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"If I'm not mistaken, you wished to see us, Professor Dumbledore?" Umbridge asked, her voice sickly-sweet, even more cloying than usual.
Dumbledore smiled, drew his wand, and gave it a slight flick—Umbridge's step hitched for a wary moment—and two plush, patterned armchairs appeared opposite his desk.
"Good afternoon, Dolores," he said pleasantly. "Good afternoon, Henry. I hope I haven't interrupted your little meeting too grievously. Please, sit."
"Not at all, Professor," Anthony said.
Once they were seated, Dumbledore straightened, steepling his fingers as he regarded Anthony over his half-moon spectacles. "Now, how have you been, Henry?"
"Alright…" Anthony began, then glanced at Umbridge beside him. "Though, sir, there is something I think you should know—"
"Whenever you wish to tell me, Henry, I am always ready to listen," Dumbledore interjected gently. "But first, let me confirm one thing. Do you have any plans to leave Hogwarts?"
"Me? No. Not at the moment," Anthony said, his eyes darting to Umbridge again.
Umbridge leaned back in her chair, head bowed, her stubby, ring-laden fingers fiddling with the lace at her cuffs. To Anthony's growing irritation, her wide, toad-like mouth was stretched in a smug, knowing smirk. She clearly understood exactly what was happening, while he was still in the dark.
Dumbledore slid the parchment towards him. "As I thought."
Anthony took it. The entire letter was written in a neat, precise hand using ink that shimmered faintly with a purplish-gold sheen.
It began: In recognition of Professor Henry Anthony's diligent research and exceptional achievements at your esteemed institution (Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, henceforth "Hogwarts"), his application for a position within the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries is hereby approved.
"What?" Anthony said, looking up at Dumbledore. Dumbledore leaned forward with keen interest, peering at the upside-down text as if he found the entire situation fascinating.
Anthony read on: In accordance with the International Consensus on Magical Research and the International Regulations on Special Magical Affairs, an Unspeakable may not hold any concurrent appointment outside the Ministry of Magic. Consequently, Hogwarts is required to facilitate Professor Henry Anthony's resignation from his teaching post. This letter serves as official notice. Compliance is expected by the first of July.
Dolores Jane Umbridge Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic
A light-purple Ministry seal was stamped over the title and Umbridge's name.
The letter ended.
Anthony looked at Dumbledore—whose bright blue eyes were still fixed on the parchment with keen interest—then back at the letter—the 'M' in the seal rotated slowly—then at Umbridge. She was eyeing the letter with a sideways glance, her revolting smile plastered on her face.
"Goodness," she simpered. "I seem to have forgotten to congratulate you, Professor Anthony."
Too many questions clogged Anthony's throat at once. For a moment, he was speechless, unsure which to ask first.
"Though I suppose it's not too late," Umbridge said with false warmth. "Professor Anthony, it is my great pleasure to welcome you as my colleague. The work of an Unspeakable is vital, noble, and of course, shrouded in secrecy… Oh, and we intend to place you in the Death Chamber."
Anthony stared at her. A dangerous, vivid impulse flashed through him: to shove the letter right into that gaping, smiling mouth. He had lost his quiet, monotonous muggle life and crashed headlong into this bizarre, glittering magical world. And now, just as he had come to love Hogwarts, they wanted to rip him away from this stable, warm life—his life—again?
He took a deep breath.
He heard himself ask, "The Death Chamber?"
"I'm sure you'll find it quite to your liking," Umbridge said. "Very… suitable." She turned to Dumbledore. "I trust you have no objections, Headmaster?"
"So long as Professor Anthony has not yet submitted his resignation to me, he remains a professor at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said calmly.
"We are all quite aware of why the Ministry originally permitted you to take him," Umbridge said, gesturing vaguely in Anthony's direction without looking at him. "Hogwarts gave its assurances that Mr. Anthony's nature would not become public knowledge and that he would pose no threat to the wizarding world."
"I believe I did give those assurances," Dumbledore said politely.
"And since Hogwarts has failed to uphold its end of the bargain, perhaps it is best that this particular magical hazard be placed under the Ministry's direct supervision. That was the understanding, was it not?"
Dumbledore said, "I'm afraid I don't follow. In what way has Hogwarts failed?"
"Oh, come now, Dumbledore. You know perfectly well," Umbridge said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You have failed in your duty of oversight. You've allowed a dark wizard to roam the school freely, even encouraging him to obstruct a Ministry-appointed investigator…"
"I thought I was helping," Anthony said.
"Tut-tut. You may say whatever you like now," Umbridge said, her smile widening. "But you'll soon realize the Department of Mysteries is a far more suitable place for you than Azkaban."
Anthony asked, "What if I say no?"
"Oh, you can't. No, no, no. You simply cannot," Umbridge said, her tone condescending, as if speaking to a petulant child. "The work of an Unspeakable is far too important. One can't simply join or leave the Department on a whim, or everything would fall into chaos, wouldn't it? As it says here—" She stood, walked around her chair, and peered at the letter. "Ah, yes. The International Regulations on Special Magical Affairs—it requires Unspeakables in every nation to keep the secrets of the magic they study."
