Anthony was lost in flesh magic. Days slipped by. Every spare moment.
Professor Sprout complained at lunch about how he always vanished to the library by teatime. Professor Burbage even joked about taking over his classes.
"I might have some leftover exam papers lying around," Professor Burbage said, a playful glint in her eye. "Just say the word, and I'm at your service."
"Thank you, Charity," Anthony scooped a helping of mashed potatoes, smiling. "But I'm not quite desperate enough to sacrifice my students to the cause yet… Speaking of, do your students enjoy your exam papers?"
He mentally pushed his afternoon research session back. Teatime with colleagues it was. He hadn't even realized how much time he'd been pouring into that damn book, Secrets of the Darkest Arts. Sprout's comment was a wake-up call. It was happening again—just like when he'd been deep into the Baron's notes.
A chill crept up his spine. Maybe… just maybe, Necromancy was getting to him. A subtle, insidious pull, luring him down into the dark. He definitely needed a proper cup of steaming tea, some decent biscuits, and an afternoon of idle chatter.
Professor Burbage meticulously stirred the bolognese sauce into her pasta. "Whether they enjoy them or not, I'm certainly not enjoying the essays I received. Henry, did you cover how to use the post office in your class?"
"Let me think… yes, I believe so. The chapter on Muggle communications?" Anthony said. "Telegraphs, telephones, and the postal service?"
Professor Burbage nodded. "Remind your students next lesson. At least six of mine have completely forgotten. They provided me with detailed instructions on using owl post instead. I now know three separate methods for ordering Dungbombs by owl order."
"Three?" Professor McGonagall turned, interest piqued. "Order forms from magazine pages or direct letters to the seller. What's the third?"
"If the order exceeds one hundred Galleons, you can authorize the seller to withdraw directly from Gringotts," Professor Burbage explained calmly. "That requires sending a second letter to the bank via the same owl, clipped together. The post office workers separate them. The seller presents the invoice, and if Gringotts has the proper authorization, they release the funds from the specified vault. Fascinating, isn't it? I never knew Gringotts offered such a service."
Professor Flitwick chirped happily, "Oh, I know! It's quite true! When I ordered over two hundred and forty Galleons' worth of books from Flourish and Blotts last time, their clerk suggested I use that very service."
Professor McGonagall's brow furrowed. "Who in Merlin's name is ordering over a hundred Galleons' worth of Dungbombs?"
…
Even though it was only half past two, Anthony was still the last to arrive when he pushed open the door to Greenhouse Two. Professor Sprout wasn't inside yet, but Professors Flitwick and Kettleburn were already at the table. A teapot and a severely mangled honey cake sat between them.
Outside the glass, remnants of snow clung to the ground. Winter sunlight slanted through the glass, catching dust motes in the air. The greenhouse was a pocket of vibrant green, smelling of damp earth and… yes, a faint whiff of dragon dung fertilizer.
A deal had been struck: Professor McGonagall would secure funding for a new greenhouse. In return, Professor Sprout agreed to swap the dragon dung for a more palatable herbal nutrient solution—what Professor Babbling called "overpriced, inferior plant food sold to fussy pure-blood families to keep their gardens 'magical' without the actual smell of magic."
These days, Professor Sprout sometimes jokingly called Greenhouse Two her "second garden." She'd ask if they fancied a stroll in the garden instead of inquiring about afternoon tea.
Lockhart had tried to join once. Unable to refuse him gracefully, Professor Sprout had simply taken him on a three-hour walk in the biting Scottish wind. She'd sat down for dinner that evening, nose red and cheeks chapped, and announced that dear Professor Gilderoy Lockhart would likely not be joining their "garden strolls" again. Scottish winter winds were notoriously unkind to vanity and carefully maintained coiffures.
"Professor Flitwick, Professor Kettleburn," Anthony greeted them, pulling over a stool.
"Afternoon, Professor Anthony!" Professor Flitwick said cheerfully. "Lovely weather, isn't it? Cake?"
"Absolutely, thank you." Anthony watched as a small plate performed an elegant aerial pirouette before landing softly before him. "The sun has been surprisingly pleasant lately."
Professor Kettleburn wordlessly shoved a particularly ragged slice of cake onto his plate. "Tastes the same once it's down your gullet. Remember, boy, flavor over form!"
"Well said." Anthony summoned the teapot to pour himself a cup. He felt a flicker of satisfaction as his wand responded smoothly, warmly, in his hand. The connection was still strong.
"By the way," he asked, "what happened with You-Know-Who's wand? I haven't been keeping up with the papers."
"The Aurors found it," Professor Flitwick said, his voice high with excitement. "Right where Pettigrew said it would be. The rat threw away his own wand but buried his master's in a Muggle garden in Godric's Hollow."
"Godric's Hollow?" Anthony set his cup down with a clink. "But that's a famous wizarding village. The Potters lived there, didn't they?"
"Precisely," Professor Flitwick said. "All these years, witches and wizards have been traipsing through Godric's Hollow, mourning Lily and James, and that monster's wand was right under their noses the whole time."
Professor Kettleburn thumped his wooden leg, nearly upsetting the cake plate. "Eleven years! Those Aurors! Even a Flobberworm could have found it in that time—that's hyperbole, of course. Flobberworms only live a year or two."
