Melvin set down his wine glass, unbothered. He was always friendly and collegial with his fellow professors. "I heard Professor Snape taught the first-years' Potions introductory class this afternoon, Gryffindor and Slytherin together. How'd it go?"
"Nothing special. They're the worst batch of first-years yet," Snape said, his cold eyes flicking upward, his tone equally icy. "I don't expect them to grasp the true beauty of Potions, but their performance was utterly disappointing. Most of them can't appreciate the subtle magic of a simmering cauldron or the allure of those wondrous liquids. Some don't even believe Potions is real magic—they're only interested in subjects where they can wave their wands like fools."
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick's smiles froze.
Transfiguration and Charms were the "foolish wand-waving" subjects he was referring to.
They exchanged a glance, their faces mirroring the same resigned helplessness. They knew Snape's words stemmed from his prickly personality, not a direct jab at them, but they couldn't help feeling a bit offended.
"Worse than previous years, huh…" Melvin said, not fully registering Snape's rant but steering the conversation forward. "To get a better sense of the British wizarding world, I've been reading up. I noticed this year's first-years include some already famous names—like the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter from Gryffindor, and the pure-blood scion, Draco Malfoy from Slytherin. I thought they'd have some real talent."
Dumbledore, stirring a silver spoon through creamy dessert, listened quietly without joining in.
"Fame doesn't mean everything," Snape sneered, his tone dripping with scorn. "That Potter boy is nothing but an empty-headed braggart with a hollow reputation. He couldn't answer the most basic Potions questions and had the nerve to talk back when corrected. In some ways, he's even outdone by that Muggle-born Granger girl."
"…"
Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly, his deep gaze settling on Harry at the Gryffindor table.
"There must be some misunderstanding. Potter's often late to class, but he performs quite well," McGonagall offered.
"He's an honest, kind boy," Flitwick added.
"Yeah, exactly…" another professor chimed in.
Dumbledore's expression softened, but Snape wasn't listening.
"And what about Draco Malfoy?" Melvin asked. "From what I've read, the Malfoy family has serious clout here—wealthy, generous, always donating to the Ministry, St. Mungo's, and the Quidditch Regulatory Board. They hobnob with all sorts of influential figures, so young Mr. Malfoy's been in the spotlight even before starting school."
"Barely passable," Snape said dismissively.
"Are your questions just too tough, Professor?"
"They're basic textbook material."
Snape shot him a glance, puzzled why this Lewent fellow was so curious about the first-years. Growing irritated, he raised his voice slightly. "Potter doesn't know what a bezoar is, hasn't heard of monkshood, and hasn't a clue what happens when you mix asphodel powder with wormwood infusion!"
At the Slytherin table nearby, the students fell silent for a moment at their Head of House's voice, then subtly shifted away.
Draco Malfoy was among them, his eyes darting as he edged closer instead, eager to hear more of Snape's criticism of Potter.
It hadn't even been a week since term started, and he and the Boy Who Lived were already at odds.
"Asphodel powder mixed with wormwood infusion makes the Draught of Living Death, right?" Melvin said softly, a faint smile in his voice. "Also called the Water of Life and Death—a powerful sleeping potion."
Dumbledore took a bite of cake, eyeing Melvin's smile with a sense it held deeper meaning.
"Professor Lewent answers correctly—far better than this lot of first-years," Snape said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
"My Potions grades were average at school, but I've always been fascinated by legends and stories. I read a lot of obscure books, so I picked up some quirky facts about Potions," Melvin replied.
Snape frowned at Melvin's leisurely tone, a vague unease stirring.
"Asphodel is also known as the golden flower. To Greek poets, its bare stalks in winter, its unpleasant smell, and its faintly purple blooms evoked the pale death and darkness of the underworld. In Muggle tales, Hades, the god of the dead, settled souls in a wasteland filled with asphodel flowers."
Melvin spoke with ease. "On a theater stage, the dim, grayish hue of asphodel creates a perfect sense of the underworld's emptiness and sorrow. In Homer's Odyssey, the fields of asphodel are home to the souls of heroes slain in the Trojan War."
The other professors listened with interest, but Snape's irritation grew.
"One meaning of asphodel ties to death, while wormwood, with its bitter taste, is often linked to pain, sorrow, and deep regret. 'No rest for the repentant, save through the Water of Life and Death'—that's where the Draught of Living Death gets its name."
Dumbledore's silver spoon paused at the edge of his plate, his eyes clouded with reminiscence.
The other professors slowed their eating, reflecting on the potion's name.
"There's another Greek myth about asphodel," Melvin continued. "A beautiful youth, Narcissus, saw his reflection in water but didn't realize it was himself. He fell hopelessly in love, unable to tear himself away, and eventually drowned seeking his reflection. He turned into an asphodel flower. Later, Muggle psychologists named a condition of excessive self-love 'narcissism' or 'asphodel syndrome.'"
"…"
Snape's impatience flared. "What exactly are you getting at?"
"Psychology is a vital Muggle science. Psychologists believe people's everyday words and actions reflect their inner emotions—or their subconscious."
Melvin paused, then said slowly, "So I was wondering if choosing the Draught of Living Death as a test question reflects Professor Snape's inner emotions—or a subconscious he might not even realize himself."
"Utter nonsense…"
The image of green eyes flashed in Snape's mind. Though he scoffed angrily, his heart stirred, even panicked slightly.
Those in the know exchanged glances, their eyes flickering between Snape and Melvin, thoughtful expressions forming.
Was this Muggle psychology?
