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Chapter 12 - Chapter 12: The Professors of Hogwarts

The Hogwarts Express had pulled into the station.

Professor McGonagall headed to the entrance hall to greet the students, while professors from other subjects arrived one by one, sparking a round of introductions and pleasantries.

"Good evening, young man!" boomed a hearty voice.

It belonged to Silvanus Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures professor, whose limbs were notably reduced—half an arm and half a leg missing, yet his cheerful demeanor remained undimmed.

"You must be the new Muggle Studies professor!"

Kettleburn waved his empty sleeve enthusiastically. "Dumbledore's got a good eye for talent, letting a capable young chap like you teach straight away!"

His enthusiasm left Melvin little room to respond.

"You lot are joining at a grand time!" Kettleburn said with a nostalgic sigh. "Back in my day, to stay on at Hogwarts, I went through sixty-two retention reviews. Headmaster Armando Dippet was always itching to sack me—didn't like me much when he taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. It wasn't until Dumbledore took over that I finally had some peace."

"That's because by the time Dumbledore became Headmaster, you were down to one leg and couldn't cause as much trouble," Professor Flitwick interjected, turning to Melvin. "Even so, every summer he's off to dragon sanctuaries or chasing venomous unicorns in the African wilderness. That hand of his? Torn off by a Quintaped."

Flitwick glanced at Kettleburn's right hand, his eyebrows knitting together.

Kettleburn, rubbing his nose with a hand missing half its pinky, grinned sheepishly. The fresh, pink scar suggested a recent injury. "Last month, I was in Romania observing dragon eggs. Got a bit excited and touched one—angered an incubating Opaleye. By the time the keepers pulled the dragon off, my finger was gone."

He spoke of the maiming so casually, you'd think he'd been scratched by a playful cat.

The other professors were momentarily speechless.

Melvin had pegged Kettleburn for a Gryffindor, but was surprised to learn he was a Hufflepuff alumnus.

Swaying into the Great Hall came Sybill Trelawney, the Divination professor, sporting enormous round glasses with lenses so thick they distorted her eyes, nearly swallowing her face.

Sybill was a descendant of the true Seer, Cassandra Trelawney, but generations had diluted the gift. No one, not even Sybill herself, was sure how much of it remained.

Her unverifiable prophetic talent, compared to the overflowing expertise of other elective professors, left her perpetually anxious about being sacked. She spent most of her time isolated in the stuffy, cluttered North Tower, her drinking a result of unrelieved inner turmoil.

She had her own clever tricks, though, honed from years as a supposed Seer.

To secure her position at Hogwarts, she'd devised a Muggle-like con artist's teaching style. She'd identify students with the most obvious traits, exploit their fears of doom and disaster, and craft vague, cryptic predictions to paint herself as a profound mystic. She also kept homework light to attract students looking for an easy elective.

Yet, only a handful of wizards knew she genuinely inherited some of Cassandra's gift.

Reeking of alcohol, Sybill muttered a greeting, sat down, and began sipping her drink in silence.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Levent," said Septima Vector, the Arithmancy professor, taking a seat beside him.

Unlike Trelawney's mystical air, Vector was a rational scholar, her hair neatly pinned in a bun, her grey robes crisp and practical, though less stern than McGonagall's demeanor.

"We all thought Charity Burbage would take the Muggle Studies post this year," Vector said. "Dumbledore's choice of you was a surprise. Lucky Charity—she's already found work in London, starting her Muggle life."

Professor Bathsheda Babbling, who taught Ancient Runes, sipped her mead with a hint of envy. "I'm jealous. I'd love to resign and head to Cairo. They've uncovered new ancient ruins there."

"I'd go to the Yucatán Peninsula," Vector added. "The star charts and Arithmancy of the ancient Mayan wizards are still a mystery."

"What's wrong with staying at Hogwarts?" Trelawney slurred, gulping her sherry. "I'd stay here forever…"

No one doubted her devotion to Hogwarts, nor that of the others who arrived: Madam Hooch, the Flying instructor; Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse; and Madam Pince, the librarian.

From Pince, Melvin learned that a parcel from Flourish and Blotts had arrived and was stored near the library, ready for him to inventory when he had time.

A few minutes later, a pale young man approached, a purple scarf wrapped around his head, his expression nervous. "Hello, Professor Levent. I'm Quirrell, Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Quirinius Quirrell."

"Hello, Professor Quirrell."

The heavy scent of herbs clung to Quirrell. After a brief greeting, he scurried to a corner, sat down, and glanced furtively at Melvin while keeping his head low.

A bit neurotic, Melvin thought.

Babbling whispered, "He used to teach Muggle Studies but wasn't fond of Muggle culture. He's more into ancient magic—audited my Runes class once. When he learned Runes were mostly used in alchemy and not for powerful spells, he dropped it. Rumor has it he found traces of ancient magic last year and spent the summer in Albania. Looks like he got hurt."

Melvin glanced at the jittery Quirrell in the corner, intrigued.

Voldemort, now a frail wraith without form or power, was little more than a ghost, sustaining himself on animal blood. Without a willing host, he couldn't even control a lowly goblin.

