The Pacifist Necromancer of Hogwarts

Chapter 318 Wall Dreams and Moonlight Ghosts

Tracy took a small step back, looked at Anthony, then turned around without saying a word and caught up with her classmates.

Anthony thought of his conversation with Professor McGonagall. Is quarreling also a form of communication, Minerva? In the midst of the dispute, will the students of different colleges gradually understand each other, or will the gap between them deepen?

So many, so many years of conflict have built up into a high, solid wall, and simple - and not unreasonable - prejudices have grown on it over time like wet moss, making attempts to climb over the wall difficult and embarrassing.

Several students who had returned from Hogsmeade greeted him with a smile. Anthony smiled and nodded at them. A breeze blew his wizard robes, and he heard the shouts and whistles of training coming from the Quidditch pitch in the distance.

He believed that other professors were also aware of this problem. Most professors would not treat students differently based on their colleges, and would often put Gryffindor and Slytherin, the two most conflicting colleges, together in class schedules, even though this would undoubtedly make it more difficult to maintain order in class.

As for the few professors - Anthony shook his head - at least, according to Dumbledore, Snape was the least bad of all the bad Slytherin headmaster options. After all, the rest of the Slytherins were either missing, or unconvincing, or in Azkaban, or like Malfoy and Umbridge... or, of course, Voldemort himself.

In this way, he let his thoughts roll while walking towards Hogwarts Castle.

Speaking of Voldemort, he just happened to have some research on flesh magic to do. Since Umbridge was concentrating on enjoying the resentment her power brought to others, she probably wasn't in the mood to find out if the professors at Hogwarts were doing some slightly illegal research today.

……

Later, Anthony decided it was time to get something to eat. He still had no idea how Voldemort was going to transfer his soul into the artificial body - according to Dumbledore and Snape - but he didn't want to continue looking at those weird illustrations and magical theories full of speculation and uncertainty.

Unlike Quirrell's case, a body made from unicorn blood, snake venom, or any other magical material would not naturally have a space for a soul - because it was not meant to be alive. In fact, if Voldemort really wanted a good body, instead of turning to these deep and ancient magics, Anthony knew a good place to start, starting with "A" and ending with "N", not the Amazon jungle.

"Are you all right, Henry?" said Professor Bubbage, as he reached for the slice of bread. "You look very bad."

"Thanks to Voldemort," Anthony muttered.

Professor Burbage turned her head to look at him and asked, "What's wrong?" She calmly dipped the bread into the soup, without showing any more special emotions about Voldemort's name, but Anthony had already reacted, rubbing his forehead and apologizing.

"That's nothing," said Professor Bubagji. "What did that man do?"

Anthony glanced across the table. Umbridge was talking to Snape, a smug smile on her face. Professors McGonagall and Sprout were not at the staff table, leaving Professor Flitwick sitting a few empty chairs between Professor Burbage and Umbridge, concentrating on sprinkling black pepper on potatoes.

"Nothing much, a little magical research." Anthony said vaguely, "Speaking of You-Know-Who, Charity, why...why do Slytherins still - at least appear to still - identify with the pure-blood thing? I mean, everyone keeps saying that You-Know-Who has been defeated, but those people still act as if they consider themselves followers of You-Know-Who, even if this puts them out of tune with the other houses -"

"First of all, a very important point, Henry, except for the children you see in school, most Slytherins will not claim that they agree with pure-bloodism." Professor Burbage whispered, "Since the disappearance of the Dark Lord eleven years ago, except for those lunatics who sincerely followed him, most people - oh, changed their faces and claimed that they were never pure-bloods. Ha, I heard that they said something else in private."

Anthony nodded.

"But, back to your question. Apart from those children who are influenced by their families, I believe - I am willing to believe - that there are many students who do not agree with pure-bloodism, but..."

Professor Bubaggi paused, stirring his soup slowly with a spoon, choosing his words carefully.

"And have to pretend it?" asked Anthony.

"It's a conflict with those who are against pure-blood doctrine," said Professor Bubbage. "You know, many people are also prejudiced against Slytherin students, calling them destined dark wizards, even if they haven't done anything yet..." She sighed, "You don't want to know how many such stories I've heard in the Wizengamot - accusations spark anger, anger turns to conflict, and conflict leads to hatred."

Anthony was surprised and said, "In that case, why don't we stop these conflicts?"

Professor Bubbage smiled. "Because we are stupid humans, Henry. To be honest, after graduating from the seventh year, a Slytherin may know more Gryffindors than he knows Ravenclaws... and if you have experienced the Second Wizarding War, you will probably understand that killing an acquaintance is more uncomfortable than killing a stranger, no matter how annoying the acquaintance is."

