Stubborn Hagrid, Stubborn Quirrell and Stubborn Parkinson

"Dragon egg?" Anthony asked, leaning in to examine it carefully. "I know you've always wanted a dragon, but didn't you say it was illegal?" 

Hagrid shuffled his large feet on the ground uncomfortably, looking as though he had sobered up quite a bit. "Well... yes. That's probably why that fellow was so eager to pass it off to me." He gave Anthony a hopeful look. "You'll keep it a secret for me, won't you?" 

"Uh..." Anthony hesitated. "Does the Headmaster know?" 

"No, I don't think he knows yet," Hagrid admitted. "But, of course, he will. Nothing in this castle stays hidden from Dumbledore." 

Anthony couldn't help but worry that Dumbledore already knew. After all, Hagrid had accepted the egg from someone, possibly gambling, which wasn't much better. And the egg was a Class A non-tradable good. 

Anthony thought for a moment. As complicated as the relationship between Dumbledore and his brother Aberforth might be, Anthony doubted the Dumbledore who ran the Hog's Head would let a dragon egg come to Hogwarts without the Headmaster knowing about it. 

"You will tell the Headmaster, won't you, Hagrid?" Anthony asked. "Since he'll find out eventually, it's better to tell him sooner." 

"Yeah... yeah, I'll tell him." Hagrid mumbled. "But not yet—at least not until it hatches." 

Great. Let Dumbledore deal with it. Anthony imagined Dumbledore building a small enclosure next to the Acromantula Hollow in the Forbidden Forest for Hagrid's baby dragon. Hopefully, the dragon wouldn't end up snatching a princess—preferably not a member of the British royal family or, even worse, Her Majesty the Queen. 

"How long will it take to hatch?" Anthony asked, still concerned.

Hagrid leaned down, tossed a couple more logs into the fireplace, and poked the fire until it roared more intensely. "Depends on the kind of dragon. Some hatch in about a month. Oh, I need to chop more firewood. The bloke who gave me the egg said it needs to stay in the fire… Too bad I forgot to ask his name. He really knew magical creatures. I'd love to meet him again." 

"Do you really have to keep the fire going like this?" Anthony frowned. "It's getting hotter every day—people are going to notice something's off." 

Hagrid scratched his head sheepishly. 

"You're right, Henry," he said earnestly. "What do you suggest?"

"Put out the fire," Anthony said simply. "Keep the egg somewhere safe, tell the Headmaster what happened, and wait until winter to hatch it. Then, no one will notice with all the fireplaces burning." 

"But that's too long!" Hagrid protested, glancing at the egg nestled in the fire. "A mother dragon wouldn't wait half a year to hatch her eggs..." 

"Then wait for the holidays," Anthony suggested. "In just over a month, all the students will leave for the summer. You'll have peace and quiet to prepare a pram and maybe even some nappies for your dragon." 

Hagrid's eyes lit up. "You're right, Henry! I need to start getting things ready to welcome the little one!" 

He began rummaging through boxes and cabinets, searching for yarn and knitting needles, planning to knit wool socks for the baby dragon. Anthony still wanted to reason with him, but Hagrid was beyond listening at this point. 

"I'll let you know the moment it hatches!" Hagrid called excitedly. "And you can be its godfather!" 

...

The next day was a Monday, and Dumbledore sat at the center of the teachers' table, smiling warmly as he welcomed the staff and students who made their way downstairs for breakfast. 

When everyone had nearly finished eating, Dumbledore tapped his goblet lightly with a small silver spoon and stood up. The clear chime echoed through the hall, and conversations gradually ceased as people realized the Headmaster was about to speak. Even the owls, mid-flight, folded their wings and settled quietly by the tables. 

"Now that everyone has eaten and drunk their fill, I have a few announcements," Dumbledore began with a smile. "The application forms for course registration have been posted on the bulletin board in the common room of each house. Please be sure to take note, students." His bright blue eyes flicked toward the two red-haired Weasley twins, who were whispering to each other. "And no, I promise, it is not a prank." 

A ripple of movement passed through the tables. Several students exchanged confused glances—many of them had likely rushed down for breakfast without glancing at the bulletin board. Anthony noticed Hermione roll her eyes and begin explaining something to Harry and Ron, both of whom looked disheveled with bed hair. 

