At least from Snape's answers just now—whether or not mixed with wrong answers—Anthony could tell these materials didn't include any dangerous Dark Magic. He acknowledged, "How did you judge?"
"Storage methods. Of course, you cannot understand," Snape said. Involving Slytherin, he clearly paid much more attention. "Which student is doing what after-class tutoring again, caught as a research subject by the dedicated Muggle Studies professor?" He added meaningful emphasis to that title.
Anthony said, "Name for name, Snape. Tell me what potion this is, I'll tell you who."
"I don't expect you to understand the exquisite meaning of ratios, but even you should understand that judging specific potions from ingredient lists alone is impossible?" Snape hissed. "Tell me who, Anthony."
"Then a list of possible potions," Anthony insisted. "Then I'll give you a name. I promise."
"You promise? Why not say the name first?" Snape asked coldly.
Anthony's gaze shuttled between Snape and himself and shrugged, implying he should compare their credibility himself.
Snape's expression worsened. He said coldly, "If you knew the workload behind this kind of... simple permutation and combination..."
Anthony didn't give a direct answer and instead produced an empty glass bottle. "Actually I stored part of the residual smell..."
But when he discovered Snape was brewing potions, he dismissed this idea. He didn't expect Snape to smell what this was in an office full of potion smells.
Snape snatched that small bottle, pulled out the stopper, put it under his hooked nose and sniffed hard, then showed a satisfied expression. "Calming Draught."
"Calming Draught?"
"Relieves anxiety and similar things... Disappointing you. Completely not prohibited, Anthony."
Anthony frowned. Did Tracey already need this kind of medicine to maintain stability?
"Name," Snape reminded him but looked like he didn't care much anymore. He used a long-handled silver spoon to pour the potion into a crystal bottle and examined it against candlelight.
Anthony said, "Tracey Davis... I think she hasn't been doing well recently. She seems to be brewing medicine for herself. Pay more attention, okay?" He shook his head helplessly. "Your house... very tricky. Davis might need help."
Snape turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what nonsense you're spouting. In my view, Miss Davis takes care of herself quite well."
Anthony said surprised, "She's brewing medicine herself to relieve anxiety and you call that 'quite well'?"
Snape also pretended surprise. "What, didn't she find a way to solve that little emotional problem?"
Anthony said, "That's not a little emotional problem, Snape. If you allow me to speak honestly, whether from society, family, or classmates—same house or different houses—many of your house's students bear pressure not belonging to their age. What's wrong with Davis? She's a half-blood, not valued at home, for this even first-year pure-bloods can—"
Snape interrupted him. "Come on, Anthony. Don't act like you understand Slytherin."
"I might not understand Slytherin," Anthony didn't back down. "But I know this is very dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Snape said in a smooth tone. "I don't see it, Professor Anthony. Everyone's alive and well. Doesn't that meet your requirements?"
Anthony sighed. "Yes, being alive is important, but we can try to do better. I hope they can still be alive in the future. If you must make me speak plainly, following this trend, I'm somewhat worried your students will either commit suicide or murder in the future."
"Sorry, you're not blaming me, are you?" Snape said. "Want to know Slytherin's death rate before I took office? Guess the death rate since I became Head of House?"
"Sorry, I spoke too harshly," Anthony immediately apologized. "I just... I think I understand what a normal childhood should be like."
Snape narrowed his eyes. "Very confident, aren't you?" His lips barely moved and said softly word by word, "You—know—nothing—"
He slammed the crystal bottle on the table and said viciously, "What's a normal childhood like? Mum singing lullabies to put you to sleep? Or tooth fairies flying around? What do you think Hogwarts is?"
"Hogwarts is a school, the only magical school in all of Britain!" Anthony said. "Besides that, it's also boarding. It houses children from eleven to seventeen, almost the most important period of a person's growth. If students can't be sheltered here, where else should they seek help?"
"They should seek help from themselves," Snape said dangerously. "You think you're doing good, don't you? Like a hen protecting all chicks... I'll tell you, Anthony, your methods don't work in Slytherin. We are predators. If you don't want to be devoured, better adapt quickly... I see no problem with Davis."
Written beforehand: Got a long personal attack comment and got annoyed being scolded, so moved the story originally planned for later forward to explain. Just to explain to everyone that strange calm composure Anthony had in the first few chapters.