Umbridge paused, savoring the moment. "As for the British Ministry's own requirements… a witch or wizard cannot leave the Department for three years after joining, and cannot hold any appointment outside the Ministry for five years after departure. Since you are now an Unspeakable, I expect departure would be… difficult." She patted Anthony's arm in a gesture of false reassurance, then let her hand rest heavily on his shoulder.
Anthony turned his head to look directly at her. He repeated, "And if I say no?"
Umbridge beamed. "The Department of Mysteries is not Azkaban, Anthony. Did you think your little tricks with dark creatures were some profound magic? Intimidation spells, or whatever other muttering nonsense… Wizards have long since found ways to deal with such things."
Anthony heard a faint crack.
Almost instantly, tendrils of black smoke seeped from between her fingers. They coiled around her short, thick digits, then flowed rapidly across her entire palm… Only then did Anthony notice that one of the many ugly rings on that hand had a shattered gemstone.
To his shock, his necromancy vanished. He couldn't feel it. The absence was a void. An emptiness in every bone. It was like coming home to find a flatmate had moved out overnight—their shoes gone from the doorway, their umbrella missing, the kitchen buzzing with an unfamiliar echo.
Dumbledore's expression sharpened. "A Grave-Digger's Hand, Dolores? I was under the impression someone with your… aversion to the Dark Arts would not resort to such a thing."
"A confiscated, reviewed, and Ministry-approved magical artifact," Umbridge corrected primly. "Do not fret, Dumbledore. You know its purpose. Your professor will be perfectly fine, so long as he does not attempt to use dark magic."
Dumbledore shot Anthony a sharp, concerned look.
Anthony tried to smile back. He tried to brush Umbridge's hand away. His arm wouldn't move. In fact, he found he couldn't move at all. His heart was slowing—its beat growing fainter, fainter—his blood flowed thicker, slower. He was, in essence, gradually becoming what he ought to have been all along: an ordinary corpse.
"I had hoped our conversation might be more civil, Dolores," Dumbledore said, his tone grave. "I find your actions both offensive and rash."
Anthony searched every inch of this shell, trying to find where the necromancy had gone. Dumbledore probably still thought Anthony had a soul, like other necromancers in history. He likely hadn't anticipated that Anthony was built of necromancy. Without it, he was just a corpse. But that didn't make sense either. Without necromancy, how could he still think? Shouldn't he be a good, empty-headed corpse? Then again, he didn't actually know what other corpses thought about…
"You must be quite surprised, Anthony," Umbridge whispered. "The department you are about to join conducted a few… experiments on this artifact. Tailored for lesser dark creatures…"
He found it.
Dumbledore seemed to be saying something to Umbridge. About whether a necromancer was a dark creature or a person. Or about Dumbledore disagreeing with her demands. Anthony didn't much care. He had found it. Or rather, the necromancy had found him. It flooded back along the pathways of his thought, filling every corner of the body. A tide returning. A crashing wave. A surge.
The nearest soul felt like a bottle of milk left out too long. The lid slightly bulged. Pale yellow solids clung to the glass. You wouldn't want to open it. Though it could be yogurt. Still edible. There was a chance.
No.
A little farther, another soul. Tart and sweet, mixed with the scent of complex spices. It was growing richer, warmer. Like an apple pie in the oven.
No.
Apple pie did sound good, though. He was a bit hungry.
No.
He heard sounds, broken and distant, as if from above the water's surface. "Ministry… Department of Mysteries… requirement…"
"But Henry Anthony is the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts," the apple-pie soul said, crystal clear.
It really did smell delicious.
No, Anthony thought.
Light and sound rushed back into his awareness.
The world tilted slightly. One small push, and everything would roll off the edge. Everything. Umbridge's hateful, smiling face. The letter in purple ink. The teapot on the desk. Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles. The silver instruments puffing smoke. The high windows. The ancient stones…
The cloying voice. Jeering from the windows. Arrogant, foolish tones. Peeves's cackle. Moaning Myrtle's sobs. Shouted arguments. The sharp whistle from the Quidditch pitch. Laughter. All that noise. One small push, and it would all end in a snap. Then silence. Vast, empty, quiet…
Fawkes trilled, a bright, clear note.
…And he would roll off the edge too. Anthony would fall with it all.
Umbridge was saying, "…He might be startled at first. Hesitant. Timid. But the Minister will come to see it's all necessary. He won't approve, of course, but an Unspeakable—"
Her voice cut off.
Because Anthony turned his head. He raised his hand. He lifted her thick, stubby, smoke-wreathed fingers from his shoulder and moved her hand away.
Umbridge's mouth hung open, as if she'd choked on her own words.
Dumbledore offered Anthony a small smile, fingertips pressed together, waiting calmly.
Anthony said, "I said no."
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