HP: The Necromancer

The weather was getting hotter day by day. Summer had arrived, and all the rooms were stifling. Within a short time of class, Anthony noticed the students sweating and restless. The wide-open windows failed to bring in any cool air, and even the occasional breeze carried a stuffy, humid scent. Even the Weasley twins had little energy, lying on the table, lazily pushing around a wad of scratch paper, pretending to play ball.

Anthony paused. After a few seconds of silence, the students who had been scribbling on their papers sensed something and looked up at him.

"It's too hot, isn't it?" Anthony asked the students sitting in the front row. He wasn't particularly sensitive to temperature anymore.

"Yeah, this blasted weather," Angelina said, sounding drained. "But it's fine, Professor. It's like this every year." She glanced at Anthony, who hadn't even broken a sweat, and sighed.

Anthony thought for a moment. "If you don't mind, how about we move the class to the evening?"

"I have Astronomy class tonight, Professor," another student mentioned.

"Okay," Anthony said. "How about this—we finish up quickly, and then you can head to the Great Hall and be the first in line for ice cream. How does that sound?"

Fred drawled, "Better."

"But not by much," added George.

"Professor Anthony, tell us something new," another student chimed in. "Tell us, how do Muggles deal with summer?"

"I know! They send themselves to the moon," another student said dully, drawing a simple rocket on an illustration in their textbook. It happened to be over the helmet of a Muggle pilot in the image. "Then it's night all the time. Clever Muggles! And we, wizards, sit in our little rooms, learning how they live without magic."

Her deskmate remarked logically, "That must be expensive."

"That's right," the student agreed, after thinking for a moment. "So poor Muggles can go to the stars."

Anthony listened in amazement, wondering if wizarding astronomy was drastically different from Muggle astronomy. As far as he remembered, most stars were just like the sun. But since the students were approaching their Astronomy finals, he wasn't about to confuse them on such a sweltering afternoon.

Before they could fully figure out how to stuff themselves into a refrigerator, Anthony interrupted their discussion.

He said, "Muggles use methods similar to yours today: opening windows, drinking cold beverages, eating ice cream, reducing activity during the day, and of course, long periods of patience—very, very long periods of patience. But there's one thing that's different—an electric fan." He recalled those days of eating ice cream and sitting in front of an electric fan with some nostalgia. "Like the refrigerator you just mentioned, it's also an appliance that creates a steady stream of wind."

He could tell the students were imagining a giant feather fan, waving tirelessly, powered by electricity.

"Some of you have seen it," Anthony prompted, glancing at the students who were slowly tuning in. "When we visited the pet rescue center, a few of you asked me about the 'cage' in the corner, what that 'whirling thing' was—"

Some students sighed in realization, while others still looked confused.

The Weasley twins started whispering again about their future owl (they'd decided to name him Elon), and Angelina, whose practical activities had been postponed until next semester, lost her patience. She pushed her chair back hard, causing the twin brothers' table to shake violently, nearly making them bite their tongues.

"Angelina," Fred groaned.

"You deserve it," Angelina said, pushing her chair back into place. She raised her head, met Anthony's gaze, and smiled sheepishly.

Anthony decided to ignore this small disruption and continued: "It's difficult to describe what an electric fan looks like with words alone, so there's a multiple-choice question in the exam that asks you to pick the item that isn't powered by electricity. In the pictures, besides refrigerators, televisions, electric lights, telephones, and the correct answer—airplanes—the remaining item labeled 'for cooling in summer' is an electric fan."

He noticed the students' eyes brightening with interest and smiled. "You might want to pay attention to that electric fan when you see it."

Stinson raised a hand and asked, "Professor, can you repeat that? Refrigerators, televisions, fans, airplanes... what else?"

Anthony smiled and said, "You only get one slip-up per class."

For the remaining half of the lesson, the students' attention noticeably increased. They all stared at Anthony, hoping he would let something else "slip," but after going over the key points for review, Anthony announced the end of the class with a smile.

