"Thirty-nine fairy wings, one pint of dragon's blood, three ounces of dragon liver, two jars of eel's eyes, five Bicorn horns, a flask of beetle eyes, a bottle of Murtlap Essence…" Snape recited slowly, his eyes scanning a long sheet of parchment. "Ah, and a barrel of Horned Toads."
"Just to remind you, I picked up every single one of those toads," Anthony said sarcastically from his seat.
Snape nodded curtly. "Indeed. And I then spent three times as long cleaning the barrel, as Horned Toads contaminated with Murtlap Essence are highly toxic and corrosive, having lost all other potioneering properties."
"Ah, well then," Anthony said, a corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile for Dumbledore, who returned it.
Only a few minutes earlier, Snape had stalked into the Headmaster's office, a hesitant Anthony trailing behind him. Dumbledore, who had been writing a letter, looked up with a welcoming smile, but before he could speak, Snape slapped the parchment onto the desk and began his recitation.
Now, Snape stood ignoring the chair Dumbledore had conjured, interspersing his list with lectures on the rarity and incalculable worth of certain ingredients. Anthony, meanwhile, had sunk into his own chair, rolling a Lemon Drop Dumbledore had given him between his fingers. He sometimes shook his head to mutter a rebuttal, but mostly just listened.
Silver instruments hummed on their spindly legs. High on a cabinet, Fawkes clutched the Sorting Hat in one talon, cocking his head as he examined the frayed fabric. His plumage burned a richer, deeper red than Anthony remembered. When Anthony glanced up, the phoenix turned its back, focusing intently on pecking the hat's brim.
"A moment, please," Dumbledore interjected softly. "What happened—no, I've heard your account, Severus. I'd like to hear Henry's perspective."
Snape's expression darkened. "Of course, Headmaster. Since my testimony lacks sufficient credibility." He gave a mockingly slight bow.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, the word both a sigh and a warning.
"Well… I suppose whatever Professor Snape told you," Anthony began, "at least some of it is true. So, yes. I broke his hourglass. And I ruined those materials."
Snape's lips curled. "Ha. You heard him, Headmaster."
"I am surprised, Henry," Dumbledore said, his tone gentle. "But the other parts? That you were irritable, arrogant, interfering with Severus's research, and wasted his potions in a fit of pique…"
Anthony shook his head.
"…and deliberately engaged in large-scale destruction of potion materials, refusing to apologize."
"Ah. That part." Anthony met his gaze squarely. "That's true, sir."
Dumbledore watched him with keen interest, steepling his long fingers. Snape dragged a chair over and sat, his posture rigid.
"And what reason do you offer in your defense?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes never leaving Anthony's face.
"Well… you know Professor Snape isn't particularly skilled at friendly conversation. He's exceptionally good at provoking people." Anthony stared straight ahead, refusing to glance at the Potions Master. "He said some things that made me angry." He paused. "Very angry."
Dumbledore's eyes flicked to Snape, but he remained silent.
Anthony continued. "Until he apologizes for what he said, I won't apologize for this. I agree it's a significant loss. A waste. But considering I managed to control myself this time—" A derisive snort came from Snape's direction. "Mostly managed to control myself… I'd call that progress."
"What did you say, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, his expression hardening.
Snape hesitated. Dumbledore gazed at him over his half-moon spectacles. Finally, Snape said, his voice dry as dust, "I asked him why he never considered resurrecting his grandfather."
"Is that accurate, Henry?" Dumbledore's voice was low.
"Part of it." Anthony drew a long breath. "Let me say it. We were talking. My grandfather came up. And then—then Snape accused my grief of being mere posturing. His evidence? That I hadn't considered the question. I told him to stop. I was already… It was a warning. He didn't take it."
Dumbledore held up a hand. "That's enough, Henry. I understand. Is this correct, Severus?"
Snape must have nodded, for Dumbledore's face settled into a mask of profound disapproval.
"Severus. I believe you owe an apology."
