Charing Cross Road sat in the heart of London, nestled between Oxford Street and Trafalgar Square, lined with dozens of bookshops. The most bustling among them was the flagship Foyles store, just across from number 84.
Melvin glanced up at the vibrant red sign, then pushed open the door.
Calling it a bookshop didn't quite do it justice—it was more like a commercial hub. Five floors sprawled over 30,000 square feet, stocking over 200,000 different titles. If you laid the shelves end to end, they'd stretch the length of the street.
A whole section was dedicated to Shakespeare's works, while Beethoven's sheet music claimed two walls, flanked by vinyl records. Nearby, there were displays of gift stationery and trinkets.
The second floor housed a cozy café, the air laced with the faint aroma of coffee.
Sunlight streamed through the glass walls, warming the plush carpets and tasteful décor, creating a homely vibe. The thick carpeting muffled footsteps, as if to hush any noise that might disturb the readers—like the hunched little witch by the window.
She was ancient, nearly two hundred years old, her back bowed and her face a web of fine wrinkles. Yet her hair was neatly combed, and she was engrossed in a book.
Learning became a slog in old age.
Faced with an entirely new system of knowledge, the centuries of experience she'd accumulated were often more hindrance than help.
Her eyes scanned unfamiliar terms, silently repeating them several times to grasp their meaning. But understanding wasn't enough—she had to shed her wizarding mindset and think like a Muggle to glean new insights.
The idea that continents across oceans could fit together like puzzle pieces, or that the earth beneath her feet was constantly shifting…
That the lightning splitting the sky was entirely different from the electricity Muggles harnessed…
The old witch had to unlearn half a lifetime of magic to even glimpse the edge of scientific knowledge. But that tiny glimpse still thrilled her like a child. When she stumbled on something fascinating, her cloudy eyes sparkled with delight.
Melvin approached, deliberately letting his hard-soled shoes tap lightly but noticeably. A subtle charm rippled outward.
Tap.
Griselda Marchbanks, absorbed in her reading, looked up. Her wrinkled face softened into a warm smile. "Professor Levent."
Melvin glanced at the book's title—it was the textbook he'd recently chosen, DK Children's Encyclopedia.
"Sorry, breakfast took a bit longer than planned. I was waiting for some fresh-baked bread," he said, sitting across from her. He spoke a touch louder to accommodate her hearing but kept the sound contained within a few feet, thanks to the charm. "Also, you can just call me Melvin, ma'am."
"You really remind me of a young Dumbledore," Marchbanks said with a chuckle, not elaborating on the resemblance.
She closed the book gently. "This book you recommended is excellent. Everyone at the Examinations Authority is reading it. I have to say, it's incredibly thorough, just like its name suggests—an encyclopedia. It's humbling to admit, but most of the knowledge in here, written for Muggle children, is stuff adult wizards will never encounter in their lives. It doesn't just help us understand Muggles—it helps us understand the world."
"That's exactly what I was hoping for," Melvin said evenly. "Science is the Muggle equivalent of a wand. In my view, it's dispelled ignorance and driven progress over the last two centuries that outstrips the past few millennia. A massive change is coming, and wizards can't keep living in their own bubble. We need to understand the relationship between the magical world and the wider one and forge a new path."
"Sadly, science can't dispel the ignorance and stubbornness of wizards," Marchbanks sighed, her frail fingers tracing the book's cover. "When word got out that you're using Muggle books as textbooks, the Ministry started stirring again. Those pure-blood fanatics won't stay quiet—they're clamoring for the Wizengamot to reconsider."
"New ideas always come with controversy."
"And we old folks don't have the energy to keep up with their nonsense," Marchbanks said, shaking her head. Her trembling right hand reached into her shirt pocket, pulling out an appointment letter far larger than the pocket itself. "Tofty—you know, the old chap who sat next to me—he's the deputy head of the Examinations Authority. We talked it over and decided to appoint you as a special consultant for Muggle Studies reform."
"…"
Melvin paused, then asked, "What's the pay?"
Marchbanks blinked, caught off guard, then let out a raspy laugh that echoed softly in their charmed bubble. "No pay, just duty. You'll need to document your teaching materials, write detailed lesson plans, and record student feedback. Your work will set the exam standards for Muggle Studies. For decades, maybe centuries, your plans will shape the curriculum. In short, you'll define the standard for this subject."
"Sounds like a thankless job."
"It is."
"But I'm willing to give it a shot."
The role wasn't as bad as Marchbanks made it sound. No pay didn't mean no reward.
For Melvin, the payoff was substantial.
Since its founding in the 15th century, the Wizarding Examinations Authority had grown into a powerhouse with vast resources. It oversaw all aspects of magical testing—qualification reviews, question-setting, exam supervision. An institution with the power to set standards and judge other wizards had amassed immense influence over five centuries.
That influence was exactly what Melvin needed.
For the next few hours, they hashed out a detailed teaching plan. It wasn't until the sun dipped low that Melvin took his leave.
…
The bookshop stayed open into the evening.
Marchbanks lingered by the café window, her encyclopedia open before her, gazing fondly at the street below as if admiring the view.
By Examinations Authority tradition, special consultants were typically retired professors. The last record-breaking appointee was fifty years old.
This unprecedented appointment had Dumbledore's subtle backing, but it also reflected the old guard's desire for change.
Normally, consultants didn't have the authority to set teaching standards. A panel of experts would revise and debate endlessly, often dragging on for decades. The Muggle Studies curriculum overhaul had started ten years ago, influenced by the wizarding war and You-Know-Who.