"Professor Anthony, would you stay and chat a bit?" Stinson asked eagerly. "Let's talk more about Muggles!"

Anthony smiled and replied, "That's a big topic, Miss Stinson. What specifically do you want to talk about regarding Muggles?"

"Um... Muggle..." Stinson nudged his deskmate with his elbow, silently pleading for help.

"The Life and Social Habits of Muggle Families in Britain," her deskmate read from the textbook title.

Anthony chuckled. "Good question. I think that's a topic worthy of writing a book. What do you think? If there were such a book, I'd gladly read it several times. In fact, I might even use the contents of that book to prepare your final exam questions."

He closed his book, placed it in his bag, and walked toward the door, leaving the students with disappointed expressions.

"Oh, by the way, there's a rumor going around that Florin has provided a batch of chocolate nut ice cream for Hogwarts. I heard it'll be served tonight," Anthony said casually.

Another bit of news, which he kept to himself, was that the house-elves were rather displeased with the ice cream shop owner's service. By tomorrow, there would be more than twenty flavors of ice cream on the Hogwarts tables. But the students didn't need to know that just yet.

Anthony walked out of the classroom amidst the sounds of students hurriedly packing their schoolbags.

…

Another week passed, and even Anthony could feel the rising summer temperature. Every evening, he would open the windows wide, read a book, and enjoy the gradual drop in temperature brought by the evening breeze. It wasn't until his cat jumped in through the window that he would snatch his parchment back from under its sharp claws, close the window, draw the curtains, stroke the ginger cat's cold fur, and ask it, as if to himself, where it had been that day.

After learning that the cat and the wraith mouse had fought with Voldemort to protect his office, Anthony filled the room with guilt for wrongly blaming them. He provided a patchwork cat nest modeled after Tooth's crib, a large pile of white wine, a hamster wheel, some of the reddest and most beautiful apples from the supermarket, and even a small apple tree.

However, the apple tree withered one night after he had a nightmare. Anthony discovered that his necromancy didn't seem to grasp the concept of an "apple tree inferius," let alone summon any skeletons or ghosts of apple trees.

The ginger cat preferred his pillow or the foot of his bed over the cat's nest. The moment Anthony carried it into the nest, it would jump out, shaking its fur in disgust.

The wraith mouse had a particular fondness for the cat's nest, so it had now become its daytime retreat. It hid all its apples deep in the nest, and Anthony secretly worried that one day the apples would mold.

One night, just as the cat slipped through the window, a tawny owl arrived, its wings fluttering. Anthony rewarded the messenger with the cat's dried fish balls. Under the cat's disapproving gaze, the owl pecked at the fish a bit before flying away in disgust.

The letter was from Hagrid. It contained a simple message: "It's about to break out of its shell."

…

It was past curfew, and the paths were deserted. Anthony bid goodbye to Nearly Headless Nick at the castle gate, then walked along the quiet path toward Hagrid's cabin.

The tall blades of grass brushed against his calves, and the chirping of insects would cease as he passed, only to resume with vigor once he moved further away. Anthony heard a chorus of toads in the grass and briefly remembered hearing that afternoon that Neville Longbottom had been looking for him again.

Anthony knocked on Hagrid's door, and Hagrid's gruff voice called out from behind the door: "Who is it?"

"Hagrid, it's me," Anthony said. "I got your letter."

The door opened, and as soon as Hagrid saw Anthony, a huge smile spread across his face.

"You're late, Henry," he said, eagerly pulling Anthony into the room. "Come, take a look."

The curtains were tightly drawn, the door was locked, and only a few dim lights were on. In the middle of Hagrid's table sat a copper pot with a leaky bottom, wrapped in a woolen jacket with a rough pattern. The lid kept being pushed up, and from the sound, it was clear the little dragon inside had a very hard head.

