Anthony lay on the bed at the Broken Cauldron Inn, idly toying with the skeleton cat's paws. To fix his pet, he had spent half the day in the bar's kitchen, preparing an entire table filled with boneless chicken wings, boneless chicken legs, boneless chicken soup, and boneless fried chicken. Five chickens had sacrificed their lives for this, and Anthony had paid for them. Considering he was fixing a cat that didn’t need to eat, it was quite a bargain.

The owner knocked on his door: “Mr. Anthony, Professor Burbage is here.”

The owner of the Broken Cauldron Inn, Tom, was a kind, bald old man. He and his bar had an atmosphere that was somewhat dark and rundown but strangely warm, and you could never know how much alcohol he had in his collection. He didn’t care where Anthony came from (“Dumbledore introduced you, right?”), scoffed at Anthony's past in Azkaban (“Sir, I’m a bar owner… even if it’s not Knockturn Alley.”), and even offered Anthony a glass of Firewhisky upon hearing the charge was for violating the Statute of Secrecy (“Ha, the Statute of Secrecy!”).

Thanks to his smooth and experienced demeanor, Anthony quickly settled into life at the Broken Cauldron Inn and decided to treat Tom as his landlord. He couldn’t go home because, according to the Ministry of Magic’s requirements, he was not allowed to “use any magic in the Muggle community,” and his cat was a bundle of moving magic.

He mentioned to Tom that in a few days, his employer would probably send someone with the contract and asked Tom to keep an eye out. However, Tom was surprised to learn that it would be Professor Burbage coming, and he immediately promised to call him.

“Coming!” Anthony replied loudly, pushing the cat off his chest. The skeleton cat leaped onto the pillow, shaking itself off in displeasure.

Anthony dashed into the washroom, quickly washed his face, and adjusted his clothes in front of the mirror.

“I would suggest you change into something more appropriate, young man,” the mirror said sharply. “What are you wearing? A tablecloth?”

“Thanks for your suggestion; it’s no help,” Anthony mumbled as he brought the skeleton cat in to face the mirror. The cat sat unhappily in the sink, its tail making a loud noise against the tiles.

“If you break your own tail, I’m not fixing it,” Anthony warned. “Good kitty, be quiet. If all goes well, I’ll have a paycheck to buy some white wine.”

The cat lay down and ignored him.

When he opened the door, he saw Professor Burbage and Tom laughing as they walked upstairs.

Professor Burbage was a petite middle-aged witch responsible for the Muggle Studies course at the school. She had a pale complexion and a faint dimple when she smiled.

As soon as she saw Anthony, she nodded. “Ah, I suppose you are my future successor. You certainly look very Muggle.”

That’s because just under a week ago, I was, Anthony thought.

Thanks to Azkaban, it didn’t even have standardized prison uniforms, so now Anthony was still in a plaid shirt and long pants, ready to walk into a convenience store and reapply for a cashier position.

Yes, he had already resigned from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. When Dumbledore introduced him to Professor McGonagall, the stern deputy headmistress had frowned and scrutinized him several times, then whispered with Dumbledore for a while before hitting the nail on the head regarding a very obvious issue: one person cannot hold two full-time jobs.

After enjoying afternoon tea, he and Dumbledore were dispatched by Professor McGonagall to resign from the cashier position.

“You’re the one who decided to hire him, Headmaster,” McGonagall said. “See it through to the end.”

The Human Resources department was furious about his sudden resignation, but somehow Dumbledore managed to convince him. As they left, everyone seemed to think that quitting a job didn’t require any formal application. They also assumed that Anthony’s salary was paid daily and forcibly shoved a few pounds into his hands.

Now, Anthony had terminated all employment relationships and had become a proud unemployed drifter. Dumbledore had covered his rent at the Broken Cauldron Inn—this establishment on Charing Cross Road had seriously told him they didn’t accept pounds—allowing him to consider repayment after he started his job.

Professor Burbage was here today to deliver the contract. She also wanted to see her colleague, especially after hearing that he had been living in the Muggle world and needed her to accompany him into Diagon Alley; she was even more curious about this potential successor.

“This is a public contract; all professors have the same. The signature line is at the end,” she said naturally as she closed the door, pulling the contract and a quill from her handbag, along with a letter. “And this is a private document.”

Following her instructions, Anthony wrote next to the recipient's address, “I, Henry Anthony, confirm receipt of the sealed Hogwarts encrypted letter.” The envelope slowly opened, releasing two long sheets of parchment.

The parchment detailed his teaching stipend, research funding, and various grants' disbursement times and application methods. After signing to confirm, Anthony kept one copy and sent the other to the edge of the envelope.

The envelope eagerly swallowed the document, smacking its lips twice as if savoring it, then quietly lay back on the table.