The old scholars had compiled hundreds of thousands of words—only to toss it all in the bin after comparing it to this encyclopedia.
Marchbanks' eyes reflected the flow of traffic, the soft glow of streetlights, and the lively figure striding along the pavement.
So young.
…
Answering Marchbanks' letters, addressing the Examinations Authority's questions, adjusting to London life, its accents, and the wizards' quirky slang, while scoping out prospects for his art… It wasn't until late July that Melvin returned to Diagon Alley.
The street was packed with students and parents shopping for the new school year.
Melvin stood outside a stationery shop, needing to buy some developing potion.
This potion animated photos, turning still images into silent, moving pictures. The duration and quality depended on the potion—cheap ones produced a few seconds of blurry mosaics, while the best offered half a minute of standard clarity.
The ingredients weren't rare, and the process wasn't complex, just time-consuming and low-profit. Skilled potioneers didn't bother with it, so the market was flooded with subpar potions. Melvin was here to try his luck.
"Welcome to Transfiguring Ink Stationery! What can I help you with, sir?"
"Do you have developing potion?"
"Of course!" The clerk's eyes lit up. Who even does photography among wizards? He eagerly pulled out several bottles. "This one lasts two seconds, 19 Knuts per pint. This one's four seconds, 1 Sickle 17 Knuts per pint. And this one's ten seconds, 3 Sickles 7 Knuts per pint!"
"…"
The prices were oddly specific.
Melvin's eye twitched.
Only a goblin drunk on Firewhisky could've come up with such a warped exchange rate.
"Which one would you like, sir?"
Melvin rubbed his temple. "Anything with a longer duration?"
"Longer?" The clerk looked thrilled. "You know how developing potions work, sir, so I'll be upfront. Anything over ten seconds gets pricey—each extra second doubles the cost."
"Just show me what you've got."
Melvin's voice lacked confidence. He did some quick math: a 90-minute film, even with no editing, would cost… He was still calculating 3 Sickles 7 Knuts times 2 to the power of 5,400 when the clerk returned with the shop's finest potion.
"Crafted by Potions Master Damocles Belby himself—23 seconds of development time, for just 1,600 Galleons." The clerk's smile was extra warm.
"…"
Melvin was oddly touched.
He even rounded down for me.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Melvin bought a few pints of the cheaper stuff. As for Belby's masterpiece, it was clearly the shop's crown jewel and belonged on display.
"I want to create a two-hour moving photo. Any suggestions?"
The clerk, unfazed by the unsold potion, said, "You mean Muggle videos, right?"
"You know about those?"
"I'm a half-blood—my mum's a Muggle," the clerk said with a grin, neatly stowing the potions. "I'd suggest using a Muggle camera. The equipment's affordable, complete, and much clearer."
Melvin shook his head. "Cameras need electricity to shoot and play…"
Generating, transmitting, and using electricity was an entire industrial system.
By the time the wizarding world got electricity, wizards and Muggles would probably be in a new era—decades away at best.
Seeing Melvin's frown, the clerk glanced around and lowered his voice. "If you're really set on it, try Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley."
"Dark wizards have electricity in Knockturn Alley?" Melvin asked, shocked.
"Even if the Ministry approved, the pure-bloods would throw a fit," the clerk said, rolling his eyes. "I mean, they might have modified cameras."
"…"
Melvin left, deep in thought.
Magically modified Muggle items existed in a gray area of the Statute of Secrecy.
They fell under the jurisdiction of the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, specifically the Misuse of Magic Office and its Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. The latter used to be forward-thinking, modifying cars, lifts, and telephones.
But since Umbridge took over, it had turned rigid, cracking down on such practices.
Melvin stepped out of Transfiguring Ink Stationery and slipped into the adjacent alley. Minutes later, he entered Knockturn Alley.
Before the Statute of Secrecy, wizard shops operated alongside Muggle ones in bustling markets. Wizards conducted magical business, while Muggles saw only ordinary trade. Back then, Diagon Alley wasn't even called Diagon Alley.
As Britain's thriving hub, London's central streets drew wizards nationwide. Lone wizards came to buy magical supplies, while village communities bulk-purchased essentials. Rare potions brewed by skilled potioneers were hard to sell in an era of limited communication, so shops here were the best option.
Muggle merchants sometimes traded grain or salt for finely crafted magical goods—items Muggles saw as exquisite art, thanks to Transfiguration.
Occasionally, treasures surfaced: a sickle that harvested wheat on its own, a potion that cured all ailments…
With convenient transport, fast news, and stable trade, Muggle merchants paid no taxes here, and wizards traded Transfigured goods for gold and gems. Word spread, and the street's fame grew.
Back then, the British crown employed court wizards, and the Ministry maintained a tacit agreement with them. This unspoken arrangement birthed a renowned wizarding market in central London.
Families like the Malfoys amassed vast wealth during this time, acquiring land and building legacies.
Then came the Statute of Secrecy.
In just three centuries, everything changed. Muggle and wizard shops split entirely. Wizards who once traded with Muggles became pure-blood supremacists. The vibrant market dissolved into two alleys.
Diagon Alley was wide and open, regulated by the Ministry with regular Auror patrols ensuring safety. All goods were legal, with no Muggle-related items allowed.
Knockturn Alley started out legitimate but grew wild. Its twisting, narrow lanes and shadowy corners made it unsafe even for lone Aurors. Over time, the Ministry neglected it.
Without strict rules, strange things flourished.
Borgin and Burkes was one such oddity. A shop dealing in dark magical items, it earned a stellar reputation among dark wizards, becoming a Knockturn Alley institution.