded like a man in his thirties. Asked Roberts a few casual questions, then laughed. "No need to be so nervous, Mr. Roberts. Just think of this as a casual chat."
"O—okay," Roberts said.
He must have been too nervous. When asked "I notice you're doing the phone interview for your mother—Ms. Roberts is in... London, but you're at school in Scotland, correct? If you adopt a cat, who would primarily care for it?" Roberts stammered: "I don't know, I'll ask the vet... uh, ask him who he suggests should care for the cat."
"The vet?" The shelter man sounded surprised. "All right."
After hanging up, Roberts turned to Anthony, face ashen. "I messed up, didn't I, Professor Anthony?"
"No, you answered very well," Anthony said admiringly. "Nothing I needed to remind you about. You handled it excellently. I think I can congratulate you early."
"No, I said 'vet,'" Roberts said anxiously. "Why did I think of that word? I should have just told him we'd have Mum care for the cat. Or Dad. I should have said someone in London, right? But I said vet!"
"Relax, Roberts. Relax," Anthony said. "Deep breath. It's fine. You didn't mess up. He said 'see you next time' before hanging up—that's a good sign. He was impressed with your answers."
"But I said 'vet'! I sounded like an idiot!"
"You sounded like an anxious, nervous owner," Anthony said. "You sounded like you care deeply about this cat. Like you really want this opportunity. That matters."
Even after Anthony repeatedly assured him the interview went fine, before Apparating again, Roberts asked quietly: "What if just because I said one wrong thing, Isabella can't be my cat? Will someone else adopt her? I don't want... don't want her to die in the shelter. I already feel like she's my cat."
"Isabella will be your cat. She'll be a happy cat," Anthony joked. "And if the shelter actually rejects a sincere, well-qualified adopter like you, I'll send them a complaint letter. Then sneak into the shop at midnight and steal your Isabella out."
"Does stealing cats violate the Statute of Secrecy?" Roberts asked seriously.
"Well... strictly speaking, it doesn't necessarily violate the Statute of Secrecy, but might violate the Muggle Protection Act," Anthony said. "I'm joking. Please definitely don't steal cats, Mr. Roberts."
He counted to three. Spun. Roberts, about to say something, immediately shut his mouth, eyes squeezed tight, didn't discuss Anthony's ill-timed joke further.
For a full week, Anthony accompanied students to phone interviews.
A few students' answers confused the shelters. Anthony went to London to accompany them for home visits. Once, a teacup nearly ran right up to a visiting employee. But the family's husband was quick—pushed it to the floor. The wife stomped on it. Shattered it completely.
"Where were we?" the wife said warmly to the employee searching for the sound's source. "Oh, right, the yard. We have a very large yard. Would you like to see it?"
After all interviews ended, Ms. Howard quickly sent Anthony the approved adopter list. Except for two students who withdrew midway, all adoption applications passed. Anthony asked each house's prefects to share the good news with students—they could go to London to pick up their pets.
Everyone was thrilled. Even though this was also the day they got their final grades, they still chatted happily with friends about their upcoming pets.
"I only got a P in Herbology," Fred said. "But who cares? We're getting a new owl! Errol's retiring!"
He and George folded their report cards into paper airplanes, circling above the Gryffindor table. Their grades—mostly A's—floated in the air. Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together, staring at them, looking like she really wanted those paper planes to drop into their oatmeal.
After the Ravenclaw-Gryffindor Quidditch match, Roger Davies' injuries finally showed their first obvious improvement. The swelling on his body began receding. His voice wasn't so hoarse anymore.
Perhaps because Ravenclaw had been disrupted so much in the match against Slytherin, they played very cautiously this time. When Gryffindor's Seeker Harry Potter dove straight down, Ravenclaw hesitated—seemed worried it was a feint. By the time their Seeker also spotted the Snitch, too late.
Harry caught the Golden Snitch. Ravenclaw won the Quidditch Cup. Both houses on the field were happy.
Roger Davies was happy too. Madam Pomfrey finally allowed him to eat normal food.
So when Anthony stepped into the hospital wing, he saw a Ravenclaw devouring a huge plate of bacon and sausages. A glass of iced pumpkin juice sat on the bedside table.
"Good to see you've recovered your spirits, Mr. Davies," Anthony said, nodding at Tracy sitting by Roger's bed.
"Mmph, Professor Anthony." Roger struggled to swallow the food in his mouth. "I'm happy too."
"Any plans for the holiday?" Anthony asked.
As far as he knew, Hogwarts had tried contacting Roger's father when he was injured. Still hadn't received any response. Roger's condition had improved, but the healers all recommended he stay at Hogwarts.
"I might become the first student in Hogwarts history to stay at school during summer," Roger said. He glanced at Tracy beside him. "You could be the second."
"I can't," Tracy said. "I applied, but the school didn't approve. So I still have to go back to that house."
"If you want, you could go to the Weasleys'," Roger said. "Before I got hurt, the Weasley brothers invited me. They said the Weasleys have gnomes and a ghoul. And Mrs. Weasley loves hosting guests—she'll stuff mashed potatoes and peas down your throat. Sounds like heaven, doesn't it?"
Tracy made a disgusted face. "Their whole family's boys."
"No, they have a little sister," Roger said. "The youngest. I forget her name. She's coming to Hogwarts next year... I hope you make some friends, Trace. The Weasleys are warm, cheerful people." He looked at his sister worriedly.
"Don't call me Trace," Tracy said. "And I have friends. Pansy Parkinson is my very, very good friend."
"What did you say, Tracy?" Roger asked, surprised. His plate tilted. Nearly rolled a sausage off. "Who are you talking about?"
"Pansy. Pansy Parkinson." Tracy glanced at Anthony, enunciated clearly, smiled. "I'm even thinking of inviting her to our house this summer."
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