Anthony soon left to prepare for the next day's lessons, which meant he missed all the excitement. He didn't hear about it until the next morning—Harry had never made it to Lupin.
Snape had apparently run into the "suspicious person loitering without cause at Hogwarts" in a corridor and promptly knocked him out. Lupin hadn't even gotten a full sentence out. By the time Dumbledore and Fudge arrived with a couple of Aurors, Lupin had already been recast as a "dangerous werewolf who infiltrated a school full of underage wizards." He was now locked in a cellar under the watchful eye of the ever-dutiful Potions Master, likely with a very bitter smile on his face.
To Anthony's surprise, even without Dumbledore's witness, the Ministry wasted no time arresting Peter Pettigrew. Furthermore, Fudge assured Dumbledore a trial would be arranged promptly to clear Sirius Black's name.
"Not surprising at all," Professor Burbage said, spreading a thick layer of jam on her toast. "Our Minister is probably thrilled for everyone to know. Think about it. Bartemius Crouch sent an innocent Sirius Black to Azkaban without a trial. Eleven years. That's a colossal mistake."
Understanding dawned on Anthony. "And Minister Fudge is, of course, deeply regretful…"
Professor Burbage nodded. "And has corrected old Crouch's error, committed to ensuring all cases receive a just verdict."
Professor Flitwick leaned over, concerned. "Has a trial date been set?"
"Not yet, but likely within the next few weeks," Burbage said. "The Wizengamot members have been notified. The Minister seems to want this retrial to be a grand affair."
"You'll be there, Charity?" Flitwick asked.
"Absolutely," Burbage said without hesitation. "If it clashes with my lessons, the students get a pop quiz. The papers are already made—they'd better pray the trial's on a weekend. They're the questions we thought were too tricky for the final exam. I just dug them out the other day."
Anthony cut into his fried egg. "Could I get a copy?"
"No problem at all," Burbage said, smiling.
…
While few students had actually seen Lupin or Pettigrew, rumors still somehow spread like wildfire.
Anthony sometimes overheard them in the corridors, debating whether it was McGonagall or Snape—or both—who had dealt with the mysterious intruder. Once, he even heard Stimson swearing to his friends that he'd seen Snape kill someone, and McGonagall had tossed the body into the Black Lake for the giant squid.
Hagrid heard the news from Harry and came up to the castle to confirm it with Anthony. He got his answer, and Anthony then spent considerably more time calming Hagrid down.
"That traitor! That rat! That scum!" Hagrid roared, slamming a massive fist onto Anthony's desk. Everything on it rattled dangerously. "If I'd known, I'd have had Fang rip that rat to shreds! And what did I do? I fed him my rock cakes!"
"You couldn't have known, Hagrid," Anthony soothed. "If it weren't for Mr. Lupin, no one would have spotted him."
Hagrid paced the room like a caged bear, roaring. "That filthy thing lived in the same dorm as Harry! For over a year! The nerve! Never liked rats, dirty things. Should've fed 'em all to Norbert—"
A faint squeak came from the Wraith Mouse, who was trying its best to look up at the half-giant.
Hagrid didn't hear it. His voice boomed through the office. "Thinkin' of Sirius in Azkaban for eleven years… makes me want to tear that traitor apart! Before I took Harry to his aunt and uncle's, I ran into Sirius. He begged me to hand Harry over, said he'd look after him. I said no—should've talked to him more! He's Harry's godfather! Didn't even get to say goodbye before they threw him in prison!"
"He's Potter's godfather?" Anthony asked.
"'Course he is! James's best friend," Hagrid said, stopping finally. He said it like it was the most obvious fact in the world. "Him and James. Thick as thieves, everyone knew that."
Anthony frowned. "But Potter doesn't seem to know. Even when Minerva told him Sirius Black was his father's good friend, she never mentioned a godfather." He pushed a cup of tea toward Hagrid. "If you're thirsty."
Hagrid hesitated, then slumped into a chair. "Oh, I can understand that," he muttered, downing the tea in one gulp. "Sirius is probably mad by now… No good tellin' Harry he lost a godfather too…"
"Why does everyone think Mr. Black is mad?" Anthony said.
Hagrid's voice grew heavy. "You don't understand, Henry. Eleven years in Azkaban. No one stays sane. No one…" He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.
Anthony stayed silent. He'd only spent one night there, but he was certain. Deep in Azkaban, many prisoners were still lucid. The Dementors didn't affect them as much as people thought. Perhaps he should mention this to McGonagall or Dumbledore.
…
"I must say I'm not entirely surprised," Dumbledore mused thoughtfully. "I've long suspected Dementors affect ordinary people more. Those who are truly cruel… they might not miss their happy memories at all."
Anthony said, "If that's the case, then Mr. Black…"
"Hope, Henry," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "Always hope."
"Alright."
Dumbledore smiled and slid a piece of parchment across the desk. "I was just writing to you, Henry. Go ahead."
Anthony took it, puzzled. "What is it…"
The note was brief, clearly unfinished.
Henry, I hope you're finding Magical Principles understandable. Regardless, the charm mentioned in your last letter has been located. I found it in On Life and Death: A Magical Treatise of the 16th Century (see chapter/page below), though Nicolas evidently believes he has a superior method. Furthermore, I thought you should know, our old friends have arrived early…
"Mr. and Mrs. Flamel are here?" Anthony asked. "When?"
"I don't know," Dumbledore said. "But I received word this morning. They went fishing on Loch Lomond first, then got into a dispute with an osprey. Nicolas, unfortunately, lost the argument. So Perenelle thought to send me a message, requesting I lend them Fawkes."
"What?"