"Pettigrew couldn't remember which garden he'd buried it in," Professor Flitwick explained. "So the Aurors had to sneak over Muggle fences in the dead of night. Dug up every garden, one by one. Couldn't use much magic either—too many witches and wizards in Godric's Hollow. It's a Ministry-designated 'Strict Statute Zone.' The Muggles who still live there are… eccentric. The Ministry couldn't risk it. I heard the Department of Mysteries even tried to get a prophecy on the wand's location. No help at all."
"Couldn't use much magic?" Anthony asked. "What about Reparo, Scourgify, or simple gardening charms afterwards?"
Professor Flitwick's expression was pointed. "All forbidden."
"Oh… wow." Anthony pictured it. "Wow. Must have looked like a family of exceptionally diligent groundhogs."
"More like a family of profoundly incompetent Nifflers," Professor Kettleburn grunted.
The greenhouse door opened. Professor Burbage entered, followed by a beaming Professor Sprout, who deposited a few small trowels by the entrance, peeled off her dragon-hide gloves, and joined them.
"Finally, Henry?" she said brightly. "Tea?"
"Indeed," Anthony smiled. "Decided to give myself a break."
"About time," Professor Burbage said with satisfaction. "And here I thought I'd be the overworked Muggle Studies professor."
"You are, Charity. Is your paper finished?" Professor Sprout asked, patting a curious Carnivorous Snargaluff tendril. She opened a cabinet, selected a lump of meat, and tossed it into the plant's grasp. The tendrils seized it lovingly.
Professor Burbage leaned back, a contented sigh escaping her. "Finished. But I'm off to London again tomorrow. Another Wizengamot meeting."
"What's the topic this time?" Anthony asked.
"Pettigrew, again—what else?" Professor Burbage said. "Now that the wand's been found, a few members are suddenly very keen on upholding the original sentence. 'To preserve the authority of the Wizengamot's judgment,' or so they claim."
"But the papers already announced a life sentence in Azkaban!" Professor Sprout protested. "Changing it now would make them look indecisive!"
"Of course they know that, Pomona," Professor Burbage said dismissively. "It's just leverage. They want concessions from the Ministry. Speaking of which, the Headmaster recently refused the Minister's… requests… regarding Hogwarts. Now the Minister seems to expect our Headmaster, the Chief Warlock, to block this—quote—'ridiculous demand' from the Wizengamot. Otherwise, he might see it as another personal slight."
Professor Flitwick said, with remarkable calm, "Cornelius simply refuses to relinquish his sense of impending crisis, doesn't he?"
"He wants to meddle with Hogwarts?" Professor Kettleburn boomed. "Ha! Good thing I'm retiring at the end of this year!" He thumped the table for emphasis. "Actually retiring. I've already put a deposit on a cottage on a seaside island. A friend there promised me the use of his fishing boat. I intend to study saltwater magical creatures—now that will be an adventure!"
"You're really retiring, Silvanus?" Professor Sprout gasped. "But—who will replace you? You should have told Albus at least a few terms in advance!" Her eyes flicked briefly to Professor Burbage, then to Anthony.
Anthony knew what she meant. Professor Burbage had declared her retirement no less than three hundred and twenty-seven times, promising to hand all her years over to him. Yet here she was, still diligently planning lessons, teaching, setting exams, and marking essays.
Professor Kettleburn waved a dismissive hand. "Albus will find someone. Did all those Defense Against the Dark Arts professors give him years of notice before they left?" He rapped his wooden leg and arm. "I've served Hogwarts long enough. Time for me to rest."
"Don't be so hasty, Silvanus," Professor Sprout said, full of feeling.
"Now, now, Pomona, it's not as if I'll vanish," Professor Kettleburn said. "I'm still considering that magical creature reserve with Hagrid. Minerva won't hear of it—but if I frame it as a retirement wish, Albus might just agree."
"Minerva still won't be pleased," Professor Sprout warned.
"Not my problem," Professor Kettleburn stated stubbornly. "I want my zoo."
"Speaking of which, where is Minerva?" Anthony asked. "Has she stopped coming to tea again?"
"Yes, rather busy lately," Professor Sprout sighed. "Albus is meeting with the Headmistress of Beauxbatons—something about those flying carriages—so paperwork is piling up on her desk again. On top of that, she's handling Sirius Black's affairs. He's finally cleared to be seen in public, but Poppy insists he needs more rest. Severus is… less than pleased. I believe Minerva has already had words with him over it."
"Severus?" Professor Flitwick said. "Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him in ages. He hasn't been taking his meals at the High Table. Have you run into him, Pomona?"
"Oh, no," Professor Sprout said. "I delivered some herbs to him once—he didn't even meet me, just sent an owl. I think he's immersed in some new potions research. You know how he gets. Once he's in that lab, only Albus can drag him out for a bit of sun."
Professor Burbage interjected, "Actually, Pomona, Severus has been out in the sun recently."
"When?" Professor Sprout asked, surprised. "I heard nothing of it."
"Just yesterday, I believe," Professor Burbage said, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. "I heard he paid a visit to Malfoy Manor. It seems my gossip network has a lead on yours, Pomona."
"Malfoy Manor?" Anthony asked.
"Indeed. He was reportedly delivering a few potions to Lucius Malfoy," Professor Burbage said. "Someone approached me, asking if I knew anything about it. Wondered if it signaled Hogwarts 'actively courting the Board of Governors.'"
"How did you respond?" Professor Flitwick asked, intrigued.
"I told him to sod off and that it was none of his business," Professor Burbage said, looking immensely pleased with herself.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
Read up to (55+ ) advanced chapters on Patre\on
Visit us here: patreon . com/GoldenLong
Happy reading, everyone!