Making the pain of murder a goal is not a reassuring solution, Anthony thought as he lay in bed. He could hear his cat rustling around in the bag of colorful fish in the corner (it was almost completely empty), and the ghost chicken had long since squatted at the head of the bed, curled up and dozed off. He breathed a sigh of relief, turned over, pulled the quilt over his shoulders, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Perhaps because he had been thinking about the dispute between the houses, or perhaps because he had been entangled in flesh magic all afternoon, Anthony had a strange dream. He dreamed that he was back in Scrimgeour's office, and Dumbledore announced that he would be admitted as the oldest student at Hogwarts. The next moment, he found himself sitting in a chair with a hat weighing heavily on his head.

"He's a necromancer! He'll definitely go to Slytherin!" a voice that sounded very much like Hagrid boomed, "It specializes in accepting dark wizards!"

Anthony wanted to speak, but he found that he couldn't. The hat on his head was getting heavier and heavier... it was almost suffocating him... Suddenly, the Sorting Hat turned into Quirrell's scarf. Anthony looked up and saw Quirrell standing in front of him, pale and sweaty, with a huge garlic on his head. The garlic began to persuade Anthony to join some crazy research, trying to make him agree that all fennel should be turned into garlic. Quirrell's scarf became bigger and bigger until it blocked Anthony's vision. The buzz of discussion came from nowhere and drowned him like a tide... He returned to the silent river, drifting quietly, drifting...

Anthony woke up suddenly. The ghost chicken was pecking at his fingers with concern.

"Thanks," Anthony muttered, rubbing the ghost chicken's head with his fingers, still feeling his head was too heavy to move. He reached out and pushed the cat off his face.

The cat half opened its eyes in dissatisfaction, turned over on the pillow, tucked its tail in, and curled up to sleep again.

Anthony moved to the other side of the pillow and lay there for a while, but he could no longer sleep. He sighed, sat up, put on his dressing gown, and slowly got out of bed. The room was shrouded in a waking darkness, as if all the furniture was awake, but was wrapped in the dark dream outside the curtains.

Anthony walked around the empty cat bed on the floor, washed his face in the bathroom, and then went to the office and turned on the light. The firelight shone on the pen holder, ink bottle, photo frame, pile of books and rolls of parchment, casting long shadows on the desk and wall. He flipped through the textbooks and past exam papers provided by Professor Bubbage, wrote a few pages of lesson plans, propped up his head and used a pen to poke the leaves of the white fresh grass, thought about things aimlessly for a while, and opened the drawer again, wanting to take out the notebook and the research materials on flesh magic given to him by Dumbledore.

The dragon model was walking across his notebook. In the drawer he also saw the notebook on necromancy from Barrow and—he pulled that book out—the Christmas present Quirrell had given him.

Anthony recalled how many times Quirrell had persuaded him to join him in his loyalty to Voldemort, and how he frequently expressed his reluctance to be his enemy. Even though Quirrell kept repeating "power" and "strength", until the last moment, he did not harm any of the students (except torturing them with a suffocating smell). In contrast, he killed an innocent unicorn.

Whether it was cowardice or unwillingness, or just cold calculation, it made Quirrell's weak soul closer to human beings and closer to life than Voldemort's - even though it was already a cursed life. Killing an acquaintance is more painful than killing a stranger... Anthony thought.

He stared at the cover of the book for a while, then stuffed it and the other things back into the drawer, deciding not to study the dark arts after the nightmare.

The dragon model struggled to climb up the spine of the book. Anthony walked out the door, planning to take a walk. Maybe he could feed the giant squid, or catch up with the music-loving three-headed dog named Fluffy.

……

He saw an unexpected figure in the moonlit black lake.

"Myrtle?"

The milky white ghost seemed to be startled and turned her head sharply. She replied with a distressed look: "Hello, Professor Anthony. Are you also washed down?"

"Uh... no?"

"Yes, and only Myrtle gets flushed down the toilet!" said Myrtle angrily. "Of course, I'm used to it. No one - no one - ever says hello to me before they flush the toilet! No one cares if poor Myrtle is still in the toilet!"

"Well..." Anthony said, half squatting on the shore, "that's bad."

"It's terrible, Professor. You can't imagine." Myrtle looked at him suspiciously. "You are laughing at me in your heart, aren't you?"

More than a year of living as a neighbor had made Anthony accustomed to the way Myrtle spoke. Compared to those times filled with crying and flooding, this was a time when Myrtle was in a good mood.

"No, I was wondering if you saw the man who made the mistake," Anthony said. "It sounds like someone is out on a night cruise."

A look of gloating appeared on Myrtle's face, and then her mood suddenly dropped again.

"I didn't see it," she said. "I was in my favorite toilet, thinking about my miserable fate. Suddenly someone came in. I was busy crying, so I ignored her... She walked around the bathroom, and boom! My stall door was pushed open. The next thing I knew, I was rushed here." She sniffed. "How rude! Will you catch her, Professor Anthony?"

"If luck is good," said Anthony, "or if this lady is unlucky. If I meet her, I will make her apologize to you."

"That's great," Myrtle said hopefully.

Anthony stood up. "Well, have a nice evening, Myrtle. Now that you've reminded me, I can go see which students are out on the night tour tonight."

(End of this chapter)