The wax seal bore the emblem of a coiled serpent.
"Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, To Lucius Malfoy"
Breaking the seal and unfolding the silver-green parchment, the letter's contents came into view.
"Dear Father (and Mother, struck out),
I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing with the peacock quill from home, far superior to the shoddy, troll-saliva-stained feathers Hogwarts provides. It does make writing much more dignified.
The Sorting Ceremony went exactly as expected. The moment that tattered Sorting Hat touched my hair, it screeched 'Slytherin' as if scalded. Flint, the prefect, clapped so hard he nearly toppled the table. Your lessons on pure-blood etiquette have served me well here…
Regarding Potter, I must elaborate. This so-called 'savior' lacks any basic manners. On the train, he rejected my offer of friendship, choosing instead to associate with that red-haired Weasley rat. The audacity to spurn a Malfoy's goodwill…
Crabbe and Goyle are adequate. Their brains seem stuffed with treacle tarts, but as lackeys, they're passable, shielding me from prying eyes. Then there's Longbottom, a pure-blood traitor who stuffs toads in his pockets…"
The first half of the letter was neatly penned, the prose smooth, showing Draco's careful preparation. The Malfoy family's upbringing shone through. But the second half turned sloppy, the peacock quill's strokes erratic, as if written in a panicked rush, with jumbled grammar.
"An urgent matter to report: The new Muggle Studies professor, Melvin Levent, deduced through something called Muggle psychology, by observing Professor Snape's behavior, that Snape once harbored feelings for Mother. He drew this from the ingredients of the Draught of Living Death and Mother's name. The reasoning was thorough and convincing…"
The rest dissolved into smudged inkblots, with splattered violet ink staining the parchment's edges.
The signature, however, was pristine, clearly pre-written:
May Merlin bless the Malfoy family with eternal glory.
Your loyal son,
Draco Malfoy
Snape gripped the letter, his knuckles white, veins bulging, his rigid face masking fury.
Thorough and convincing?
It was nothing but Levent's baseless speculation! Snape had only been testing Potter's Potions knowledge. This so-called Muggle psychology was absurd Muggle nonsense!
When had he ever fancied Narcissa?
Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy were six years his senior. When he started at Hogwarts, they were nearing graduation. Their only connection was through Death Eater business.
Thank Merlin he'd intercepted this letter in the Slytherin common room. Otherwise, the reputation of Severus Snape—former Death Eater, now Potions Master—would have been irreparably tarnished.
With a flick of his wand, he conjured Fiendfyre, incinerating the letter.
The orange-red flames cast a cold glow on his expressionless face.
Snape resolved to have a word with Professor Levent.
---
Midnight.
The Astronomy Tower.
A figure with platinum-blonde hair crept onto the terrace, glancing back to ensure no one followed or noticed his covert mission. Dressed in a teal-green dressing gown and slippers, Draco was clearly unprepared, acting on impulse.
He raised his wand, pointing toward the owlery, and sent a faint pulse of magic.
Moments later, the sound of flapping wings approached.
A robust eagle owl landed silently on the railing, its sleek form and dark, almost human-like eyes fixed on Draco.
This was the Malfoy family's trained owl.
Draco handed it a prepared envelope, watching as it soared off. He exhaled deeply, relieved.
A Malfoy family adage echoed in his mind: What's shown is meant to deceive; true actions happen in the dark. A Malfoy is never caught.
---
Hogsmeade.
According to Chocolate Frog cards, Hogsmeade was founded over a thousand years ago, shortly after the four legendary wizards established Hogwarts. A medieval wizard, Hengist of Woodcroft, created the village.
It likely benefited from its proximity to the school.
One of the few entirely wizarding villages, it centered on a commercial street lined with modest homes. Not bustling, but peaceful.
The Three Broomsticks was the liveliest pub on the street, packed with weekend patrons, its business booming.
The pub's owner, Madam Rosmerta, was a curvaceous beauty, more alluring than a Veela.
Whenever she appeared behind the bar, mixing drinks, male wizards crowded around, joking and sharing recent news—tales of their travels or thrilling adventures—to catch her eye.
Rosmerta, single-handedly running the pub, humored them with a smile, mixing drinks while listening. She'd chime in on interesting topics, asking where Harry Potter had been for ten years, when adventurer Lockhart would hold a Hogsmeade signing, or what cocktails Albanian pubs served.
When boastful patrons couldn't answer, others egged them on to drink, boosting the pub's profits.
Rumor had it Rosmerta had wide connections—Hogwarts' headmaster and professors, Gringotts' goblin managers, even Minister Fudge were regulars and close acquaintances. Once, a wizard passing through Hogsmeade caused trouble, only to be ousted by Rosmerta and her patrons. No one dared bother her after.
Gossipy old witches claimed she was cursed, bringing bad luck to men close to her. Her previous husbands had died, they said. Years ago, the pub was called the Two Broomsticks; after her last husband, Mr. Rosmerta, passed, it became the Three Broomsticks.
