On August 1st, when Anthony woke up, he habitually glanced at the study plan on the wall, only to suddenly realize that July had already passed. In another month, Hogwarts would begin its school year. He would be moving to Hogwarts in just half a month.

“What are you going to do?” he poked the skull of the cat at the corner of his bed. “If I had money, I would buy a dragon-hide suitcase to hide you in.” His cat stretched and unceremoniously jumped onto him. Anthony patted it. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. If all else fails, I’ll just stick fur all over you.”

……

“Good morning, Henry!” When he went downstairs for breakfast with scratches on his arms, Tom was wiping a glass with a dirty rag. “How’s your study plan going?”

“Not great. Transfiguration is much harder than I thought, or maybe I’m just not as clever as I imagined. Take your pick.” Compared to the smooth sailing he had with spell practice, Anthony struggled with Transfiguration. It took him three whole days just to turn a matchstick into a needle, and that was only the first exercise in the first-year textbook.

He complained while eating, “Three days! I finished my beginner’s spell work in just three days!”

“That’s because your talent for spells is too high,” Tom chuckled. “Ha, good thing you’re not studying at Hogwarts; otherwise, he-who-must-not-be-named would definitely notice you.”

On Dumbledore's advice, Anthony publicly declared himself a Muggle-born (which was true) because he had tried to avoid the chaos caused by the mysterious figure and didn’t attend Hogwarts (which was irrelevant), thus living in the Muggle world all this time. The Ministry of Magic turned a blind eye to this claim, and aside from sending him a teaching permit by owl that morning, they hadn’t made any further moves.

“You missed out on so much yesterday,” Tom whispered excitedly to him. “Guess who came?”

Distracted, Anthony spread butter on his bread, mentally reviewing the key points of Transfiguration: “Who? Lockhart?” His books were always prominently displayed at Flourish and Blotts. It was said that "Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Keeping Your Home Free of Pests" had never dropped out of the top three monthly bestsellers since its publication.

“Harry Potter! I even shook hands with him!” Tom whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. “He’s back; it’s so great... Henry, you didn’t see him. Mr. Potter is so humble and composed. Everyone wanted to shake his hand, and he agreed to all of them. But he’s not proud at all—I tell you, not one bit—he just doesn’t know how to refuse. If it weren’t for Hagrid... Oh, you haven’t met Hagrid either! Henry, you’ve really missed too much.”

Anthony knew who Harry Potter was—the baby who was said to have stopped the downfall of the wizarding world. His name was solemnly written in all modern magical history books, adorned in large titles.

He was a bit surprised. “What’s he doing at a pub at his age?”

Tom was dissatisfied. “What are you thinking? Mr. Harry Potter is going to Hogwarts, and Hagrid brought him to Diagon Alley to buy his supplies.”

Hagrid was also a regular at the Leaky Cauldron, and Tom had mentioned him several times. He was said to be very tall, always needing the biggest mug when he drank, and never aware of his alcohol tolerance.

“No pub owner would dislike Hagrid,” Tom had said back then. “He always orders the largest drinks and gets refills. Good ol’ Hagrid, he’s very talkative, has a great temper, and never gets angry when he loses money playing cards.”

Anthony also wanted to meet this good-natured giant that Tom spoke of, but he had been busy catching up on his Hogwarts lessons and only went downstairs during meal times to grab a bite—the Leaky Cauldron’s pie was absolutely legendary—and Hagrid had never come during that time. Even on a few nights when Anthony decided to relax and asked Tom for a few more drinks, spending time listening to patrons chat, boast, and joke with each other, he still hadn’t run into Hagrid.

No worries; he would eventually see him at school.

He quickly finished his bread and returned to his room to continue practicing. He was determined to turn that damn toothbrush into a chair today!

When Anthony went to the washroom to grab his toothbrush, the mirror on the wall sadly remarked, “Quite unexpectedly, dear, you look worse than before.”

“You probably won’t believe it, but so do you.” He waved the toothbrush, ignoring the mirror’s rude comment. “I’m going to practice now; no one can interrupt me today.”

……

His unchangeable study plan was disrupted by his cat.

The skeletal cat could no longer be called a skeleton; it had now become a fluffy ginger kitten.

This started last week.

That day, a guy who had struck it rich claimed that he was treating everyone to drinks at the Leaky Cauldron that night, and Anthony happily indulged in a few more drinks—or a few barrels; it didn’t matter. Half-drunk, he felt that the wizard hidden under the hood next to him was particularly friendly, and he bought the “Elixir of Life” that the other had offered.

“Twenty galleons, my friend, you won’t find a better deal,” the guy sweetly said. “Genuine Elixir of Life, made from ‘that’ Philosopher’s Stone, you get what I mean… Nicolas Flamel drinks this stuff; my cousin has a bit of a connection with his apprentice…”

The next day, as Anthony sobered up, he showed Tom the large glass bottle.

“Hair Growth Potion,” Tom sniffed. “It has a strong dark magic smell. It must be some low-quality stuff from Knockturn Alley; who knows what they added.”

