章節 163: Everyone is happy
Anthony didn't sleep well that night. Rain pounded against the windows, and flashes of lightning lit up the room intermittently. In the dead of night, a thunderous clap startled the wraith mouse, which darted straight into the patchwork cat bed where Anthony had stored five apples. The sudden intrusion woke the cat lying atop the bed, and the ensuing scuffle led to both creatures knocking over the coat rack. This, in turn, toppled a locker, which hit the bedside table, sending a suitcase sliding onto Anthony's bed and jolting him awake.
"Alright, alright," Anthony groaned, sitting up and feeling under his pillow for his wand. "Reparo."
The chaos subsided somewhat, but the mouse insisted on hiding in Anthony's cold bed, while the cat demanded a drink. Resigned, Anthony poured some wine into the food bowl for the howling undead creature and handed an apple to the trembling mouse.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the glass. Anthony raised his wand, casting a faint glow across the room as he turned on the light and prepared himself for the telephone interview scheduled for the morning.
Fortunately, as dawn broke, the rain eased. Sunlight began filtering through the clouds, and the air carried the fresh, earthy scent of a recent thunderstorm.
Roberts arrived at Anthony's office promptly, looking as if he hadn't slept at all. He was so nervous that he kept double-checking his prepared answers with Anthony and almost slipped on the muddy path outside.
Anthony reassured him, "You're well-prepared, Roberts. Don't overthink it."
Still, Roberts fretted. "Would a Muggle feed a cat rat jerky?"
Anthony blinked. "Uh... I don't think so. You can just say 'cat food.' If they ask for specifics—which I doubt they will—you can respond with something like, 'I'll consult with a veterinarian to ensure the best diet for my cat's health.' Always defer to the veterinarian."
"Ask the veterinarian about everything," Roberts repeated earnestly.
"I'm sure you remember what a veterinarian is?" Anthony teased lightly. "You did write down its definition during the exam."
"Muggles run hospitals for their pets," Roberts recited. "Veterinarians are the humans who work in those hospitals—essentially healers for animals."
"Exactly," Anthony confirmed. "It's akin to a magical creature expert in our world or perhaps a particularly knowledgeable shopkeeper at a magical pet store."
Roberts chuckled. "If an owl fell sick in its shed, I doubt Professor Kettleburn would climb up to treat it himself."
It was Anthony's first time Apparating with another person since receiving his permit. He urged Roberts to hold tightly to his arm. Roberts, still uneasy, briefly considered the alternative—a 40-minute trek through the damp wilderness—but quickly dismissed it.
"Alright, ready? Three…two…one—"
They spun, the familiar squeezing sensation enveloping Anthony as Roberts clung to him tightly, nearly ripping his robes in the process. When the world finally stopped spinning, Roberts stumbled to a small, shabby bed in the room Anthony had booked, looking pale and queasy.
Anthony surveyed the room, which reeked of mildew. There was a single window, its tattered curtains letting in faint, dappled light that revealed peeling floral wallpaper adorned with water stains. The threadbare carpet showed the wooden floor beneath, and the bed springs creaked as Roberts collapsed onto it.
The phone sat on a wobbly wooden bedside table. Its tangled plastic cord and faded keys—some worn nearly blank—completed the picture of disrepair.
Roberts rolled over, spotting the phone. "Oh, a touch-tone phone! Don't Muggles use dials anymore, Professor? I always liked the sound they made."
"Some might still use them," Anthony replied. "But buttons are more common now—they're faster and easier."
"But dials are more fun," Roberts insisted.
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Alright, consider this. Imagine Apparition as we know it now, with all its squeezing, spinning, and twisting. But suppose someone invents an improved method that omits all of that. You'd just close your eyes, and when you opened them, you'd be at your destination. If both were equally easy to learn, which would you choose?"
"The second one, of course," Roberts said, twisting the phone cord around his fingers. "Alright, I understand your point."
Anthony chuckled, "You can still see dial phones in some places. Museums are sure to keep a few, and if you're really into dials, visit the Ministry of Magic's guest entrance. Just pretend you've forgotten the magical number to access the Ministry. You might spend hours there."
Anthony tested the phone line by calling his home, ensuring there were no issues. Roberts, eager to practice, said a few words into the microphone, only for Anthony to remind him not to shout.
They sat in the shabby hotel room, anxiously watching the wall clock, uncertain if it kept accurate time. When the agreed-upon time finally arrived, Roberts jumped up, clutching the phone and the sheet of numbers Anthony had written down. His hands trembled as he carefully pressed each button, as though he were handling a fragile Norwegian Ridgeback egg.
The pet rescue employee, who sounded like a man in his thirties, greeted Roberts warmly. "Relax, Mr. Roberts," he said, laughing lightly. "Think of this as just a casual chat."
"Okay—okay," Roberts stammered.
When the employee asked, "I see you're conducting this interview on behalf of your mother. Ms. Roberts is in London, but you're at school in Scotland. If you adopt the cat, who will primarily take care of it?" Roberts hesitated. Nervously, he blurted out, "I don't know, I'll ask the vet... uh, ask them who they recommend to care for the cat."
"Vet?" The shelter employee sounded momentarily surprised before continuing, "Alright, I see."
After the call ended, Roberts turned to Anthony with a defeated expression. "I messed up, didn't I, Professor Anthony?"
