Angry Anthony

The lid of the crucible trembled slightly under the pressure of rising steam. The cellar was deathly quiet.

Anthony stood still, expressionless, taking a deep breath. Across from him, Snape's sallow face twisted into a malicious smile.

"Admit it, Anthony," he said with satisfaction. "You're just pretending. Just like you pretend to stand up for the students—"

"Shut up, Snape," Anthony whispered.

"Shut up? I don't think so." Snape sneered. "Why, have you tried it? Dear grandfather, I'm sorry—your bones have been eaten by wild dogs—"

"I said shut up!" Anthony snapped.

His voice echoed violently in the cellar.

A rattling sound suddenly stirred from the potion ingredient cabinets. Inside the huge glass jars and small crystal bottles, something began to shake. Several jars from the top shelf tipped over, shattering upon impact, sending sharp fragments scattering across the floor. A thick, yellow-green liquid seeped into the cracks between the stones, its contents unidentifiable.

Snape fell silent, his wand suddenly in hand. He took half a step back, his expression shifting from mocking to wary, his dark eyes now cold and defensive.

Anthony clenched his fists, his breathing heavy.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Grandma's cakes, Grandpa's candles, the square of golden sunlight cut into neat sections by the window frame, pooling onto the table. He took a deep, steadying breath.

But Snape's voice still echoed in his mind, like a whisper reverberating through the tunnels of a long-forgotten crypt.

No.

He hadn't meant to break anything.

He hadn't thought about how Snape would shatter like those jars.

—Hadn't imagined pushing him, ever so gently, into the black river—

—Hadn't considered how, then, Snape would finally understand what death truly meant.

And why Anthony had never even tried to bring Grandpa and Grandma back from it.

The necromantic energy coiled around him like a serpent, arching its back, curling around his fingers, urging him forward, whispering sweet encouragements.

The hourglass on the table suddenly screamed.

The potion's white steam twisted in the air, curling like smoke. The flame beneath the cauldron had dwindled, so weak it was on the verge of dying.

Anthony opened his eyes.

The top half of the hourglass was empty.

As if spelling out a single, undeniable sentence:

You have no time.

…

Suddenly, he was no longer in a dark, suffocating cellar.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows. The room was warm and bright.

His grandmother was cooking in the kitchen. The air smelled of fresh herbs and butter.

Anthony emptied the bucket and poured a glass of water for his grandfather.

Grandfather leaned back against three pillows, his breathing shallow. He smiled up at Anthony and raised a frail, trembling hand.

Anthony placed the cup in his grandfather's palm and gently curled his thin fingers around it. His skin was dry and papery, stretched taut over delicate bones. Anthony tightened his grip just slightly—just enough to steady him—before carefully lifting the cup to his lips.

"I'm sorry, little brush," Grandfather murmured.

His voice was faint, airy, but there was something else underneath—something deeper, something strained.

A rattling.

A sickness creeping in.

"I shouldn't have lost my temper with you…" Grandfather whispered. "I didn't mean to—you shouldn't…"

Anthony shook his head and tilted the cup just a little more.

"Really," Grandfather exhaled, his voice breaking, "I'm sorry I got this damn disease…"

Anthony said softly, "I know. It's okay, Grandfather."

"Little Brush, my child," Grandfather murmured, his voice weak. "What I said... I didn't mean it, you understand? Forgive me. And whatever you do, don't learn to swear—your grandmother will be furious with me."

He tried to make it sound like a joke, but Anthony felt a lump form in his throat.

"She won't," Anthony said, his lip quivering. "I'm going to say it anyway."

It was the only peaceful conversation they had had in months.

Three days later, on a quiet night, Grandfather passed away.

At the funeral, Anthony cursed.

Grandmother slapped him.

Then she pulled him into her arms and wept.

...

Before Snape could react, Anthony suddenly grabbed the ever-chiming hourglass—the one that never tired of singing praises to the relentless passage of time—and hurled it against the wall.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

The world tilted.

The door twisted and floated in midair. The carpet curled into a tangled heap. The armchair sagged limply onto the floor, as though it had melted into a pool of wax.

