The summer of 1991 was nearing its end.
In a detached villa in Hampstead, London, a young brown-haired girl sat cross-legged on the second-floor balcony. She held a children's encyclopedia in her hands, with a hefty dictionary resting beside her.
The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted with a few soft, cottony clouds drifting lazily in the breeze. Sunlight edged the clouds in gold, casting a glow that made the pages of her book shimmer, almost dazzlingly bright.
The world seemed to shrink to the sound of turning pages.
The paper was crisp, each flip a sharp, clean sound.
Hermione Granger had loved books since she was little. At first, she could only marvel at the pictures, but once she learned to read, the stories and knowledge within them captivated her even more. She was hooked.
Unlike other children's pastimes, reading didn't disturb her parents' work or require friends to join in.
It also meant she was never left out.
Her parents ran a dental practice—a good job with decent pay and plenty of holidays. But summer was always hectic, with the phone ringing nonstop: ordering supplies for the next month, organizing patient files, dealing with insurance companies. Since it was their own business, they handled everything themselves, occasionally even soothing a child with a toothache.
Hermione turned to the next chapter in her encyclopedia just as the phone rang downstairs again.
"It'll calm down after the summer holidays…" she muttered, her small face scrunching up as a thought struck her.
After the holidays, she'd be starting school.
"North London Academy, Westminster School…"
She murmured the names, closing her book and dictionary. Following her mother's advice to protect her eyes, she looked up every half hour to gaze into the distance.
The sky was so bright it stung her eyes. The fluffy clouds drifted slowly, but a growing black speck caught her attention.
"What's that…?"
Hermione squinted, then her eyes widened in shock. "An owl?"
"Hoo."
The low call of a barn owl echoed over the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon. Its steady tone and the faint rustle of wings marked it as an experienced owl post carrier.
The bushes on Stoat Hill stirred as rodents and gnomes scurried away.
The Diggory residence was quiet and serene in the afternoon, making even the slightest sounds stand out. The owl folded its wings and perched on a beech tree branch in the backyard, waiting patiently.
Footsteps approached swiftly along the stone path.
The figure greeting the owl was tall and handsome, dressed in a bright yellow robe despite the summer heat. He carried an unusually long broomstick in one hand, his boots scuffed, and sweat glistened on his brow.
"Long time no see, Nimbus."
"Hoo." The owl, named Nimbus, dipped its head and dropped the letter it held.
"New term supply list, let's see…"
Cedric opened the parchment sealed with the Hogwarts crest, skimming past the usual start-of-term notices and jumping to the booklist. "Magical Drafts and Potions, Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3, Intermediate Transfiguration…"
Last year, it had been Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
He was more curious about the elective courses.
"Unfogging the Future, A Dictionary of Runes, An Easy Introduction to Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies…"
Cedric's eyes landed on the final line, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Muggle Studies textbook to be determined, distributed by Professor Melvin Levent at the start of term?"
"A new professor…"
Before he could finish, more owl wings fluttered, and the bushes rustled again.
Cedric closed the letter and looked up.
Three or four owls soared overhead, passing Stoat Hill toward the other side of the village—the direction of The Burrow.
With their youngest starting this year, there'd be four redheaded Weasleys at Hogwarts. That was bound to be lively.
The Leaky Cauldron sat on Charing Cross Road, its sign grimy and its storefront narrow.
As a gateway between the British wizarding world and the Muggle perspective, the pub had stood for nearly five centuries since its founding in the 16th century. Its history stretched longer than the Statute of Secrecy itself. For its first two hundred years, it had welcomed countless Muggles, hosting many wondrous tales.
Of course, the current landlord, Old Tom, had no blood relation to the witch who built it, Daisy Dodderidge.
"Daisy Dodderidge…"
Melvin sat in a corner of the pub, studying a faded oil painting on the wall. The once-vivid colors were weathered, coated in a grimy film.
A faint trace of magic lingered on the painting's surface, hinting it had once been a magical portrait. With proper care, the witch in the frame might still chat with the pub's patrons.
Melvin sipped his mojito, which tasted better than expected.
It was fresh and light, with a subtle alcoholic kick.
It didn't match the pub's decor at all.
The food was surprisingly good too—no "stargazy pie" with fish heads poking out of pastry or fish-juice soup. The signature fish and chips were delicious, defying the stereotype of Britain as a culinary wasteland.
The Leaky Cauldron also offered lodging. The upstairs rooms were spacious and comfortable, with 24-hour hot water. Old Tom was warm and well-informed, ready to answer any question.
But Melvin opted for a chain hotel three streets away.
The pub's atmosphere was, frankly, grim. The old wooden furniture was poorly maintained, its surfaces cracked and caked with grease and grime, forming an unidentifiable waxy layer. The ground floor reeked of an indescribable odor.
Old Tom, the landlord, had no interest in cleaning. He leaned against the bar, reading a newspaper and chatting idly with a few old witches.
From a distance, Melvin could make out the front page of The Daily Prophet. Two witches faced off, the headline bold and clear:
"Clash of Colleagues: Dolores Umbridge, Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, Publicly Challenges Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in Wizengamot Vote on Muggle Studies."
That was old news, a few days stale.
After persuading the examiners at the Wizarding Examinations Authority, things hadn't gone as smoothly as hoped. A group of pure-blood supporters, led by Dolores Umbridge, emerged, insisting that changes to the curriculum required Ministry approval.
Umbridge's shrill arguments were so grating that Madam Marchbanks, fed up, called a Wizengamot vote rather than debate her.
What followed was an internal Ministry matter, and Melvin stayed out of it.