In some ways, it felt more invasive than Legilimency.
"Though it's a bit bold, I'll share my guess…"
Snape's pupils constricted, ready to snap and shut him down.
Dumbledore looked pained, about to intervene.
But at that tense moment, Melvin sped up. "As far as I know, Draco Malfoy's mother, Narcissa Malfoy, takes her name from the Narcissus story—Narcissa.
"If I'm not mistaken, Professor Snape, you once had feelings for Draco's mother, and you used the Draught of Living Death to express regrets from your youth."
The staff table fell into stunned silence.
McGonagall and Flitwick's eyes widened in shock.
Dumbledore opened his mouth but said nothing.
Even Quirrell, in the corner, froze mid-bite, a piece of roast rib forgotten in his mouth.
"You had feelings for Narcissa…"
Snape's mind reeled as if struck by a Muggle psychological bludgeon, momentarily too stunned to respond.
Clang…
A metal utensil slipped from someone's hand, striking the edge of a ceramic plate with a sharp ring.
The professors turned toward the sound. At the Slytherin table's front row, Draco Malfoy leapt from his bench, bolting for the door.
His mouth still greasy, his platinum-blond hair flecked with oil, Draco ignored all table manners. His short legs pumped furiously as he raced toward the Slytherin common room.
Huff… huff…
No wonder his mother had told him before term that their Head of House would look out for him.
Snape had indeed shown him favoritism. Granger was brilliant and brewed a fine potion, yet that afternoon, Snape only praised him.
No wonder… no wonder!
He had to tell his father at once.
As Draco's figure vanished, the professors at the staff table tore their gazes away, instinctively looking at Snape, then realizing it was inappropriate and glancing at Melvin—though their eyes kept darting back to Snape.
"Melvin Lewent!"
Snape's temple twitched, his usually pale face flushed red, his lips trembling. "I was only testing Potter's Potions basics!"
"I believe you, Professor," Melvin said with a nod, his expression earnest. "I understand—psychology is just an empirical field, and my theory is only a guess."
"You… you!"
Snape was at a loss for words, turning to the other professors.
They nodded in agreement, carefully avoiding his gaze.
Dumbledore bowed his head, scraping at the last crumbs of cake on his plate—barely enough for half a spoonful, invisible unless you looked closely.
Flitwick, taking advantage of his small stature, ducked his head below the table, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Sprout gave him a gentle nudge, trying to signal him not to go too far, considering their decades as colleagues.
McGonagall pursed her lips, striving for composure, though the slight upturn at the corners betrayed her.
It wasn't that they doubted Snape—they'd been at Hogwarts when he was a student and knew the truth of those days.
But Melvin's theory, landing on the perpetually dour Snape, was just too amusing to resist.
Snape's breathing grew heavier, and he glared at Melvin several times. Realizing owl post wouldn't wait, he flung his sleeve and stormed off.
The staff table fell silent, no one speaking, only exchanging looks.
Was this Muggle psychology?
It felt more terrifying than You-Know-Who's dark magic.
Melvin sipped his wine, casually adding, "I just remembered—the asphodel in the Draught of Living Death isn't Narcissus; it's a type of lily."
Dumbledore's clear blue eyes lowered, and he fell silent.
Late at night, nearing lights-out.
Hogwarts castle, second floor.
Melvin climbed the staircase.
After a week of exploration, he'd wandered nearly every tower, mastering the patterns of shifting stairs and doors. Only a few places remained unvisited—the Headmaster's office, the forbidden fourth-floor corridor, and the Room of Requirement on the eighth floor.
He knew their locations and how to access them but wasn't in a rush, savoring the anticipation.
Today, he'd toured the North Tower, visiting the Divination classroom and Professor Trelawney's office. Along the way, he'd met Sir Cadogan's portrait, a knightly figure with whom he'd had a delightful chat.
Pausing on a landing, Melvin glanced around suspiciously, catching a faint, hoarse sobbing sound.
"Does the castle have banshees wandering at night? Dumbledore never mentioned that…"
Following the sound, he searched carefully.
Minutes later, he found a chubby, pale boy huddled in a corridor corner.
Pale in the literal sense—his skin, recently regrown after corrosive damage, was soft and pinkish.
"Neville Longbottom?" Melvin called his name.
The boy looked up, tear-streaked and sniffling. "P-Professor…"
"What are you doing hiding here?"
Neville pulled out a glowing red crystal ball, mumbling, "I'm looking for my password list. It's been gone since I woke up in the hospital wing."
"How'd you end up in the hospital wing?"
"Seamus took me there."
"…How'd you get hurt?"
"I knocked over my cauldron in Potions this afternoon."
"…"
It took Melvin a few minutes to piece together Neville's story.
The Gryffindor common room required a password to enter, and Neville, with his poor memory, struggled to recall the ever-changing codes. He kept them written on a piece of parchment.
In that afternoon's Potions class, they'd been brewing a cure for boils. Neville mixed the wrong ingredients, creating a corrosive potion, and then clumsily spilled the cauldron, splashing himself. The potion burned his skin and clothes. Snape gave him basic treatment before sending him to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey's potions knocked him out.
When he woke, it was dark, and his password list was gone. He'd been wandering the castle, searching for it.
He hadn't found the list, but a professor had found him.
Melvin checked Neville's condition—his physical injuries were healed, though his spirits were low. Relieved, he studied the Remembrall in Neville's hand, its red mist swirling restlessly, giving him a slight headache.
This was a job for Neville's Head of House, not an elective professor like him.