But obviously I can't have Anthony and Snape discussing student education and childhood trauma in the dungeons one moment, then write Anthony returning to his office to dream the next, suddenly dreaming of youth... That's too irresponsible. So considering reading experience, this update became an extra (covers face). Also, because this extra is quite long (for my terrible writing speed), after finishing I might collapse for a day orz.
Apologize to those who don't want to read extras. Not in good condition, can only write extras orz. Those who don't want to read, just consider I didn't update today orz. The main storyline will still gradually reveal Anthony's resurrection story.
Mr. Wright was the happiest man in the world. He always believed so.
Of course, his happiness had a source: he was a good man.
Even though his family already subscribed to newspapers, every time he saw those newsboys on the road, he'd still call over those poor children and take another newspaper from their hands.
Every week he attended services, never missed grace before meals, and knelt by the bed before sleep—not just for himself, but for his dear wife, lovely son and daughter, and millions suffering in the world—not that he actually knew who these people were.
He also enthusiastically helped people in the community. Of course, this was somewhat related to his work—but undeniably, no one was more suited for this job than him. Whatever happened in anyone's family, he was definitely among the first to know. Ah, in this cold world, warm-hearted people like him were rare.
"Dear, you can't imagine what kind of day I've had," his wife said and took off his coat for him. He stuffed himself into the sofa and panted.
"What happened?" Mrs. Wright asked half-heartedly and stared at a loose thread in the suit seam.
"Remember that lad called Henry? The one living at the end of the street?"
"Henry Anthony, right? The bookworm who used to live with old Mr. and Mrs. Anthony?"
"He distinguished himself!" Mr. Wright announced enthusiastically. "He saved some noble's drowning daughter and they sent a convoy of carriages to bring him back! Carriages, not common! I also received a notice—the noble allocated a large sum and wants us to bury him properly..."
"Bury!" Mrs. Wright exclaimed and raised her head. "You're not saying he's already dead!"
Mr. Wright was very satisfied with the reaction his narration caused and nodded proudly. "Yes, so now our community has a hero who saved someone, got a large sum of money, plus an empty house. I must say, that Henry finally did something good this time."
His wife looked at him reproachfully. "Shh, don't say that! We should mourn for that young man." But her face also carried a smile. "I guess you were busy today?"
"Of course, of course," Mr. Wright said. "If we could have stewed lamb tonight that would be wonderful, dear... I think I already smell it, oh indeed! You're an angel! Where are our treasures?"
"Upstairs, I'll call them down," Mrs. Wright said, kissed Mr. Wright's cheek, and went upstairs to call their son and daughter.
Mr. Wright moved himself to sit at the dining table, satisfied.
Following the noble's instructions, they custom-made the finest coffin for Anthony and arranged a grand funeral.
This young man probably had two or three friends who all arrived grief-stricken. According to them, they hadn't contacted Henry for a very long time, but hearing news of his passing was still shocking.
Besides that, five or six "friends" also attended. They all said they were very busy, but after hearing he died saving a noble's daughter, all became close friends who'd make time for the funeral no matter how busy.
Disappointingly, the noble didn't attend.
Such a beautiful coffin—and flowers. In this weather, finding enough flowers to cover the ground took great effort. This was beautiful enough to serve directly as a wedding venue... as long as that large wooden box in back wasn't a coffin but the church's mosaic windows.
Even the priest was ready-made.
Mr. Wright looked somewhat regretfully at those wasted decorations.
But anyway, from now on, a hero rested in this cemetery. Wherever it was, having a hero was always good. Maintaining tombstones, tidying the cemetery—all these needed those shiny silver or paper little things, and one more dead good person meant one more reason...
Mr. Wright thought slowly this way. The priest was still droning on about his... oh no, Mr. Wright was a devout believer. He made a cross on his chest and bowed his head sorrowfully.
Mr. Wright was a very busy man and everything needed him to arrange. Without him, people simply wouldn't know how to live.
"I think we should organize an activity," Mr. Wright announced.
"Ac...activity, sir?"
Mr. Wright nodded. "Yes, rare to have a holiday. Men and women will want to go out and gather... The weather's gradually warming up, what a good day. This is a proposal my nephew wrote, take a look."
He stroked his little mustache satisfactorily. When going out this morning, he'd just carefully trimmed them. How annoying—nobody noticed how dashing they were... Tasteless fellows...
"Of course, of course. But there's a small problem, sir, we need funding..."