"Very lively, isn't it?" Hagrid said proudly. "It was in a teapot. I almost missed it breaking out of its shell. If I hadn't heard the clattering inside and taken a closer look, I'd have missed it! By the time I finished writing you the letter, the eggshell was nearly broken. It's a strong one, can't wait to see the world, eh?"

He dragged Anthony over to the teapot and proudly unlocked the top. A wrinkled, dark little creature immediately stuck its head out. It stared at the two of them with orange eyes, its gaze full of suspicion, before its hind legs gave out and, with a clang, it tumbled back into the copper pot.

The pot was soon filled with harsh scraping and ominous crunching sounds. Anthony looked over and saw the dragon's claws scratching at the burnt black lumps on the pot wall, as it tried to flutter its wings, which had barely grown. The copper kettle made strange noises, like a hundred metal moths fluttering inside.

"Isn't it cute?" Hagrid said, his voice softening. He reached out to free the dragon from the pot.

The wrinkled baby dragon sniffed Hagrid's extended finger with its long black nose, sneezed, and spat out a few sparks.

"Oh, healthy, very healthy!" Hagrid said happily. Then the dragon bit his finger. Carefully, he lifted the little creature out of the pot. Its wings trembled restlessly, its neck stretched out, and it clamped its jaws tightly around Hagrid's finger, refusing to let go. It hung from Hagrid's finger like a fish on a hook, reminding Anthony of his grandfather's fishing trips.

The exposure to the world outside the teapot made the newborn dragon uneasy. Hagrid took it in both hands and placed it gently on the table, calling softly, "Baby," but the first thing the dragon wanted to do was crawl back into its dark teapot. It flailed and flopped on the table, using its tiny paws to claw at the woolen sleeve wrapped around the copper kettle.

Even though the weather was oppressively hot—the big dog now pressed against the wall, whimpering quietly—the British summer nights still seemed too cold for a fire dragon. The little dragon made several attempts to climb, shook its head, and sneezed, sending a few sparks from its nostrils that ignited the dragon-egg pattern on the teapot warmer. Soon, the woolen jacket caught fire. In the glow of the flames, the teapot sat tattered, and beside it, the dragon stared longingly at the copper pot.

"No, no, that's the teapot," Hagrid said, gently coaxing. "Come here, mother's here."

The young dragon turned to look at the chattering big man but still tried to crawl back to the familiar teapot. Hagrid reached out his hand and was promptly bitten again.

"Good boy, yes, this is mother," Hagrid said lovingly, brushing away the black ashes from the burnt wool as if it were nothing. "See, Henry? He recognizes his mother."

"I think it's more likely he's confused the teapot for his mother," Anthony said sensibly.

"Nonsense." Hagrid lowered his head to coax the baby dragon. "Oh, oh, I'll take good care of you."

The little dragon sneezed again, this time setting Hagrid's beard on fire.

"Now that it's hatched, you can tell the headmaster, right?" Anthony pressed.

Hagrid, still focused on the dragon, seemed to ignore the question. "You're too young. I can't feed you yet… The book says to wait a day. You'll be good, won't you? I'll give you food as soon as it's time… The brandy's ready, and the chicken blood will be the freshest. You'll grow up healthy and happy..."

"Hagrid!" Anthony interjected firmly, "You must tell Dumbledore."

Hagrid muttered, "I reckon Dumbledore already knows… nothing happens in this school without him knowing."

"Whether he already knows and whether you tell him are two different things," Anthony said, his voice steady. "You need to protect yourself. I can't help you here—if I say something, it becomes a report. You have to talk to Dumbledore."

Hagrid, half-listening, waved it off. "What kind of protection?" He was inspecting the little dragon's thorny wings with admiration.

"Protection to make sure the Ministry of Magic doesn't come after you when they find out you've been raising an illegal dragon." Anthony said seriously.

Humming a lullaby absentmindedly, Hagrid agreed without much thought. The little dragon, however, wasn't interested in lullabies and continued angrily gnawing at Hagrid's beard.