Chapter 318 Walls, Dreams, and Ghosts in the Moonlight

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

Anthony thought about his conversation with Professor McGonagall. Is quarreling also a form of communication, Minerva? In the midst of the dispute, will students from each college gradually understand each other, or will the estrangement deepen?

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

Several students returning from Hogsmeade greeted him with smiles. Anthony smiled back at them and nodded. A breeze ruffled his wizarding robes, and he heard the shouts and whistles of practice coming from the Quidditch pitch in the distance.

He believes other professors are undoubtedly aware of this problem. Most professors will not treat students differently because of their house, and will frequently put Gryffindor and Slytherin, the two most conflicting houses, together when arranging class schedules, although this will undoubtedly Making it more difficult to maintain order in the classroom.

As for the few professors - Anthony shook his head - at least, according to Dumbledore, Snape was already the less bad of all the bad options for Head of Slytherin. After all, the remaining Slytherins are either missing, or unconvinced, or in Azkaban, or like Malfoy and Umbridge...or, of course, Voldemort himself.

In this way, while letting his thoughts swirl, he walked towards Hogwarts Castle.

Speaking of Voldemort, he happened to still have some research on flesh and blood 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 whether the professors at Hogwarts had conducted some somewhat illegal research today.

…

Later, Anthony decided it was time to get something to eat. He still had no idea how Voldemort planned to transfer his soul into - according to Dumbledore and Snape - an artificial body, but he no longer wanted to look at those weirdly styled illustrations and pictures full of them. Conjectures and uncertain magical theories are gone.

Unlike Quirrell's case, a body made from unicorn blood, snake venom, or any other magical magical material does not naturally leave a space for a soul - because it is not meant to be alive in the first place. In fact, if Voldemort really wants a good body, instead of turning to these profound and ancient magics, Anthony knows a good place, starting with "A" and ending with "N", not the Amazon jungle.

"Are you okay, Henry?" Professor Bubbaji said as he reached for the slice of bread. "You look terrible."

"Thanks to Voldemort," Anthony muttered.

Professor Boubaji glanced sideways 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 and kneaded the bread. He apologized on his forehead.

"It's nothing," Professor Boubaji said. "What did that man do?"

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

"Nothing, a little magic research." Anthony said vaguely, "Speaking of You-Know-Who, Caredi, why...why does Slytherin still-at least seems to still-identify with pure blood? I What I mean is, everyone is 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 it puts them at odds with the rest of the academy—"

"First of all, a very important point, Henry, except for the children you see in school, most Slytherins will not declare that they agree with pure-bloodism." Professor Bubbaji whispered, "Since the Black Panthers eleven years ago After the demon disappeared, except for those madmen who followed him sincerely, most people - oh, changed their minds and claimed that they had never been pure bloodists. Ha, I heard that they said something else in private. "

Anthony nodded.

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

Professor Bubaji paused, slowly stirring his soup with a spoon, and thinking about his words.

"But you have to pretend?" Anthony asked.

"It's about conflicts with those who oppose pure-bloodism." Professor Bubbaji said, "You know, many people are also prejudiced against Slytherin students, calling them doomed dark wizards, even if they have nothing Not yet..." She sighed, "You don't want to know how many times I've heard this in the Wizengamot - accusations fueling anger, anger turning into conflict, conflict leading to hatred."

Anthony said in surprise: "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 now, 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 acquaintances is more uncomfortable than killing strangers, no matter how annoying the acquaintance is."

The goal of making yourself feel unhappy when murdering is not a reassuring solution in any way, Anthony thought as he lay in bed. He could hear his cat rustling and turning over the bag of colorful ball fish in the corner (it was almost completely empty), and the ghost chicken squatted at the head of the bed early, shrinking its neck and taking a nap. 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 colleges, or perhaps because he was 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 heavy hat on his head.

"He's a necromancer! He'll definitely go to Slytherin!" A voice that sounded very much like Hagrid rumbled, "That's where they specialize in 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 get him to 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 from nowhere sounded, drowning 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, but still felt that 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, and curled up to sleep again.

Anthony moved to the other end of the pillow and lay there for a while, but he was no longer sleepy. 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 and deep night dream outside the curtains.

Anthony walked around the empty cat bed on the floor, went to the bathroom to wash his face, 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 black shadows on the table and wall. He flipped through the textbooks and the past exam papers provided by Professor Bubbage, wrote a few pages of lesson plans, propped up his head and used a pen to fiddle with the leaves of the white fresh tree, thought about things aimlessly for a while, and then opened the drawer, wanting to take out the notebook and the research materials on flesh magic given to him by Dumbledore.

The dragon model was walking on his notebook. In the drawer, he also saw the notebook on necromancy from Barrow, and - he pulled out the book - the Christmas gift that Quirrell gave him.

Anthony remembered how Quirrell had persuaded him to be loyal to Voldemort with him several times, and frequently expressed his reluctance to be his enemy. Even though Quirrell kept repeating something about "power" and "strength", until the last moment, he did not hurt any student (except torturing them with suffocating smells). In contrast, he killed an innocent unicorn.

Whether it was cowardice or reluctance, or just cold calculation, it made Quirrell's weak soul closer to humans and life than Voldemort's - even though it was already a cursed life. Killing someone you know is more painful than killing a stranger... Anthony thought.

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

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

...

He saw an unexpected figure in the moonlit black lake.

"Myrtle?"

The milky white ghost seemed to be startled and turned his head sharply. She replied with a sad face: "Hello, Professor Anthony. Are you washed down too?"

"Uh... No?"

"Yes, only Myrtle will be washed down!" Myrtle said angrily, "Of course, I'm used to this kind of life. No one - never anyone - says hello to me before flushing the toilet! No one cares if there is poor Myrtle in the toilet!"

"Well..." Anthony half-squatted on the shore and said, "That's terrible."

"It's terrible, professor, you can't imagine." Myrtle looked at him suspiciously, "You are secretly making fun of me in your heart, right?"

More than a year of neighbor life has made Anthony accustomed to the way Myrtle speaks. Compared with those moments filled with crying and floods, this is already a good time for Myrtle.

"No, I was wondering if you saw the rude person," Anthony said. "It sounds like someone is strolling at night."

Myrtle's face showed a gloating look, and then her mood suddenly fell again.

"I didn't see it," she said. "I was in my favorite toilet at the time, recalling my tragic fate. Suddenly someone came in. I was busy crying and ignored her... She walked around the bathroom, and bang! My cubicle door was pushed open. Then I was rushed here." She sniffed, "How rude! Will you catch her, Professor Anthony?"

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

Myrtle said with some expectation: "Great."

Anthony stood up: "Well, have a good night, Myrtle. You reminded me, I can go and see which students are strolling at night tonight."