"Funding?" He frowned. "Budget not enough? Let me see..." He took back the proposal to look through and clicked his tongue. "Ah, young people, want to do everything best. This, tables and chairs can be removed—walking in nature, isn't that better than sitting all the time? Here, why rent a venue? I think our western cemetery is quite good."
"Okay... tables chairs... okay... cemetery..." The pen scribbled frantically in the notebook.
Mr. Wright nodded satisfactorily. Problem solved just like that. He was always good at solving problems. Without people like him, the world would be in chaos long ago.
This day was rare good weather. Gentle breeze, early spring sun quite cooperatively warmed people, and the cemetery lawn was neatly maintained.
Mrs. Wright packed three full picnic baskets, wore the goose-yellow dress from when she met Mr. Wright, and held Mr. Wright's arm walking in the woods by the cemetery. "Be a good child, don't run wild! Come, little treasure, hold Mummy's hand! Good child, hold your sister."
Mr. Wright brought his family, happy as every past day.
Whenever someone greeted him with envy and respect, he'd nod reservedly. How well he organized this activity, how beautiful his wife was, how well-behaved his children were.
"This place is really nice," Mrs. Wright said, chose an open space, and spread out the red and white checkered picnic cloth. Washed fruit sparkled in the sunlight.
"Dear, I'll go smoke," Mr. Wright said watching his busy wife.
Mrs. Wright sighed and smiled. "Go ahead, Mr. Wright."
"I love you too, Mrs. Wright," Mr. Wright said, bowed pretending seriousness, pretentiously gave Mrs. Wright a hand kiss that made her giggle, then walked out of the woods.
He shook out a cigarette but didn't light it. He just wanted to come out for a walk... see how the activity he organized and managed was going, appreciate the results.
Really nice. Everywhere were people out picnicking... Sigh, why was that young person frowning again. Mr. Wright didn't force him to participate in activities—he only ever made suggestions—though his suggestions were always correct as could be.
He frowned slightly and surveyed those not-happy-enough people.
Like that one—that couple actually started arguing... God, their child was crying again, nobody managing? Why were they still arguing?
This world must have warm-hearted people like Mr. Wright. He immediately walked over and asked that little boy sternly, "You, why crying?"
The boy cried shrilly and shouted, "I need to pee! Mum, Mum, I need to wee!"
"Then go!" Mr. Wright frowned at his insufficiently elegant wording.
"I can't find the toilet!" he cried.
Mr. Wright waved his hand irritably. "Just find somewhere people can't see!"
The boy stopped crying, scrambled up, and ran to where Mr. Wright couldn't see. His parents still accused each other of forgetting to bring the picnic cloth.
Fortunately, Mrs. Wright always arranged everything perfectly... Mr. Wright thought satisfactorily and moved away from that resentful couple.
The boy ran around and couldn't find a place without people. He originally wanted to find a tree, but every open space had one or even several families sitting, always someone could see him.
He was extremely anxious, pouted, looked left and right, then suddenly discovered nobody was near those square or cross-shaped stones. He ran over joyfully and started enjoying today's happiest period.
Just as he sang along with the water sound, he suddenly discovered the outermost row had a stone that moved. Too strange—how could stones move? Weren't stones all dead? The stone seemed to want to jump out and the dirt pile in front also trembled.
He dressed properly and ran back. "Dad! Mum! Can stones move?"
His parents were still arguing, but his curiosity burned fiercely in his chest. He had to ask others... Then he saw that kind gentleman, Mr. Wright.
"Mr. Wright! Mr. Wright!" He ran over calling.
Mr. Wright took a deep breath. "What is it, child?"
"Can stones move?"
"Of course not," Mr. Wright said. "If it moved, definitely because something else pushed it."
The boy pointed at the distant cemetery shouting, "But there's a moving stone over there!"
"Nonsense," Mr. Wright said.
By now that couple had stopped arguing and started looking for where their son went. Mr. Wright said, "Go, your parents are looking for you."
The boy went to pester the people he should pester with that "why do stones move" question. Mr. Wright now really wanted to find a place to smoke... The cemetery indeed looked like a very good place—quiet, nobody disturbing...
He walked that way.
This thing opened its eyes. Or rather, if we consider this a person, he opened his eyes.
