After enjoying a glass of pumpkin juice, Anthony returned to his office for a brief play session with his cat before heading out to supervise Pansy's detention.
It was a rare, clear night, the stars twinkling brightly in the dark sky as the silver moonlight bathed Hogwarts in its ethereal glow. Anthony waited beneath the Astronomy Tower, soon hearing Professor Sinistra's voice signaling the end of class. The sounds of footsteps and chatter echoed through the corridor. Stepping aside, Anthony overheard Malfoy's voice.
"She's such a nuisance," Malfoy complained.
His two cronies echoed his sentiment. "Yeah."
"It seems like Anthony can do whatever he wants with her. It's embarrassing. I don't even want to think about her family..." Malfoy paused. "But my father told me not to act rashly... There seems to be something mysterious about Anthony, someone powerful protecting him." He turned to his friends, his voice stern. "You two heard that? Don't do anything stupid!"
"Yes, Draco," they both replied.
Malfoy nodded, seemingly satisfied. "I wonder what the secret is. My father claims he doesn't know either - or maybe he just doesn't want to tell me."
They walked past Anthony, unaware of his presence.
Some Slytherin students also noticed Anthony. Their carefree smiles vanished, replaced by cautious greetings as they quickly lowered their heads and hurried away. It was as if they feared he might transform into a fire-breathing dragon and incinerate their robes if they lingered.
Once most of the students had gone, Anthony climbed the spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower. He met Professor Sinistra in the corridor, textbook in hand. She nodded at him. "Parkinson is still up there."
"Alright, thank you, Professor," Anthony said. As they passed each other, he heard a quiet "Good work."
He almost thought he'd misheard, so he stopped and turned around. Professor Sinistra had already walked briskly away.
...
Pansy Parkinson stood atop the Astronomy Tower, her robes flapping in the chilly wind. The stars twinkled above, colder and brighter than the night Tracey Davis had been trapped here under the Leg-Locker Curse.
Anthony nodded. "Good evening, Miss Parkinson."
Pansy gritted her teeth. "Good evening, Professor." Anthony glanced at her, realizing she wasn't gritting her teeth in anger, but to keep her voice from trembling.
"I initially meant the windows lower down," Anthony said, "but sweeping up here is just as good. Would you prefer to wash the windows or sweep the floor?"
Pansy's expression made it clear she'd rather do neither, but she said without hesitation, "Sweep the floor, Professor."
Anthony nodded, transfiguring a stray branch—perhaps blown in by the Whomping Willow itself—into a broom. He handed it to Pansy, who was struggling to suppress her shivers.
Pansy seemed relieved, taking the broom and starting to sweep around their feet.
She continued to hold the broom, swiping it haphazardly back and forth across the floor, barely making contact. It was as if she expected the broom to magically devour the leaves, twigs, owl feathers, and dust. Anthony, leaning against the doorway, finally had to intervene. "It might be more efficient to sweep everything into a pile in the corner," he suggested.
Pansy replied confidently, "I won't."
Anthony understood.
He took the broom from her, demonstrating a proper sweeping motion, then handed it back. "Try again?"
Pansy resumed her haphazard swiping. "I can't," she declared.
"Alright," Anthony said with a sigh. "Then we'll wash the windows. I'm sure you've done that before."
To his surprise, Pansy's already pale face turned even whiter. "I'm sorry, Professor Anthony," she blurted out. "I'll learn how to sweep."
She began sweeping vigorously, the broom squeaking against the stone floor. It sounded more like she was brushing the Astronomy Tower's teeth than sweeping it.
Anthony watched for a moment, then asked, "Why do you dislike cleaning windows so much?"
Pansy didn't answer. The scraping of the broom gradually quieted.
"Did your last detention leave you with a bad experience? No," Anthony guessed, observing her expression. "Do you dislike windows in general? No. You specifically hate cleaning the windows of the Astronomy Tower?"
Pansy's face paled further, her lips pressed into a thin line, as if a terrifying monster had appeared before her and she wasn't sure if it had noticed her yet.
"I apologize if I said something frightening," Anthony said gently. "Are you afraid of heights, Miss Parkinson?"
Tears welled up in Pansy's eyes. The cold, terrified girl stared at him, trembling. "I'm not afraid of heights!"
"There's nothing wrong with being afraid of heights," Anthony assured her. "I'm not saying it's a good thing, but many things are neither good nor bad. Fear of heights is one of them."
Pansy quickly wiped her eyes, her jaw set. "I'm not afraid of heights."
"Alright, Miss Parkinson," Anthony said.
...
Pansy's sobs grew louder, and soon it was impossible to tell whether she was shaking from the cold or from her crying.
Anthony sighed, stepping forward to take the broom from her hand and crouching down. "It's okay, Miss Parkinson."
"You don't know anything!" Pansy cried. "You—you—Muggle-lover! I shouldn't—I can't—I'm not afraid of heights!"
"Why not?" Anthony asked, puzzled. "Everyone has fears. Fear is a normal emotion."
Pansy took a shaky breath. "I should be worried about tarnishing my family's reputation. I should be worried about others sullying Slytherin's legacy. I should be worried about not finding a suitable husband. I should be worried about continuing my family line." Her voice broke, and the tears flowed again. "Not—not—afraid of heights! I—Draco—has always loved Quidditch!"
"Oh dear," Anthony whispered. "Alright, alright. Everyone has fears. I assure you, your parents, your entire family, your classmates, everyone at this school, the faculty and staff, everyone is afraid of something... and not always something noble."
Pansy sobbed, "I acted like a—like a weak Muggle!"
"Because you're not so different from them, Miss Parkinson," Anthony said seriously. "Humans share certain emotions from birth. It's not just our souls that determine this, but our flesh and blood as well. You're not alone in your fear—we all fight it."
He felt a small sense of relief as he looked at the first-year Slytherin, her face red from crying.
She wasn't beyond redemption. She hadn't been fully transformed into the stereotypical "Slytherin"—she still cried.
...
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