"Oh, do I? For asking a question?" Snape's voice was ice. "Merlin's beard. A necromancer walks into Hogwarts. His companions? A cat, a rat, and a chicken. No humans. I'm astonished no one else has spared a moment to wonder. I didn't even ask, 'Tell me, did you murder your grandfather?' or 'Have you got the family skeletons stashed in your office cupboard?'…"
"You call that asking?" Anthony repeated, his tone strange. Snape fell silent.
"If that's your idea of an inquiry, Snape, I pity everyone you've ever 'inquired' of. What were your words?" Anthony heard himself speak, each syllable crisp and clear. "'Merely posturing.' 'Dear Granddad, so sorry, but the wild dogs ate your bones—'"
He stopped, taking another deep breath. A wave of profound weariness crashed over him. Maybe he shouldn't have come to Hogwarts today. Maybe he shouldn't have come at all.
He felt Dumbledore's gaze on him from across the desk. Anthony didn't meet it. Instead, he focused on a plume of white smoke coiling from a silver instrument.
The office windows were sealed shut. The smoke drifted lazily, curling through the still air. Anthony wondered why his own breathing sounded so loud, for a moment drowning out even Dumbledore's and Snape's.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice grave. "I am… disappointed."
Snape sat perfectly still, his face pale.
Dumbledore turned back to Anthony. "I am sorry, Henry. Truly, deeply sorry."
Anthony shook his head. "Not your fault, sir."
"Might I have a word with Severus alone?" Dumbledore asked, sliding a large handful of assorted sweets onto Anthony's lap.
Anthony murmured his thanks, swept the candies unceremoniously into his pocket, and pushed his chair back to stand.
"If you wish to go home, Henry, I understand completely," Dumbledore said to his retreating back. "But should you still be willing to join me for tea later—"
"I will," Anthony promised without turning. "I'll be by the lake, feeding the squid."
"I am grateful."
Anthony sat by the Black Lake, staring at the water, a flicker of absurdity passing through him. He'd forgotten the bread.
But he didn't want to get up again. It was still the holidays. Only a handful of professors remained, and in his experience, they stayed inside the castle. No one would come out here.
His skeletal cat was probably trying to gnaw the cork out of a wine bottle back home. If it was the second bottle, the wraith chicken would swoop in to peck its skull. They'd tussle and knock the spectral rat's apple to the floor.
Waves lapped against the stones. Anthony tossed a pebble, watching it plop into the dark water. He remembered a teacher, years ago, talking about gravity.
That's where tides come from, she'd said. Not from whales rolling over. From the moon. The sun. Universal gravitation.
He threw another stone, watching its arc. The giant squid, perhaps curious about the disturbance, surfaced lazily. A single tentacle rose, probing the air.
"I was hoping I might find you here, Henry."
Anthony pressed the smoothest stone he could find, cold and wet, into the squid's waiting tentacle. Then he scrambled to his feet.
"Professor Dumbledore…"
Dumbledore waved away the formalities with a look. "I must apologize, Henry. I deliberately placed Severus on this project. I did not foresee… this."
Anthony made a noncommittal noise. 'This'? What exactly was 'this'?
Even if Dumbledore felt guilty, Anthony doubted the man considered seventeen hundred Galleons a crippling loss. Unless the next words were about Hogwarts' imminent bankruptcy, followed by a suggestion to cut Snape's funding and a request for Anthony's immediate resignation.
"He will not disturb your research again without your express consent," Dumbledore said, his tone firm. "And if you are willing to trust me once more, Henry, I will be the one to discuss the entire process with you. Every ritual detail. Every curse employed.
"You need not set foot in his office again. We can find a location more convenient for you… I am reasonably adept at Apparition."
As Dumbledore laid out each point, Anthony's confusion grew.
He had expected Dumbledore to extract an apology from Snape. He was prepared to cover perhaps half the damages.