He couldn't entirely be called a "person." A more accurate description would be "corpse" or "deceased." This corpse was placed in a very beautiful, impressive coffin, but this wasn't why he could be preserved so well. As people know, no matter what death method, ultimately just returning molecules to molecules, atoms to atoms, finally dissolving into some things not quite suitable for description.
And why he could still look like a person had three very important factors. First, he wasn't cremated; second, he hadn't been dead too long; third, yes, some magic participated. These three factors were all very important—just one looked a bit strange.
But things happened this way. Some magic participated, so the corpse opened its eyes intact and found itself lying beside a pile of dried flowers.
He had no feelings about dried flowers, but he felt very uncomfortable. If he still remembered how to frown, he would frown.
What was this squeezed feeling called... Right, confinement. This skin was very confining... He needed more space, more space... Something burned in his throat—not this skin's throat, his real throat... He needed to eat something, anything...
Many more corpses and bones in the distance. He could feel them. But no, he was too hungry, didn't need to call them up to compete for food...
Something swayed back and forth above his head and transmitted "thump thump thump" muffled vibrations. The corpse stared at the coffin lid. Distant water sounds, then that thing left. Then—maybe the next second, maybe the next century—another thing came. Bigger, more fragrant.
Like a long bread loaf, he thought, even though he'd already forgotten what that was.
The corpse opened its mouth. Just an instinct and impulse. The thing inside the corpse felt that thing should taste good. And big—this point was important. This way after eating, he could have bigger space to... do whatever, stretch or something, if he had a waist.
But first, he needed to contact that tempting thing. He needed to get out—wherever, anyway not here.
He remembered the world should be bright.
Just this thought, his world brightened. Wood chips flew, dirt splattered, and the long bread loaf sat on the ground looking at him terrified.
When all this happened, Mr. Wright's mind had only one thought—he shouldn't have been cheap and saved that one inch of wood thickness. He was now willing to pay out of pocket to add another layer of silver shell.
The thing inside the corpse turned its gaze to that fat man.
The little mustache trembled violently. This man sat on the ground unable to move, mouth open but shouted nothing, just froze in the comical posture of half a sneeze. Bean-sized sweat flowed from his forehead. You'd be surprised he had so much water inside. Just looking at appearance, people would think he should melt into a sizzling puddle of grease like butter in a hot pan.
But the thing inside the corpse—calling it this way was really too cumbersome, let's just call him Anthony since this was the first name he could remember—Anthony cared not about that outer shell. Inside this watery butter was something very sweet, fake sickeningly sweet, but at least very sweet... If Anthony still remembered human language, he'd say that smelled like "happiness in trash TV dramas."
That was already attractive enough.
Anthony walked over... or rather he swung his legs over. His head considered for a moment and also rolled over.
"Ah—!" This time that man cried out. "Anthony! Sorry, sorry... I, I shouldn't..." He racked his brains and couldn't think what he shouldn't do. Anthony's head fixed before him, quietly looked at him, and seemed to expect an answer.
Then the answer descended like revelation.
"I shouldn't have organized this Easter activity! I shouldn't have forgotten to sweep your grave! I shouldn't have stopped the community from fundraising for your grandfather's illness! I shouldn't have delayed when notifying you Mrs. Anthony was critically ill!" Mr. Wright shouted. "I shouldn't have pretended you had no difficulties when you applied for scholarships! I shouldn't have gossiped about you behind your back!"
Anthony was expressionless. He didn't know what that mouth was shouting, but that sweet smell was gradually transforming... Perhaps best not let him continue shouting, while he hadn't completely repented, while he was smug about his happiness... Make him Anthony's dessert...
"Daddy!" Mr. Wright's daughter shouted from the distant woods. "Daddy, if you don't come over, we'll eat all the brownies!"
Her voice flew out cheerfully like a little bird and landed on the nose tips of Anthony and Mr. Wright confronting each other. Don't know why—even across dozens of rows of tombstones, countless chattering families, Anthony and Mr. Wright both heard her happy shout.
His son directly ran over. "Dad, Mum's calling you—" His voice stopped abruptly.
Anthony looked at this small thing before him. He was small and gave off another kind of sweetness, a better-smelling sweetness. Anthony rolled over.
"No! Please, Anthony, sorry, sorry!" Mr. Wright shouted, still frozen on the ground unable to move. He now smelled not sweet at all... a bit choking, made noses itchy. If Anthony could remember, this smell was called spicy.
Anthony's hand crawled over, touched Mr. Wright, and touched his son.