Anthony was a bit surprised. He thought he had bought some regular water.

His cat loved that glass bottle and would paw at it whenever he wasn’t looking. Just moments ago, Anthony had heard a crisp sound in the bathroom, and when he came out, he found shiny glass shards on the floor and a wet, ginger cat rolling in the potion.

“Meow,” said the cat. It flipped over and sat up obediently, its yellow eyes looking at him pitifully. Just three minutes ago, those eyes had been two balls of flickering soul flames.

Anthony stared at it for a moment and sighed.

“Forget it; it’s not such a bad thing,” he said, picking up the cat and sniffing it. “You need a bath, kitty.”

Not knowing what exactly had been added to that bottle of Hair Growth Potion, after giving the cat a bath, Anthony’s hands grew enormously, with exceptionally long nails and hand hair. He tried to use a trimming spell to cut his nails, but eventually gave up due to his left hand being too clumsy.

“What is this latest fashion?” the mirror commented. “I love your hand hair; they’re thick and long.”

“Thanks; you make me feel much better,” Anthony said, deciding to head downstairs to show Tom. The owner of the Leaky Cauldron always knew many strange little tricks.

He sat before the bar with his hands out. Tom didn’t even look up. “Down? What do you want?”

“Let me show you something,” Anthony said.

“Hmm?” Tom finally lifted his gaze from his ledger to him.

“A pair of big hands.”

……

The Leaky Cauldron had few customers at noon—just Tom and a few regulars he knew. Anthony didn’t tell them exactly what had happened, only that he had a bit of a mishap while practicing his lessons. They laughed at him for a while before gathering around to examine his comical hands.

“Size-wise, they’re comparable to Hagrid’s,” one said. “If it doesn’t hurt, there’s no problem keeping them.”

“Go to St. Mungo’s? A dozen galleons, and they could fix you right up.”

Anthony slowly said, “If you remember, I bought a bottle of Elixir of Life for twenty galleons…”

They burst into laughter again. “He’s out of money!” Tom shouted, slapping the table. “Poor Henry, no money, no health insurance, but with a bottle of Elixir of Life!”

“And with furry big hands!”

“And sharp nails!”

They were making such a ruckus (“Bring Hagrid’s mug, Henry, I’ll buy you a drink!”) that a customer just pushing open the pub door trembled slightly, seemingly hesitating to approach the bar.

Tom called out, “Professor Quirrell, would you like something to drink? Oh, your new scarf and robe colors really suit you.”

“What are you—what are you doing?” The newcomer walked up to the bar, stammering.

He was wrapped in a large purple scarf, sweat seeping out from it. Even though the weather was gradually cooling, Anthony still felt he was overdressed. But wizards probably didn’t mind that.

Tom pointed at Anthony’s hands. “Take a look at this, Professor. If you figure it out, I can waive your drink fee today.”

Quirrell turned pale and cautiously approached Anthony’s hands. He shuddered violently, clutching his scarf as if in great pain.

“Hair—Hair Growth Potion, yes, yes, yes,” his voice was so low it sounded like he was speaking to himself. “Added giant—giant blood and ginger root to replace rat tails.”

Tom and he stared closely at Anthony’s hands. “Do you have a solution? By the way, Henry will soon be your colleague.”

“Are you also—also a professor at Hogwarts?” Quirrell looked up. “What do you teach?”

Anthony felt a bit uneasy under his gaze. Compared to Professor Quirrell, who could immediately identify what was wrong with the potion he had touched, his own abilities seemed lacking. If all Hogwarts professors were at this level, his title as a professor would be quite misleading.

Thinking about how talented his future colleagues were, Anthony silently revised his study plan in his mind, hoping to catch up on everything he could before the school year started.

“Third and fourth-year Muggle Studies,” he said. “Henry Anthony, nice to meet you, Professor Quirrell. What do you teach?”

Quirrell shifted awkwardly and mumbled, “Defense—Defense Against the Dark Arts. I used to teach Muggle Studies as well. Muggles are quite interesting, right?” He fidgeted with his fingers, nervously smiling at Anthony’s hands. “Soaking them in dragon’s blood and leech juice for half an hour will do the trick.”

“Thank you very much, Professor Quirrell. There seems to be a potion shop in Diagon Alley; I’ll head there now,” Anthony said. “Tom, I’ll buy Professor Quirrell a couple of drinks.”

“No need to go; it’s all quite common; I have it here,” Tom said. “Twenty-seven knuts, you can take it upstairs and brew it.”

As Anthony left, he heard Quirrell weakly tell Tom, “Brandy.”

……

For the next half hour, Anthony’s washroom was filled with a strange smell.

He frowned as he soaked his hands in the sink, a Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration floating in front of him on a skeleton stand. Two spare chicken leg bones dutifully turned the pages for him. At this moment, the necromancy that didn’t require hands was particularly useful.

“You look in pain, dear,” the mirror said kindly. “Why not sit down?”

“I’m learning how to conjure a chair,” Anthony replied.