All around him, potion bottles and jars tumbled from shelves, crashing onto the stone floor in bursts of fine, shimmering dust. Glass and crystal fragments danced through the air, glittering like a million tiny stars.

Among the wreckage, the remaining potion ingredients—the spines of lionfish, buckets of dead rats and snakes, the preserved carcasses of salamanders and horned toads—twitched and writhed within their shattered containers.

Everything was chaos. Nothing was where it should be.

A tin of bat wings teetered dangerously on the edge of a shelf, only to be snatched away by a disembodied dragon claw, twisting wildly as if caught in a storm.

Snape gripped the table beside him, his knuckles white, as though trying to steady himself.

He raised his wand—once, twice—but his hand refused to rise fully.

A gust of magic swept through the room.

Glass shards spiraled through the air like deadly snowflakes. The chandelier overhead swung violently, its chains groaning under the strain. The floorboards creaked as if protesting.

The very walls wrinkled and warped, folding in on themselves like an old, discarded newspaper.

Then, with a deafening bang, the chandelier shattered—like a dying sun exploding into countless fragments.

Anthony barely registered the dull burning sensation in his arm. A second later, he heard the clang of glass shards hitting the floor—forcefully expelled from his skin as his wounds closed almost instantly.

He blinked, lowering his gaze.

A pool of blood stained the ground beneath him.

Strange. He didn't remember bleeding so much.

Then he realized—

It wasn't his blood.

Snape's face was pale, his brow furrowed in pain. He was still gripping the table, his teeth clenched, swaying slightly as though struggling to stay upright.

Anthony shook his head, his breath unsteady. Under the cover of Snape's black robes, it was difficult to see where he had been wounded, but the shattered remains of the chandelier had clearly struck more than just Anthony.

Slowly, hesitantly—Anthony raised his hand.

"God—"

The mocking whispers echoed in Anthony's ears again.

He shook his head and tried once more. "Expecto Patronum!"

Gray-black mist swirled from his wand—thin at first, then gathering rapidly into a massive shadow.

A bear emerged in the cellar. Its sheer size made the already cramped room feel suffocating. One of its hind legs landed inside the empty fireplace, crushing the iron grate beneath its weight.

The Patronus moved forward, knocking over the table. The flame beneath the crucible flickered out. The cauldron rolled twice across the floor before its lid slid open with a dull clink. A thick, viscous potion—somewhere between brown and deep purple—began to spill out, seeping into the cracks of the stone floor.

Anthony stood beneath the enormous creature's belly, feeling the world shift back into place. The room no longer twisted and warped—it was whole again, square and proper. The bear scanned the wreckage of Snape's office before sitting down unceremoniously, lowering its massive head to rest Anthony beneath its chin.

Anthony wrapped his arms around its huge muzzle, pressing his forehead against its nose.

Finally, he could breathe.

Snape slammed the door on his way out.

Anthony heard his uneven footsteps fading down the corridor.

Probably off to find Madam Pomfrey… he thought dully.

He lay there on the floor for a while, the bear's warmth grounding him, until something sticky seeped through the sleeve of his robes.

Frowning, he lifted his arm and sniffed.

"Oh, Merlin…" Anthony groaned, pushing himself upright. He needed to clean this mess up before Snape decided to personally extract a life debt from him.

It looked like Skullcat and Norbert had a fight.

Papers littered the floor, fluttering over the spilled potion like wilted leaves. He grabbed his wraith chicken project notes from beneath the bear's feet and spotted the missing pages wedged in the doorframe.

Several student essays floated atop the ruined potion extracts, their ink smeared into unintelligible blotches.

Anthony hesitated. Cleaning charms would remove everything, ink included, and he wasn't willing to risk it.

In the end, he muttered a Levitation Charm and spread the papers flat on the table, hoping they'd dry on their own.

"I really hope Snape doesn't make me pay for all of this," he muttered, attempting to decipher the dry, black crust clinging to the floor. Several shattered crystal bottles were beyond salvage, even with a Reparo.

He needed to go to Gringotts and check his savings.