The Past

Anthony listened silently as the Bloody Baron recounted his life story, about his mentor, the early days of Hogwarts, and Helena Ravenclaw, whose beauty and grace had captivated him. He spoke of his obsessive and tragic love, and its devastating end.

Perhaps because he had encountered another necromancer after so many years, the Baron poured out his story to Anthony like a breaking dam.

In a hollow, raspy voice, he described his descent into madness, how he awoke to find warm blood cooling on his hands in the forest breeze, how he couldn't believe what he had done. He held Helena's body, consumed by regret, desperately trying to revive her – just as Anthony had hurried up the stairs with his cat, a frantic fire in his eyes. In that moment, the Baron knew he had found another necromancer, recognizing that same determined madness he was all too familiar with.

He spoke of his despair, how he abandoned necromancy in his heartbreak – because it was the study of magic that bridged life and death. If he couldn't undo his mistakes, what use was such magic? For the first time, he truly understood why necromancy was called "Death's plaything."

"Why?" the Bloody Baron asked in a soft, envious tone. "Why, when we were both apprentices, were you favored by Death? Why did it allow you to bring that cat back?" His hands trembled slightly with suppressed excitement, his chains rattling.

Anthony shook his head. "That wasn't resurrection. You're a necromancer, can't you see? My cat has no soul."

When someone says "I want a sandwich," they don't mean "I want bread," "I want tomato," or "I want chicken." They want a complete, cohesive sandwich, all the elements arranged properly.

Similarly, when someone says "I want her to live," they're not begging for any single aspect of life, but for consciousness, soul, body, everything, to awaken and be whole.

Anthony had never kept living cats. He wasn't greedy. Whether it was a cat or a chicken, they represented things necromancers were all too familiar with: consciousness, desire. Living things could die, and only the dead offered him a sense of security. They shared the secret of death with him, their souls intertwined in the realm of the departed.

The Bloody Baron rasped, "I am no longer a necromancer, can't you see that?"

Anthony looked at him doubtfully. As the only living necromancer he knew, he wasn't sure how to judge another's claim.

"I'm a ghost," the Baron stated simply.

Anthony looked at his milky, translucent form, the dried silver blood staining his robes, and nodded. "Yes."

...

The Bloody Baron had become a ghost after abandoning necromancy.

Necromancers, in their pursuit of the secrets of death, were the closest to it. They willingly tethered their souls to life, existing in a perpetual state of half-death, in exchange for terrifying magic.

"If it's not too forward, Mr. Baron, I've always had a question," Anthony said. "Why did necromancers die out?"

The Baron gave a hollow, rasping laugh. "Because we destroyed ourselves."

The weak fell to witch hunts, the powerful to themselves. Some necromancers were so feeble they were burned at the stake, their flesh smelling like the corpses they'd tried to animate on the campfire. Powerful necromancers often bargained their souls away piece by piece, slipping uncontrollably into a dark abyss.

There were also those who maintained a delicate balance, carefully passing down their knowledge. But as the wizarding world separated from the Muggle world, this magic, requiring so many raw materials and easily revealed, faded into obscurity.

Furthermore, due to the nature of the magic, even fellow wizards ostracized necromancers, and as other branches of magic flourished, wizards found easier ways to achieve their goals, no longer needing the intimidating power of necromancy.

"So I truly am the only one left." Anthony murmured.

"I suppose so," the Bloody Baron said hoarsely. "What's your name?"

"Henry," Anthony replied. "Henry Anthony."

"Then listen, Anthony," the Bloody Baron floated upwards, his chains dangling over the student's essays. "This is a failure speaking to you. Don't follow my path."

He nodded at Anthony and drifted away, his gaze fixed ahead.

Dawn was breaking. The stars dimmed, the pale moon hung low over the western mountains, and birds chirped in the Forbidden Forest. Anthony exhaled and picked up his arm.

Black blood sluggishly flowed within it. To prevent the beating heart from pumping poisoned blood throughout his body, Anthony had drained the arm before reattaching it.

The blood hesitantly filled the empty vessels, slowly reconnecting it to his torso. Anthony leaned back in his chair, raising his hands to cover his eyes, feeling, for the first time, a touch of anemia.

The early morning sun streamed into his office, illuminating the cat climbing frame, the floor where his arm had lain, the desk where the Bloody Baron's chains had brushed, and finally, Anthony himself, his torn wizard's robes draped over him.

Anthony opened his eyes, pulled out parchment and quill, and began to write a note. As a responsible employee, he needed to inform Dumbledore of everything. And as a considerate colleague, he would notify Snape to collect his potion ingredients.

After all that, he longed for a hot bath and a pot of tea.

Then, he needed to address the cat and mouse situation. Running away wouldn't solve the problem, Anthony reminded himself.

The good news was that, in addition to his necromancy, his general spellwork was still strong. He figured he'd get plenty of practice today, cleaning and repairing the damage.

He glanced out the window. The February lawn was still yellow, but sporadic green shoots were emerging. In the distance, ice and snow melted from the mountains, and everything awaited the arrival of spring.

Anthony smiled faintly, then heard the crash of his bedside table against the wall.