"In addition," Dumbledore continued, "Madam Hooch has asked me to remind everyone of the supplementary regulations issued by the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Referees are granted the authority to modify official rules during regional competitions to ensure fairness, justice, and, of course, fun in Quidditch." 

There were murmurs of curiosity from students seated at the tables as Dumbledore went on: 

"Madam Hooch has also announced that, in accordance with these regulations, this year's Hogwarts House Quidditch Cup will follow Hogwarts' own unique Quidditch rules and standards. Team captains, please meet with Madam Hooch at your earliest convenience to discuss these updates." 

Anthony could see students leaning toward each other in excitement, eager to speculate about what the new rules might entail. 

"And lastly," Dumbledore said, his voice turning more serious, "I must remind you all, once again, that anyone who wishes to avoid unfortunate accidents should stay away from the corridor on the right-hand side of the third floor. The Forbidden Forest also remains strictly off-limits to students—especially as of late." 

"Especially as of late." Anthony immediately thought of the dead unicorn. In his busyness, he had almost forgotten about the incident. 

He glanced discreetly toward the faculty table. Except for Professor McGonagall, who wore her usual stern expression, and Snape, who remained impassive, most of the other professors reacted subtly to Dumbledore's words.

Professor Flitwick looked troubled, his brow furrowed in concern. Professor Sprout smiled reassuringly at the students, while Professor Burbage, seated beside Anthony, glanced at Dumbledore in mild confusion, seemingly puzzled by the need to repeat these warnings. Filch, meanwhile, swept his gaze malevolently across the students, his lips curling with thinly veiled disdain. 

Several professors were notably absent from the Great Hall. Professor Trelawney, who preferred to stay secluded in her tower, was absorbed in visions of the future. Professor Quirrell, who had grown increasingly fearful of his students. And Professor Kettleburn, whose limited mobility prevented him from attending regular meals.

Among these absent professors, the one Anthony felt closest to was Professor Quirrell. In fact, Quirrell was the only one in whom Anthony had sensed the faint trace of necromantic magic—eerily similar to the magic he had detected near the unicorn carcass. The undead aura from Anthony's skeleton cat felt unsettlingly familiar to the aura surrounding the slain unicorn.

Dumbledore concluded the announcements cheerfully: 

"Lastly, with the weather growing warmer, we'll be offering iced pumpkin juice, lemon-honey water, milkshakes, and ice cream at lunchtime. However, lemon ice cream will still only be served at dinner." He sat down amidst a wave of cheers from the students.

---

"Professor Quirrell?" Anthony called, knocking on the door to Quirrell's office. "I'd like to speak with you." 

Anthony was reluctant to believe that Quirrell could be responsible for harming the unicorn's mother. Yet, after spending time visiting other professors—including those who rarely spoke with him or whose names he barely remembered—he found no trace of necromantic magic. Even Professor Sinistra, who had opened her door wearing a nightcap, rubbing sleep from her eyes, gave off no such aura.

Anthony knew, of course, that traces of necromantic magic could fade or be concealed—assuming one knew how to hide them. After all, the "breath of undead magic" and the "unicorn's curse" were nothing more than magical imprints. While advanced wizards might recognize black magic, it took the heightened sensitivity of a necromancer to detect the faint echoes of death's presence.

"Professor Quirrell!" Anthony knocked once more, firmly. The only response was the silent garlic plant, sitting on the desk inside as if about to sprout.

Anthony shrugged. "Alright then," he muttered to himself, stepping back from the door.

Anthony headed to the Owlery, intending to send a letter to Professor Quirrell. For reasons beyond Anthony's understanding, the owls of the Wizarding World always managed to find their recipient, no matter where they were.

Unless Professor Quirrell had a surly skeleton cat at home—something that might explain the scratches on his body and the faint traces of necromantic magic Anthony had sensed—he couldn't think of any reason Quirrell might refuse to receive this letter.

In the letter, Anthony mentioned that, after their encounter with the basilisk, he had acquired a fascinating magical item (at this point, his wraith mouse was wriggling to squeeze through the narrow crack of the half-open window). However, he noted that his research had recently reached a standstill. Specifically, he had yet to figure out how to bring the mice—or the wraith chicken—back to Hogwarts after the holidays. He concluded by asking whether Professor Quirrell would be available to discuss the matter tomorrow or the day after. 

