Neville wasn't particularly familiar with this professor, only aware that he taught an elective course.
First-years didn't take electives; they'd choose their courses at the end of second year. Neville's grandmother had already mapped out his future, setting high ambitions with a packed schedule that left no room for Muggle Studies.
Ten years ago, Alice and Frank Longbottom were captured by fanatical Death Eaters, tortured into madness while interrogated about Voldemort's whereabouts. Unable to care for themselves, they now resided in a secure ward at St. Mungo's Hospital, tended by healers. The Longbottom family lost its renowned Auror couple, and Neville lost his parents.
Since then, his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, had been his guardian.
For nearly a decade, the old witch had tirelessly planned and dreamed of molding Neville into the greatest heir of the Longbottom line.
Neville keenly felt her expectations but couldn't live up to them.
His magical talent was unremarkable. His magic hadn't awakened for years, showing no trace of power. Neighbors and relatives even whispered that he might be a Squib.
Those doubts persisted until 1988.
That midsummer night, a month shy of his eighth birthday, Uncle Algie accidentally dropped Neville out a window. In that moment of crisis, his magic surged, and he bounced like rubber, unharmed.
The display of magic thrilled Augusta for months—though only for months.
Neville's talent remained mediocre. He could barely cast spells. The wand inherited from his father, Frank, felt like a lifeless stick in his hand, unresponsive no matter how he waved it.
The Longbottom family's magical training methods were useless for him. Neville was only marginally better than a Squib.
Augusta pinned her hopes on Hogwarts, trusting the ancient school to awaken her grandson's potential and guide him to restore the Longbottom legacy.
A week into the term, Neville saw no sign of that happening.
In Professor McGonagall's first Transfiguration lesson, he couldn't even make a matchstick change shape. In Professor Flitwick's Charms class, his wand couldn't produce a single spark for the Fire-Making Spell. And Potions? He'd nearly burned his skin off.
Neville knew he lacked Harry's natural talent or Hermione's brilliance. His interest wasn't in Transfiguration, Charms, or Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in the quiet simplicity of Herbology. Tending plants brought him peace.
His grandmother and Uncle Algie insisted he write home weekly to report on school. This week's letter was already tucked in his drawer. He'd written about fun moments at Hogwarts—being sorted into Gryffindor, sharing a dorm with Harry Potter, the grandeur of the Great Hall feasts, and the castle's shifting staircases. But he skimmed over his classes.
He might never meet his grandmother's expectations. Accepting that, Neville just wanted to coast through his seven years at Hogwarts quietly.
"I happen to know a spell perfect for finding lost items," Professor Levent said.
Neville hesitated for a few seconds before asking softly, "Is it the Summoning Charm?"
As a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families, Neville had grown up surrounded by magic talk. Though he couldn't cast those spells, he knew their effects.
He didn't dare tell the professor that while the Summoning Charm could retrieve a lost list, it had a range limit—about a few dozen feet. If the professor cast it, maybe it could reach a hundred feet, covering a few nearby classrooms.
But Neville couldn't recall where he'd lost his list. It could be in the hospital wing (a few dozen feet away), or maybe a corridor, staircase, the first-floor courtyard, the Potions classroom, or even the grounds outside—thousands of feet away.
"You know the spell?" Melvin raised an eyebrow. "Then you cast it."
"I… I can't." Neville's voice trembled, close to tears.
"You can learn. I'm the professor, you're the student." Melvin demonstrated the wand movement, his tone patient and slow. "Wave your wand, picture your list in your mind, point the tip where your instincts guide you, and say the incantation—Accio List."
In the quiet night, in this moment, Neville couldn't bring himself to refuse. He followed the professor's guidance, preparing to cast.
He drew his old, oil-black wand—his father's—from his pocket, took a deep breath, aimed at one side of the corridor, and shouted with resolve:
"Accio List!"
Half a minute passed. Nothing happened.
Neville's spirits sank further, his eyes stinging. A week into term without mastering a single spell, he didn't blame the professor's teaching. The fault lay in his own lack of magical ability. In his disappointment, he even resented himself for not being honest with the professor, wasting his time.
Melvin stepped closer, placing a hand on Neville's shoulder.
Neville's voice quavered. "Professor, don't waste your time on me. I can't learn anything. I'm a Squib."
Melvin didn't offer comfort, his tone calm and gentle. "Try again."
Neville wanted to protest but couldn't find the words. He raised his wand again, shouting with all his might:
"Accio List!"
In an instant, a fierce gust tore through the corridor, stronger than any evening breeze. The howling wind rattled windows and whipped their robes, as if all the air around the castle was rushing in, threatening to tear the place apart.
At the eye of the storm, Neville's first thought was that he'd botched the spell and caused a disaster. His second was that he'd be expelled from Hogwarts. Strangely, that brought a flicker of relief—he'd always lacked magical talent and maybe didn't belong here.
Absurd thoughts swirled, giving way to a spark of joy—
At least he'd cast a spell successfully.
Neville quickly sensed something odd about the wind. It roared through the corridor, nearly ripping windows off their hinges, yet Professor Levent beside him was unfazed. With a casual wave of his hand, the ferocious gale softened into a gentle breeze.
Melvin patted his shoulder, signaling him to stay calm and wait.
Neville wasn't sure if he'd calmed down. His heart pounded with a mix of panic over possible expulsion and thrill at his success. He couldn't tell which emotion dominated, but his face flushed red.
The magical wind surged, torches and oil lamps along the brick walls flickering wildly.
From a staircase corner, Dumbledore watched silently, sipping hot cocoa. His silver beard fluttered in the breeze, but he seemed unbothered, even finding it refreshing.
The wind died abruptly. A crumpled, torn parchment list floated down, tracing an arc before landing in Neville's outstretched hand.