This one bigger, this one smaller. Choose the bigger one. His simple brain decided this way.
So he focused on staring at the big one. That choking smell grew stronger and stronger and in the spicy smell actually revealed a trace of sweet smell—more fragrant than before, more fragrant than everything.
"Right, right, choose me..." Mr. Wright was in tears and trembled weakly. Then he took a deep breath and commanded gently but sternly, "Son, little treasure, close your eyes."
"Daddy?" his son asked puzzled.
Anthony pulled that delicious thing from that shell and stuffed it into his own throat.
Mr. Wright's disheveled shell trembled, made a surprised, sighing "oh," seemed not to expect he'd do it so decisively, then collapsed on the ground like a sack filled with cement.
His son didn't close his eyes and still called puzzled, "Daddy?" He didn't believe he really saw a fragmented person playing games with Dad. This must be magic—next second a dove would fly from Dad's back.
The sweet thing in Anthony's throat burned. It was delicious—then he remembered.
This taste was like lemon cake.
The simplest lemon cake, the first cake he ate... Grandmother baked it for him, she wore an apron, wore floral oven mitts, proudly and carefully took out the cake... That day Anthony turned seven and Grandfather lit the candles...
Memories flooded like tides into the brain dead and dried for over a month.
His grandfather looked at him with helplessness and guilt, watched him dig out hidden medical records... He was always good at this, as a child often helped Grandmother find Grandfather's hidden tobacco... He was so glad he was so good at searching, yet wished he hadn't found it...
He buried his face in Grandmother's quilt. Her withered hand could no longer gently pat his head... But he could still smell her—in disinfectant, medicine and various strange smells was a very light, very light smell, a smell that reassured him... She smelled like still alive, part of her always alive...
He vomited violently.
He—he couldn't—he was human—he couldn't—
Like the world flipped over, everything twisted and tried to find its position.
Chaotic everything ran around confused. Only a vomiting young man stood completely intact in the cemetery. He vomited until he could barely stand, so reached out to randomly grab something in the messy things, tried to grab a handrail or cane—but he grabbed a bone.
With his touch, that bone also stabilized. Next second, he found himself holding a bone tail, holding a Skeleton Cat upside down.
Right, cat... He always wanted a cat... Grandmother would knit him hats with cats, and Grandfather would buy porcelain with cat patterns as his dedicated tableware, even though dishes with painted cats were inexplicably much more expensive than unpainted ones.
The Skeleton Cat's eye sockets suddenly burned with two Soul Fires. It dissatisfiedly gave Anthony a claw, nimbly jumped to the ground, then jumped into his arms without a running start and curled up like a real cat.
Anthony straightened his body. He controlled his body—no, he didn't want to devour anyone's soul, he didn't want to occupy anyone's body either—he was human, this point would never change.
He didn't know what happened, but he knew he shouldn't let things happen this way. Maybe one day in the future, he could understand where all this chaos came from. Yes, he would figure it out, but now—
Grandmother's lemon cake, Grandfather's candles. Fragrance and firelight in his throat, eyes, mind, warmly, lastingly existing.
Mr. Wright suddenly gasped and woke up. Even without doves, his son still applauded cooperatively.
Dirt piled before the tombstone reading "Henry Anthony." Newly sprouted tender grass drilled out from inside perfectly fine. No more broken wood chips on the ground. Could deduce inside the dirt pile was an intact (one inch thinner than originally planned) luxurious coffin.
Just now it became an empty grave.
Anthony watched Mr. Wright crying while hugging his child tight and promising him game consoles, toy planes, toy cars and many, many things.
And Mr. Wright's son shouted, "Daddy, we called you for so long! Time to eat brownies!"
Magic puzzledly discovered Anthony's heart started beating again. Blood started flowing again and dripped from the cat's scratch. He became... became... just like a living person.
I am human. My name is Henry Anthony, 26 years old. I am—always was—always will be—human.
"Sorry." His voice unused for days, sound faint like a violin without rosin.
Mr. Wright hugged his son shaking his head, couldn't tell if he heard. Anthony considered it tacit forgiveness.
"Also, you're a bastard trash, but I forgive you," Anthony said again.
This corpse tightly hugged the Skeleton Cat and slowly walked forward. According to his common sense, he needed to move.
Streamlined version: Anthony crawled out of coffin, found he must either be human or eat humans, and chose to be human.
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