Melvin regretted stepping inside the moment he entered.
The pub was crowded, smoky, and reeked of alcohol.
Taking a window seat for fresh air, he was promptly greeted by Madam Rosmerta, who set down a glass of oak-matured mead, its rich aroma tinged with sweetness—Dumbledore's favorite.
Melvin looked up, puzzled.
"You're Professor Levent, Muggle Studies, right?" Rosmerta said with a smile. "First-time Hogwarts professors get a free mead. Dumbledore loves it, McGonagall and Flitwick praise it, and Trelawney's a regular, though she prefers sherry."
Melvin didn't refuse her kindness, taking a sip.
It was good. He took another.
Rosmerta smiled, a touch of pride in her expression.
But then Melvin launched into a critique: "The mead's amber hue leans yellowish-brown; ideally, it should be golden amber. It hangs with medium viscosity, indicating a solid body. The initial nose reveals classic honey fermentation—orange blossom and ripe apricot—complemented by oak-driven vanilla and roasted hazelnut. On the palate, the front is sweetly balanced, with low alcohol warmth. Mid-palate, woody tannins provide structure, and the finish has a lingering beeswax sweetness, surpassing most traditional meads."
Rosmerta blinked, bewildered.
What? Body structure? Woody tannins?
Was he praising her mead?
"You could try brewer's yeast and Eastern European oak for clove and nutmeg notes," Melvin continued. "Add a touch of chestnut wood for secondary aging, and consider smoked honey for texture…"
Noticing her confusion, he fell silent.
Back in Broadway, he'd despised pretentious jargon, so he'd learned it to sound impressive. Now, a week into teaching, he was showing off.
He smiled apologetically. "What I mean is, thank you, Madam Rosmerta. I love the mead."
Rosmerta nodded, still processing his suggestions. She took a few distracted steps toward the bar, then turned back. "That brewer's yeast and Eastern European oak…"
"I know some brewing books. I'll bring them next time."
"Brewing secrets… valuable, aren't they?"
"Just Muggle books, a few Galleons at most. Consider it my return gift."
"Thank you, Mr. Levent."
As she walked away, Melvin found the pub less chaotic. Opening a parcel from the post office, he sipped his mead and examined its contents.
The deerhide parchment was sturdy, coated with beeswax and resin for waterproofing. It unfolded into a detailed map of wizarding villages in Denmark and Ireland, with tables listing resident populations—wizards, Muggle, pure-bloods, half-bloods, goblins, trolls. Their numbers barely matched Hogsmeade's.
With smaller populations, these countries had fewer wizards, making large wizarding villages rare. Many wizards lived in Muggle communities, where, as long as they followed the Statute of Secrecy, life was more convenient.
Vampires, goblins, and werewolves preferred these sparse wizarding villages, creating unique ecosystems of magical beings.
Melvin studied the map, then tucked it away.
Next was a letter from Borgin, mentioning a special gathering in Knockturn Alley next week, where wizards experimenting with Muggle technology would attend. Borgin offered to make introductions.
Half an hour later, after sending a reply, Melvin left the owl post office, strolling down Hogsmeade's quiet streets.
Most shops had half-closed doors, their window displays lackluster, many barely operational. Staff lounged at counters, reading or tallying the month's earnings.
Hogsmeade's commercial street thrived only during Hogwarts' weekend visits, when third-years and up drove business. Otherwise, it merely sustained villagers' basic needs.
Honeydukes was the exception, their mail-order business single-handedly keeping the owl post office afloat.
Pausing at Honeydukes, Melvin greeted the Flumes, flashed his Hogwarts professor credentials, and got permission to enter the basement.
"Hogwarts' name really opens doors," he muttered.
The storage cellar was stacked with crates, sweet aromas seeping from the gaps. In the center of the dusty floor lay a trapdoor, nearly blending into the stone.
Lifting it revealed a worn stone staircase descending into unseen depths.
Melvin slipped inside, closing the trapdoor behind him.
---
Hogwarts' fourth-floor corridor was lined with suits of armor and wizard statues, but everyone knew most rooms were long abandoned. Empty classrooms, filled with broken desks and chairs, reeked of mold and decay.
Even the most mischievous Gryffindors avoided exploring them.
Only two rooms saw regular use:
The Charms classroom, busy with daily lessons, held little intrigue.
The Trophy Room, filled with awards, was familiar to anyone who'd served detention cleaning it under Filch's watchful eye.
Students preferred the statues, their plinths engraved with mottos or brief biographies—some heroic, like inventors of spells or potions, or Merlin Medal recipients; others cautionary, like a wizard who mispronounced a spell and lost their nose forever, or one who brewed a potion that turned them into a ghost.
The statue of the hunchbacked, one-eyed witch was among them. Roughly carved and set in a dark grey-black plinth, it exuded ancient weight. The inscription was faded, nameless.
On this unremarkable Saturday morning, faint tapping echoed from within.
Tap, tap…
Tap, tap…