"Chief Warlock Dumbledore voiced strong support for the Muggle Studies curriculum reform, seconded by Madam Marchbanks. Many Wizengamot members agreed…
"Umbridge protested, but her objections were overruled, heh…
"Amelia Bones announced the motion passed, with Minister Cornelius Fudge offering no comment."
Old Tom chuckled. "Dumbledore's behind it. Who does Umbridge think she is to object? That pink toad's out of her depth."
"Exactly!" an old witch nearby agreed.
"When did Hogwarts ever answer to the Ministry?"
"Exactly!"
Old Tom grinned, his face like a wrinkled walnut, and flipped the page. His eyes lit up at a new headline.
"Why Do Witches Clash? The Roots of Wizengamot Discord, the Spark of Conflict—Exclusive by Rita Skeeter: New Muggle Studies Professor Melvin Levent's Speech Sparks Uproar: *I Have a Dream!*"
"A thousand years ago, four great wizards founded Hogwarts, and today, we gather because of that school.
This ancient castle shines like a beacon, guiding countless young wizards lost in the wilderness of magic. Its arrival was a joyful dawn, ending the long night of ignorance.
Yet, two thousand years later, we must face the tragic truth: wizards remain steeped in ignorance…"
It sounded like something big.
Old Tom was engrossed.
Melvin sat quietly in his corner, a spot where he could overhear the bar without drawing attention, catching every word of Tom's murmured reading.
The ancient wizards at the Examinations Authority weren't swayed by a single speech—they'd simply approved his appointment. Madam Marchbanks, unimpressed with the outdated Muggle Studies curriculum, was willing to see what a young professor could bring.
The curriculum, textbooks, grades, and impact…
Melvin's glass held half a cocktail, the liquid swirling as he tilted it. Light refracted through the glass and liquor, reflecting in his dark eyes, which seemed to hold a deep, enigmatic pool, swirling with something profound and obscure.
Dumbledore probably hadn't expected Rita Skeeter to sneak into the Ministry meeting, let alone publish his speech verbatim in The Daily Prophet's supplement.
Still, it was a gift of sorts, confirming Melvin's suspicions.
"The soul of a wizard…"
Melvin paused, feeling the moment, then drained his glass.
By the time Old Tom finished the article, the young wizard in the corner was gone.
Melvin crossed the front hall to the small courtyard behind the pub. He found an idle rubbish bin and, guided by a faint magical hum, noticed an unusual red brick above it.
The concealment magic wasn't particularly strong—a Muggle-Repelling Charm paired with a mild Confundus Charm. Any Muggle who wandered in would feel uneasy and leave quickly, nudged by subconscious suggestion. The rest was a seamless Extension Charm and a few clever Transfiguration tricks.
The spellwork wasn't complex, but the design was ingenious.
Wizarding communities worldwide used similar setups.
Melvin tapped the brick with his wand. After a few seconds, the brick shifted, sinking into the wall. The entire brick wall began to move, a hole forming in the center, growing wider until it revealed a broad path.
To Diagon Alley.
In Diagon Alley's north end, at Flourish and Blotts.
Melvin wandered among the bookshelves.
The shop manager trailed behind, beaming. "Professor Levent, a pleasure to meet you! I read your speech—passionate, well-argued, truly moving…
"Our shop has a long-standing partnership with Hogwarts. No matter how rare the textbook, we can provide a steady supply and ensure annual restocks."
Melvin wasn't swayed. The manager's emotional aura, sensed through magic, didn't match his enthusiasm.
He pulled a finely bound book from the shelf and flipped it open.
Philosophy of the Mundane: Why Muggles Prefer Not to Know
By Mordicus Egg
The manager jumped in. "Excellent choice, Professor! Mordicus Egg, a former Hogwarts Muggle Studies professor, explores why Muggles overlook magic's existence, even when excuses fall apart. Like the cover's three wise monkeys, they see no magic, hear no magic, speak no magic."
Melvin flipped to the back for the publication details.
Publisher: Dust & Mildew Press
Publication Date: 1969-09-01
The manager fell silent, looking away.
Melvin smirked. "Twenty years gathering dust in a warehouse, just like the publisher's name suggests?"
"That's Dust & Mildew's style—not chasing bestsellers, but diving into profound truths."
Melvin felt a flicker of respect. "Really? What's their latest book?"
"They went bankrupt."
"…"
He dropped the small talk and began browsing the shop's Muggle-related books.
The wizarding world, scarred by the war a decade ago, leaned conservative. Muggle-related books were mostly reports or autobiographies. Nonfiction was either superficial or outdated, and only a few magazine articles held value, but they were too scattered to serve as textbooks.
Seeing Melvin pause, the manager ventured, "No luck finding a textbook? We have more in the basement archive if you need…"
"No need."
Melvin closed a recent magazine, its headline featuring an article by Caradoc Dearborn: "Preparing Witches for Muggle Society."
He thought for a moment, then turned. "Can you source books from Muggle publishers?"
"We can, but…" The manager hesitated.
"Have you heard of Children's Encyclopedia?"
The Leaky Cauldron in History
Founded by Daisy Dodderidge in the early 16th century, the Leaky Cauldron sits at 1 Diagon Alley.
In 1692, with the International Statute of Secrecy enforced, Minister Ulick Gamp allowed the pub to remain open. In gratitude, the Leaky Cauldron introduced Gamp's Old Gregarious Ale—a foul-tasting brew. Even a 100-Galleon prize couldn't tempt anyone to finish a pint.
In the late 19th century, Muggle authorities planned to redevelop Charing Cross Road. Minister Faris Spavin, bound by secrecy laws, took no action. Diagon Alley wizards organized, casting Memory Charms to erase plans from officials' minds and altering blueprints at the Prime Minister's residence. The Leaky Cauldron was saved.