Dumbledore walked with him to the edge of Hogsmeade. They talked about nothing in particular: the way the merpeople lived in the Black Lake, the new products at Honeydukes, the application process for visiting the Romanian dragon sanctuary.
They didn't walk fast, but the summer days were absurdly long. Even past seven in the evening, the sun still shone on the rooftops of the magical village, painting the smoke drifting from the chimneys a warm, lazy gold.
The street wasn't as crowded as it was on Hogsmeade weekends during the school year, but it was still lively. The smell of freshly baked bread hung in the air. A group of kids were huddled in a corner, secretly dividing a bag of Fizzing Whizzbees. A carriage clopped past, its horses moving with a strange, prancing gait, trotting lightly down the lane.
The distant murmur of conversations drifted from the street. Dumbledore stopped at the edge of the woods. "About what happened today…"
"You don't need to apologize, Professor." Anthony cut him off before he could start. "It truly has nothing to do with you. As for Snape, I still insist on an apology. He shouldn't have said those things. I shouldn't have broken things. That's all there is to it."
"Your anger was entirely understandable, Henry," Dumbledore said softly.
"You don't understand, Professor." Anthony shook his head. "I can be angry. But I cannot act on that anger."
"Then perhaps you deserve to be proud of yourself, Henry. I'm glad to see you didn't do anything truly regrettable in your anger… oh, breaking a few things hardly counts," Dumbledore said lightly. "I'd say Severus was long overdue for some new supplies. Just the other day, Poppy was complaining to me. Students have been saying the Skele-Gro potion hurts more than it used to in recent years, but her brewing technique hasn't changed at all."
Anthony was silent for a moment. Dumbledore looked at him gently through his half-moon spectacles, perched on his crooked nose.
"But…" Anthony hesitated. He was debating whether he should be honest with Dumbledore about how terrifying he could be when he lost control.
He had hinted to Dumbledore that he could tear a soul from its body with ease—and he was fairly certain Dumbledore had understood the hint. But he'd never mentioned the step that came after. He'd never mentioned the feeding. His hints to Dumbledore made it sound like he just plucked the soul out, waved it goodbye, and sent it on its merry way.
But he remembered. Coming out of the grave, forgetting he was even human. The hunger. The raw want for another's soul. Opening his mouth. Pushing it down his throat. The frozen terror on another human's face. His own utter indifference.
He remembered Quirrell—Voldemort—telling him he was just pretending. That he was cold.
He remembered coming perilously close to smashing not potions ingredients, but Snape himself.
And then, suddenly, he remembered the Bloody Baron. That hollow-eyed, bloodstained Slytherin ghost who'd once warned him. When anger burned behind your temples… that's when necromancy is happiest. It could drive you to terrible things. And the worst part, you only realized it afterwards, was that you could rarely take them back.
But in that moment, the sheer power made you think you could do anything.
The Baron's hoarse whisper echoed in his memory: 'He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear his hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear…'
…
"But we all know confidence is mankind's greatest enemy," Anthony finished at last. "Compared to smashing Snape's entire stockroom, I'd much rather never lose control again. Or even come close. I don't dare to be confident that I'll be this lucky next time…" He shrugged. "Or that he will be."
Dumbledore smiled and said nothing more.
"Oh, Professor," Anthony said, suddenly remembering. "One more question. Well…"
"Ask away."
"You said you purposely let Snape join this project. What did you mean by that? I admit he's probably the best person to study unicorn blood, but aside from that…" He shook his head.
"Ah, that…" Dumbledore seemed to pause. "It was an oversight on my part, Henry. I truly didn't consider he was still clinging to such… a desperate hope after all this time."
"What hope?"
"A person. Someone who should not have died," Dumbledore said. "Severus wishes for that person to return. And necromancy is one of the magics that most resembles resurrection to date."
For a moment, Anthony found it utterly absurd. He couldn't help himself. "He could have tried asking me. I guarantee the atmosphere would have been far more pleasant."
"And if he had asked you?" Dumbledore inquired. "What would you have told him?"
Anthony thought about it. A breeze rustled through the leaves overhead.
"Very difficult. Some of those books on soul theory in the Hogwarts library are brilliant," he finally said. "If we actually asked, I think any of the authors would say it's nearly impossible."
"Nearly?"
Anthony pointed at himself.
"Ah, yes." Dumbledore chuckled.
"And, to be honest, I don't think that person—whoever he or she was—would want to be brought back," Anthony said thoughtfully. "Not that I regret or resent being brought back myself. 'If only I'd stayed properly dead' or anything like that. No. I'm just saying others might not appreciate the option."
Just then, a young witch floated out of the village, a mysterious smile on her face. Her blonde hair looked dirty, tangled as if she'd never heard of a hairbrush. A long-haired man followed her, looking equally peculiar.
"Are those Nargles?" the little girl asked in a dreamy voice, peering towards the woods where Anthony and Dumbledore stood.
"Oh, yes," the man said, also glancing their way. "We won't go that way. Best not to get them tangled about you."
He led the girl in the opposite direction. They climbed over someone's garden wall, marched straight through a vegetable patch, scaled a tree, hopped onto a roof, and slid down the tiles out of Anthony's sight.
A white ferret poked its head out of a clump of grass. It looked left, then right. Then it shot past Anthony's feet and vanished into the undergrowth.
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