Quirrell, in his pursuit of powerful Dark Magic, had gone to Albania and found this weakened Voldemort. Instead of seeing through him, Quirrell was seduced, lowering his defenses and offering his mind and body as a vessel for Voldemort's parasitic control. The herbs were likely to counter the corruption from the Dark Lord's deathly presence.

Melvin wondered if the Defense professor would come to regret it.

"Listen, they're here," Flitwick said, as the faint sound of Thestral-drawn carriages approached from outside.

Dumbledore arrived, fashionably late as usual.

---

Night had fallen over Hogwarts.

First-years gathered before the oak doors.

"The Sorting is a very important ceremony…"

"The four houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff…"

"The house with the most points at year's end wins the House Cup."

Hermione hurried behind McGonagall, ears straining to catch every word, determined to memorize them. They reached a side chamber to wait, but despite her focus, she still hadn't heard how the Sorting worked.

McGonagall glanced at the small witch and pursed her lips. "Wait here and keep quiet. I'll be back shortly."

She left, and Hermione let out a quiet breath, McGonagall's stern expression making her feel uneasy.

"What's the Sorting Ceremony like, Ron? How do they ensure it's accurate?" she asked.

"It's some kind of test," Ron replied. "My brother Fred said it's dangerous, but I think he was just scaring me."

Hermione pressed her lips together, mentally reciting spells from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk, which she'd memorized before term began.

The students chattered, and ghosts floated through walls, startling them. McGonagall's instruction to stay quiet was promptly forgotten.

When she returned, the first-years filed into the Great Hall, gasping softly.

Thousands of candles floated in midair, and the four long tables gleamed with golden plates and goblets, bathing the hall in light.

The brightness was dazzling, but they couldn't bear to close their eyes. Looking up, they saw the enchanted ceiling twinkling with stars.

"Merlin's socks…" one student muttered.

"Jesus' boots…" said another.

Hermione, barely containing her excitement, whispered, "It's enchanted to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance but said nothing. From the train to the castle, Hermione had spouted hundreds of facts, and her relentless commentary was starting to wear thin.

Hermione didn't mind. She was too busy managing her nerves.

The tattered Sorting Hat suddenly split open at the seam, its raspy voice breaking into song: "I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat, finer than any cap you've met…"

So, the Sorting was just wearing a hat—no test required.

"When I call your name, come forward. Hannah Abbott!"

Time dragged when Hermione was nervous, but once she calmed, it seemed to pass in a blink—an Einsteinian relativity.

She found herself at the Gryffindor table, finally able to relax, listening to her classmates' chatter and studying the staff table.

Closest was Hagrid, the gamekeeper who'd escorted them.

In the center was Headmaster Dumbledore, familiar from countless books.

To his left were the four Heads of House, including McGonagall, Gryffindor's head.

To the right were the elective professors.

"Divination, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Ancient Runes…" Hermione's cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. She was eager for all of them. "And… Muggle Studies?"

She knew "Muggle" meant non-magical folk. That professor stood out—younger, dressed in a sharp navy suit, white Windsor-collared shirt, and silver-grey silk tie. His short black hair was neatly combed, and his calm, dark eyes scanned the room, much like hers did.

Far too Muggle, not a hint of magic about him.

"You can't take electives until third year…" she sighed.

---

"Harry Potter."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Cheers erupted as the boy who'd drawn every eye stumbled toward the Gryffindor table, perhaps a bit lightheaded from low blood sugar.

Melvin glanced at him but was more interested in the professors' reactions. Sipping his goblet, he subtly observed.

Dumbledore, his secret plan unfolding smoothly, beamed.

Quirrell, head bowed, stole glances at Harry, his lips moving faintly as if muttering to himself.

Most intriguing was Snape, whose gaze had been fixed on Harry until he noticed Quirrell's scrutiny. He leaned over, his voice low and sharp. "You'd better behave, Quirrell. Don't think no one's watching."

"I don't know what you mean, Professor Snape."

Melvin watched the lively hall, a mix of emotions stirring. Some were plotting a savior's training, others were seeing a friend's child, and some were scheming over the Philosopher's Stone. A grand drama was about to unfold.

Oddly, though he'd studied at Ilvermorny, Hogwarts felt more familiar.

Oh well, might as well eat.

---

The last chocolate mousse vanished into Hagrid's mouth, and as no more food appeared, the clatter of cutlery faded.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, his bright blue eyes sweeping the hall, which fell silent. "Now that we're all fed and watered, a few words.

"First, let's welcome Professor Levent, who will teach Muggle Studies."

The hall broke into warm applause, especially from third-year-and-up witches taking Muggle Studies, who clapped with extra vigor for the young, handsome professor.

"And Professor Quirrell has kindly taken on the vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts post."

The applause was sparse—Quirrell hadn't left a strong impression.

"As we begin the new term, a few notices: The Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all students; Mr. Filch reminds you, no magic in the corridors between classes; Quidditch trials will be held next week… And finally—"

Dumbledore's voice rose. "Those who wish to avoid a painful, accidental death, stay out of the right-hand corridor on the fourth floor."

Melvin couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't a warning but a quest prompt: Objective updated. Proceed to the destination.

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