"Recap shared experiences, find common interests, and extend an invitation..." Anthony muttered, tying the letter to the leg of the waiting barn owl. He topped off the owl's feeding trough with corn kernels before releasing it into the night.

Given that his mice showed little interest in food, Anthony now had more corn kernels and nuts in his desk drawer than even the students could consume.

---

After sending the letter, Anthony descended the Owlery staircase, lost in thought about what he would do if Professor Quirrell declined the meeting. Distracted, he didn't notice someone hurrying up the stairs until they collided with him.

Anthony stumbled, quickly grasping the railing for balance. With his free hand, he reached out to steady the student who had fallen. "I'm sorry—are you alright? Parkinson?"

Pansy Parkinson shrieked, clutching her face with both hands, and cried out, "No! I'm not!"

Her eyes were swollen from crying. She wore a protective mask similar to Hagrid's, covering her mouth and nose. Her hair was in disarray, and her wizard robes looked crumpled and carelessly thrown on.

"What's wrong with you?" Anthony asked, squatting down and studying the Slytherin student carefully. Through the gap between her mask and disheveled hair, he could see red, swollen marks on Pansy's face. 

Pansy struggled to open her swollen eyes, and it seemed she had only just recognized who was in front of her. She angrily slapped Anthony's hand away and snapped, "You don't need to worry about it!" 

"Miss Parkinson," Anthony said gently, slowing his tone, "What happened?" 

"What happened?" Pansy repeated sharply, tears forming in her eyes. "You might as well ask your good student Davis!" 

"Davis?" Anthony echoed in confusion, then realized she wasn't referring to the boy in the hospital wing, but rather to Tracey Davis. 

Before he could ask anything further, Pansy lowered her head and dashed past him. She whistled, and a sleek, fierce-looking owl swooped down to land on her arm. 

Pansy handed the owl a letter. "Matilda, take this to Mother." 

The owl affectionately nibbled her ear and wrapped its large wings around her in what seemed like an attempt to comfort her. Pansy let out a loud sob before the owl flapped its wings and soared out through the open window, disappearing into the sky. 

Anthony intercepted Pansy as she tried to brush past him again, gently offering her a tissue from his pocket. 

"Here, wipe your tears and blow your nose—even if you aren't Miss Parkinson," he said softly. "Take some time to rest. Now that you've written home, wait for your parents' reply. Whatever it may be, don't miss it." 

Pansy eyed him suspiciously but snatched the tissue from his hand. "That's easy for you to say." Despite her words, she stayed rooted on the stairs. 

"What did Miss Davis do?" Anthony asked, pulling a box of nuts from his pocket—the same ones he'd intended for the owl—and offering them to her. 

Pansy raised her eyebrows and glared. "Are you going to defend her again, Professor Anthony? Are you going to tell me not to bully my classmates?" she snarled. "Go on, tell her that too! I've barely even bothered those idiots lately..." Her voice cracked, and her eyes welled with fresh tears. 

Anthony met her gaze calmly. "Would you like to tell me exactly what I should say to Miss Davis? What truth do you think she needs to hear?" 

"Just tell her not to bully her classmates!" Pansy shouted. She tore off her mask, revealing the damage beneath. Angry, red, swollen scars, some festering, ran from her nose down to her collar—an ugly mix of burns and corrosion. 

Anthony was startled. "Have you gone to the hospital wing, Miss Parkinson?" 

"I don't need to go!" Pansy declared with her chin raised. "I want to keep this as evidence until Davis gets the punishment she deserves!" 

Anthony shook his head. "No, you should go now. Do you have any classes next, Miss Parkinson?" 

"I'm taking a leave," she muttered, her voice quieter now. "I can't let Draco see me like this." 

Anthony almost sighed. 

"You don't want Mr. Malfoy to see you, but you plan to keep these injuries until—what? Until Miss Davis decides to take responsibility?" Anthony asked. "Let's not even talk about how these wounds might worsen—do you really want to let it come to that, Miss Parkinson?" 

Pansy remained stubborn. "I won't go to the hospital wing." 

"I'm afraid that's not your decision, Parkinson," Anthony said gently but firmly. "Come on, I'll take you there—we'll use the staff corridor. I'll make sure no one sees you."