Given that he, and not some mutual bottle-throwing duel, had been solely responsible for the destruction, he'd even worried that splitting it fifty-fifty might be letting him off too lightly.
But now, Dumbledore was acting as if Snape had screamed in his face and tried to strangle him with a Boomslang skin.
"However, I fear we will still require his expertise for the unicorn blood simulation. I am no Potions Master, Henry. Nor, I suspect, are you."
Perfect. Snape must have strangled him. That was the only explanation.
"I… I don't understand," Anthony said, wondering how one strangled a man who didn't need to breathe.
A faint smile touched Dumbledore's lips, as if he'd followed the thought. He fell into step beside Anthony as they walked back toward the castle.
"Now, the kitchens? Or elsewhere?" Dumbledore asked.
"Sorry, what?"
"Kitchens or elsewhere," Dumbledore repeated patiently. "It is teatime, Henry."
"Would you come to my office?" Anthony thought for a moment. "I believe I have at least four boxes of Coconut Ice left."
Dumbledore's smile widened. "That would be perfect."
Anthony pushed a teacup toward Dumbledore. Only now did he realize how utterly bizarre it was to have the Headmaster in his office. Dumbledore sitting in the guest chair only amplified the strangeness.
"You'll cover the entire cost of the materials? But—"
"Because I was the one who placed you and Severus in the same office," Dumbledore said gently. "The responsibility is mine. I should have anticipated this."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I truly don't understand why this is the outcome." Anthony took a sip of his tea.
It was a herbal blend from Professor Sprout, somewhat stale now. Not as good as the fresh pots they shared in the staff room during term. Snape was the only one who seemed incapable of appreciating it, sipping his plain black tea with a pinched expression while everyone else praised Sprout's gardens.
"Because I know Severus," Dumbledore said simply, as if that explained everything.
Anthony thought of Snape's accusation again. Stripped of its venom and insinuation, he might have admitted the question held a sliver of logic.
"I thought about it," Anthony said abruptly, the words coming unbidden. "Before I was… this. A necromancer. I thought about how wonderful it would be if they could come back. They were good people. They deserved more time."
"Like any Muggle, I'd wonder: if time could reverse; if I found a magic lamp with three wishes; if I had magic, could I speak to them just once more…"
Dumbledore's teacup rattled softly against its saucer. He glanced down, surprised, and placed it carefully back on the desk.
"Ever heard of a Ouija board?" Anthony asked. "I tried one. Walked into a shop, told the owner I wanted one to play with. The rule is, you're not supposed to use it alone. But I thought, to hell with it. Who else would my grandparents want to see?"
"And?"
"The planchette didn't move. Maybe there was a party on the other side and they were busy. Maybe their hearing's gone. Maybe I just bought a fancy dish tray that claims it can talk to ghosts."
Dumbledore was silent.
"I moved the planchette to 'Goodbye'… Felt like hanging up on a call that never got answered." Anthony shrugged. "Tried a few more times. Same result. Maybe my hands are too steady. I told myself, one day I'll visit the other side. Then I'll know."
"But you came back," Dumbledore said softly.
"Yeah. Because Death loves me. Or hates me." Anthony sounded tired. "I was this close—" He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, a tiny gap between them. "This close to being properly dead. But Death decided to play golf that day. Took a swing and sent me right back."
"Golf…" Dumbledore murmured, thoughtful.
"No. Forget it. It's a metaphor. I don't know what happened. But I came back. Not a ghost. Not an Inferius." Anthony sighed. "Back to the question. I thought about it, back when I didn't know what Death was. Because I'm selfish. I thought having them nearby would make me feel better. I needed them. They didn't need me."
He drifted for a moment. Dumbledore waited.
"I don't think about it anymore," Anthony said, his tone final. He lifted his cup. The tea had gone cold.
He saw Dumbledore's raised eyebrow and managed a small smile. "I won't tell you what Death looks like with the veil lifted, Professor. Remember? Don't blow out the candles before your birthday."
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