Dumbledore explained, "Despite Nicolas and Perenelle's many talents, their Bird-speak is not particularly fluent. Nicolas always complains they talk too fast." He nodded at Anthony. "I wished to confirm when you might be free to see him."
"Now, sir," Anthony said without hesitation.
Dumbledore's blue eyes shone with pleasure. "As I thought. In that case, let's go."
…
Nicolas Flamel was a man crackling with energy, sporting a neat goatee. He seized Anthony's hand the moment they met and shook it vigorously.
"You must be Henry. I've been wanting to meet you." He looked Anthony up and down, his voice soft yet resonant, still carrying a faint French lilt. He turned. "Sit, Albus, you're too tall."
Dumbledore settled onto a nearby tree stump with an air of perfect leisure. His silver hair and beard swayed gently in the breeze, a smile on his face. Perenelle handed him a grilled fish.
They were by the shore of Loch Lomond. The tent canvas flapped in the cool wind. Fishing rods leaned against a tree; line and a wicker basket of bait lay discarded on the ground. The water was clear, the surroundings utterly quiet and deserted.
"Here, Henry, you sit too," Nicolas said, pulling Anthony down. "These days, a Necromancer is as rare as a proper Alchemist."
Anthony looked down. The ground was padded with a newspaper. In the moving photo, a brooding, muscular wizard on a broomstick stared back at him, a crowd going wild behind him. The headline read: KRUM PULLS THROUGH—AGAIN! Anthony flipped the paper over and sat on Senior Undersecretary Umbridge on Strengthening the Rule of Law: The Path Forward and Obstacles to Overcome.
"Don't say that, Nicolas," Perenelle chided. "We are two Alchemists, and Henry is only one. Two times, Nicolas. A full two times. Your mathematics are truly appalling."
Nicolas scoffed. "Ha! Mathematics. The most useless thing in the world." His sharp eyes flicked to Anthony. "You disagree, Henry?"
His gaze seemed as penetrating as Dumbledore's. Anthony saw no point in lying. "Apart from its inherent beauty and elegance, I find it quite useful. Basic arithmetic, especially. We use it almost every day."
"What do you need arithmetic for?" Nicolas asked. "Arithmancy?"
Anthony said, "Well… shopping? Working out the bill?"
"The Philosopher's Stone, Henry," Dumbledore reminded gently. He was already halfway through his fish.
"Oh. Right." The Stone meant limitless gold. Nicolas and Perenelle had no need for bills.
Nicolas declared, "The more precise your mathematics, the less room there is for magic. Fill your head with numbers and grids, and you'll never feel the breeze of magic again."
Perenelle nodded in agreement. "That's how that young man Isaac lost his Alchemical gift. A shame. The gift for Alchemy is worth millions more than gold, but the few who have it spend their time calculating exactly how many millions."
"But aren't there still many Alchemists now?" Anthony asked cautiously, thinking of Pansy's custom-made serpent. "The ones who make family crests for manors, or sell trinkets in Diagon Alley…"
"Alchemists! True Alchemists! Not those pathetic mimics!" Nicolas waved a hand dismissively. "Honestly, even my own apprentices aren't much. You're a Necromancer, Henry. Would you call those Dark wizards who play with Inferi 'Necromancers'?"
Anthony nodded. "I've never seen an Inferius, but I take your point."
"You've never seen an Inferius?" Perenelle said, putting down her fish. She reached over and took Anthony's hand in hers. "Good heavens. How much of your soul did you pledge to Death?"
Anthony was momentarily surprised by her intimate knowledge of Necromancy, but then he remembered their age.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
Perenelle's brow furrowed slightly. Nicolas laughed.
"Excellent!" Nicolas crowed. "I am so tired of those gloomy Necromancers doing mathematics with souls! 'Pledge a third of your soul,' 'I plan to split my soul in half,' or 'a ghost is eight-ninths of a soul but lacks consciousness'… It gives me a headache just hearing it."
Dumbledore said, "Speaking of which, Nicolas, Perenelle, I was hoping you could ascertain for certain whether Henry is a Necromancer."
"Can you control corpses?" Nicolas turned and asked Anthony.
"Yes."
"Skeletons?"
"Yes."
"Summon wraiths?"
Anthony nodded. That was, after all, why the Flamels were here—for his little Wraith Chicken problem.
Nicolas looked satisfied. "There you go, Albus. He's a Necromancer."
Perenelle asked suddenly, "When you sleep, do things around you wither and die?"
"Sometimes… Well, often," Anthony admitted, offering Dumbledore a small, wry smile. "There's a reason all my pets are dead, sir."
Perenelle said, "Just checking. You don't hear the whispers of the dead, do you?"
"No," Anthony shook his head.
"You do seem quite sane," Nicolas said. "Alright. He's a Necromancer's Necromancer, Albus."
Dumbledore said mildly, "You don't seem very surprised."
"Albus, you don't understand," Perenelle said leisurely. "After talking to Henry for just a few minutes, people like us can tell immediately. He, too, seems to lack a certain something. Something veteran Necromancers, various undead beings—and Nicolas and I—often lack."
"What is it?" Anthony asked.
"Haste," Perenelle said with a smile. "Nicolas and I came to study a pet Wraith Chicken. And yet, here we are, eating grilled fish. Since you haven't rushed us, it's clear you've made a very significant bargain with Death."
Anthony was confused. "I don't follow."
Nicolas said, "When Death avoids us, we have endless time. And therefore, endless patience." He paused, then added, "The thrice-weekly attempts to steal the Philosopher's Stone are excluded. Those are genuinely irritating."
Dumbledore said happily, "You said 'thrice-weekly,' Nicolas. You used mathematics."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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