Anthony smiled encouragingly. "No, you handled it very well. I didn't need to step in at all. I think I can congratulate you in advance."
"But I said 'vet!'" Roberts exclaimed anxiously. "Why did I say that? I should've mentioned my mum or dad in London. I should've said someone from my family would take care of the cat, not the vet!"
"Relax, Roberts," Anthony said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Take a deep breath. You didn't screw up. In fact, I think the employee was impressed. He even said 'see you later,' which is a good sign."
"But I said 'vet!' I sounded like a fool!" Roberts moaned.
Anthony chuckled. "You sounded like a concerned and responsible future pet owner. That's what matters. You showed genuine care for Isabella, and that's important."
Even with Anthony's reassurances, Roberts muttered nervously before they Apparated back to Hogwarts. "What if Isabella can't be my cat because I messed up? What if no one else adopts her? I don't want her to... to die in the shelter. I already think of her as my cat."
"Isabella will be your cat, and she'll be a happy cat," Anthony said firmly. Then, with a playful grin, he added, "And if the rescue center rejects an adopter as sincere as you, I'll send them a strongly worded letter—and then sneak into the shelter in the dead of night to rescue Isabella myself."
Roberts stared at him wide-eyed. "Is stealing a cat a violation of the Statute of Secrecy?"
"Technically, it might not violate the Statute of Secrecy, but it could break the Muggle Protection Act," Anthony said with a laugh. "I'm kidding, Mr. Roberts. Please don't steal any cats."
Anthony counted to three, and they spun into the dizzying vortex of Apparition. Roberts, still gripping Anthony's arm tightly, kept his mouth shut and his eyes closed, opting not to debate Anthony's joke.
...
The rest of the week, Anthony accompanied more students for their telephone interviews.
Several students' responses during their interviews puzzled the shelter staff, prompting Anthony to accompany them on follow-up home visits to London. On one such visit, a bewitched teacup nearly dashed in front of the visiting staff, but the man of the house quickly shoved it to the floor, and his wife stomped on it, shattering it into pieces.
"Now, where were we?" the lady asked kindly, diverting the employee's attention away from the commotion. "Oh yes, the yard. We have a very spacious yard. Would you like to see it?"
After the interviews concluded, Ms. Howard promptly sent Anthony a list of approved adopters. Apart from two students who had withdrawn their applications midway, all adoption requests were approved. Anthony entrusted the prefects of each house with the task of delivering the good news: the students could travel to London to pick up their new pets.
The news was met with immense joy. Even on the day they received their final grades, students were abuzz with excitement, chattering enthusiastically about their soon-to-arrive pets.
"I only got a P in Herbology," Fred Weasley remarked nonchalantly, "but who cares? We're getting a new owl! Errol's finally retiring!"
He and George folded their report cards into paper airplanes and set them hovering above the Gryffindor table. Their grades, mostly composed of "A"s, floated in the air, much to Professor McGonagall's disapproval. She glared at the twins with pursed lips, as though willing the paper airplanes to nosedive into their oatmeal.
After the Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, Roger Davies's recovery took a noticeable turn for the better. The redness and swelling on his body subsided significantly, and his voice had lost its hoarseness.
Perhaps distracted by their previous match against Slytherin, Ravenclaw played with heightened caution. When Gryffindor's Seeker, Harry Potter, executed a daring dive, the Ravenclaw Seeker hesitated, suspecting it was a feint. By the time they spotted the Snitch, it was too late—Harry had already caught it, securing Gryffindor's victory in the Quidditch Cup. Both houses celebrated jubilantly on the field.
Roger Davies, too, had reason to celebrate; Madam Pomfrey finally allowed him to eat normal food. When Anthony visited the hospital wing, he found Roger happily devouring a plate of bacon and grilled sausages, with a glass of iced pumpkin juice on his bedside table.
"Glad to see you're feeling better, Mr. Davies," Anthony said, nodding at Tracy, who was seated by her brother's bed.
"Thank you, Professor Anthony," Roger said, attempting to swallow his mouthful of food. "I'm happy to be feeling better, too."
"What are your plans for the holidays?" Anthony inquired.
As far as Anthony knew, Hogwarts had attempted to contact Roger's father during his illness but had received no response. Despite Roger's improving condition, the healers recommended he stay at Hogwarts for further recovery.
"I might be the first student in Hogwarts history to stay here for summer vacation," Roger said with a wry smile, glancing at Tracy. "You could be the second."
"I can't," Tracy replied. "I applied, but the school didn't approve it. So I have to go back to that family."
Roger suggested, "You could go to the Weasleys if you want. They invited me before I got hurt. They said there are goblins and ghouls in their house, and Mrs. Weasley loves to feed her guests until they burst. It sounds like heaven, doesn't it?"
Tracy pulled a face. "Their house is full of boys."
"They have a little sister," Roger pointed out. "The youngest one—I forget her name. She'll be starting at Hogwarts next year. You should make some friends, Tracy. The Weasleys are warm, cheerful people."
"Don't call me Tracy," she said sharply. "And I do have friends. Pansy Parkinson is a very, very good friend of mine."
Roger looked at her in disbelief, his plate tilting precariously, nearly sending a sausage tumbling to the floor. "What are you talking about, Tracy? Who's Pansy Parkinson?"
"She's a friend," Tracy said lightly, casting a glance at Anthony. "In fact, I'm thinking of inviting her to our house for the summer."
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