The first line of the contract was short: “Both parties promise not to harm each other during the term.”

“How vague,” he said. “This has too many loopholes.”

Professor Burbage shook her head seriously. “Do not underestimate the promises witnessed by magic; it flows through our lives.”

That certainly sounded very serious. Anthony became serious as well and carefully read through the rest of the contract. Most of it was rather formalized, just the rights and obligations of Hogwarts professors.

He signed at the designated spot, wiped the quill tip, and prepared to return it to Professor Burbage. Suddenly, the parchment of the contract flew up from the table, hovering in mid-air, and was burned to powder by a cluster of golden flames. With a clank, a brass key fell out of the ashes.

Under Professor Burbage’s encouraging gaze, Anthony picked it up in confusion. The front of the key was engraved with his signature, and the back bore a crest, with the central “H” subtly shifting and surrounded by four animals.

“Hogwarts welcomes you, Professor Anthony,” Professor Burbage said. “You now have an office and a private room in the castle. Well, that’s for later; now let’s go check out Diagon Alley!”

“Count three up, two across,” Professor Burbage demonstrated. “Just give it a gentle tap with your wand, and the most essential street in the British wizarding world will open up for you.”

Anthony pondered. “First, I need a wand.”

“You definitely need one; the Headmaster told me so,” Professor Burbage replied cheerfully. “But before that, you’d better go to Gringotts to exchange some wizarding currency. Then we’ll buy you some clothes. You can’t walk into Ollivander’s Wand Shop dressed like this; no way, everyone will stare at you. After buying clothes, we’ll go get your wand… Oh! And textbooks! We certainly need to stop by a bookstore too!”

Anthony noticed she had an incredible ability to plan their itinerary with such warmth yet undeniable authority.

He quietly wondered how Dumbledore had spoken to Professor Burbage.

Your new colleague doesn’t have a wand; take him to buy one when delivering the contract. Oh, don’t worry; he is indeed a wizard; Azkaban can vouch for that. Ah yes, he’s a dark wizard, but he loves Muggles.

“Alright,” he said obediently.

Professor Burbage appeared quite satisfied.

They went to Gringotts. The goblins seemed greatly offended when they learned that Anthony didn’t have an account, repeatedly emphasizing the importance of saving. Anthony had to exchange more currency and deposit a sickle in Gringotts—the minimum deposit to open a vault.

“You’ll find that having a private vault is quite necessary,” the goblin who assisted him said as they were leaving.

Anthony swore he heard that goblin muttering a curse as he exited Gringotts, complaining about the miser who wouldn’t deposit more.

Professor Burbage remarked nonchalantly, “You’ll get used to it, Professor Anthony. Look on the bright side; they will guard your sickle with every drop of blood.”

They encountered a few strangely behaving wizards in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. They seemed to share the poor eyesight of the Ministry of Magic officials, mistaking people for statues. Only this time, Professor Burbage had turned into a statue as well.

“Pureblood supremacists,” Professor Burbage huffed, proudly pulling Anthony to stand behind them in line. “Stand up straight and let them see Muggle clothing.”

Anthony watched as the person in front shifted sideways, giving them a contemptuous look before turning and leaving the line. Professor Burbage immediately took the vacant spot.

“Who are they?” Anthony whispered.

“Don’t know,” Professor Burbage replied indifferently. “Some self-proclaimed aristocrats who despise Muggles, I suppose.”

“Uh, aristocrats?” Anthony said. “Just to confirm, is there a designated queen in the wizarding world… a witch majesty?”

Professor Burbage burst into a fit of cheerful laughter.

“No, of course not!” she said. “They aren’t aristocrats either. If we’re being honest, Nearly Headless Nick has a more legitimate title.”

Anthony summarized, “An arrogant ordinary wizard.”

Professor Burbage nodded with a smile. “Exactly. I’m increasingly convinced of the Headmaster’s choice; you will make an excellent Muggle Studies professor.”

The line moved forward slowly. By the time it was their turn, Anthony was a bit tired.

According to his request (“Just the basics”), Madam Malkin recommended a standard black robe and matching shoes. Anthony glanced hastily at this classic model, which had topped sales for sixteen consecutive years, and nodded randomly to settle on it.

He couldn’t distinguish much among all the black robes; half the store was filled with them. There were pocketed ones, patterned ones, cuffed ones, knee-length, ankle-length, and floor-length… all kinds of black robes. Anthony looked down at his blue plaid shirt and then at the robes around him.

To be honest, who looks more like a dark wizard?

He resisted the urge to swat at the measuring tape that would automatically size him up—it always felt like a long strip of fly—and then took the clothes Madam Malkin handed him, changing in the fitting room.

“Done? How well it fits! Madam Malkin’s craftsmanship has always been the best!” Professor Burbage said. “Now, young man, let’s go get you a wand.”