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Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, wished he could cast a Killing Curse on his own headache.
On his desk lay an emergency report from the Warden of Azkaban, written in shaky handwriting that looked like it had been scribbled during an earthquake.
Subject: Prisoner 998, Henry AnthonyIncident Report:1. The Dementors are on strike. They refuse to approach the High Security Wing because the prisoner keeps trying to "pet" them.2. The prisoner complained about the dampness. He then proceeded to animate the skeletal remains within the prison walls to form a "moisture-absorbing ventilation system."3. At 6:00 AM, the prisoner simply walked out. The Dementors parted like the Red Sea to let him pass. He claimed he had to "clock in for work."
Scrimgeour put down the report, took a deep breath, and looked at the man sitting opposite him.
Henry Anthony looked nothing like a dark wizard who had just single-handedly dismantled the security of the wizarding world's most terrifying prison. He looked like... an accountant waiting for a tax audit. He was even politely holding a cup of tea.
"So," Scrimgeour said, his voice dangerously calm. "Let me get this straight. You didn't escape. You... 'left to request leave'?"
"Exactly, sir," Anthony nodded frankly. "It's a matter of principle. I work at Wheely Supermarket. If I don't show up, I lose my attendance bonus. I couldn't explain to my manager why I was detained in a damp castle with fifty-some floating rags, so I came here to find the person in charge."
Anthony took a sip of tea, looking earnest. "I have rights as a taxpayer. I demand an explanation for this illegal detention. Also, your prison has a serious mold problem. It's a health code violation."
Scrimgeour tapped the edge of his desk. The teapot levitated to refill Anthony's cup for the third time. He needed a moment to process the absurdity.
"Mr. Anthony," Scrimgeour said, rubbing his temples. "I'll say this one last time. Necromancy is not a 'health code violation.' It is Class-A Dark Magic. It blurs the boundary between life and death. History has taught us—"
"History?" Anthony interrupted gently. "You mean the part where you lock a law-abiding citizen up without trial because his cat has a few exposed bones?"
"That 'cat' was a reanimated corpse!" Scrimgeour snapped.
"It was a support animal," Anthony corrected. "And frankly, those 'Dementors' of yours? They have terrible customer service. They kept trying to kiss me without consent."
Scrimgeour stared at him. He had interrogated Death Eaters, dark fanatics, and psychopaths. He had never interrogated someone who treated Azkaban like a poorly run Airbnb.
"Fine," Scrimgeour sighed, opening a fresh piece of parchment. "Let's start from the beginning. There is clearly a misunderstanding. If you are not a dark wizard trained abroad... what is your Alma Mater? Durmstrang? Mahoutokoro?"
"King's College London," Anthony answered immediately. "Bachelor of Business Management."
Scrimgeour's quill paused. "I beg your pardon?"
"King's College. You can check my records," Anthony said, leaning forward. "I have an employment contract, a rental agreement, national insurance records, and a bank statement. I've lived in London my whole life. Except for last March, I have a perfect attendance record at work."
Scrimgeour frowned. "An undetected British wizard living entirely as a Muggle... This is Dumbledore's jurisdiction."
He looked at Anthony with a mixture of suspicion and confusion. "You said 'except for last March'. Where were you then?"
Anthony hesitated. For the first time, the calm, bureaucratic composure of the grocery clerk faltered. He looked away, embarrassed.
"Uh... well." Anthony scratched his cheek. "Technically speaking, I should have been dead then."
The office went silent. The only sound was the scratching of Scrimgeour's quill, which had suddenly stopped.
Scrimgeour slowly raised his head. "Dead?"
"Roughly dead," Anthony corrected, making a vague gesture with his hand. "For about a month."
"Dead for a month," Scrimgeour repeated, his eyes narrowing.
"Right. And then, through my tireless efforts and a bit of luck, I... got better."
"You 'got better'."
"Yes. And when I woke up, I found out I could move bones around. I moved houses—you can imagine the smell—and tried to rebuild my peaceful life. I got a job. I got a cat. I paid my taxes." Anthony spread his hands, looking aggrieved. "And then, a year later, you people broke down my door, killed my cat again, and threw me onto an island because I didn't reply to some bird mail."
Scrimgeour stared at him. He looked for a lie, a sign of madness, or a dark plot. But all he saw was a tired, honest man who really, really missed his attendance bonus.
"I see," Scrimgeour said softly.
"I'm glad we're on the same page."
"Do you know Albus Dumbledore?" Scrimgeour suddenly asked.
"I assume you mean the Headmaster of the school that failed to send me an admission letter?" Anthony asked.
"It's Hogwarts. And yes." Scrimgeour stood up. He drew his wand.
Anthony tensed, but Scrimgeour didn't aim at him. Instead, he waved it in a complex motion.
"Expecto Patronum."
A silvery lion erupted from the tip of the wand. It landed silently on the desk, shaking its mane of light.
"Tell Dumbledore," Scrimgeour spoke to the lion, his eyes never leaving Anthony. "Tell him there is a Necromancer in my office who claims to have resurrected himself. Tell him to get here now."
The lion nodded, leaped over the desk, and vanished through the wall.
Anthony watched the magic fade, his eyes wide with genuine appreciation.
"Beautiful," Anthony said, clapping politely. "And quite intelligent. Does it fetch?"
Scrimgeour slumped back into his chair, looking aged by ten years. "Don't push your luck, Mr. Anthony. Just... drink your tea."