Inside the elegant, old-fashioned repair shop, negotiations were wrapping up.
"The system's got an operational amplifier for lightning-fast transient response—perfect for recording rock drum kits," the shopkeeper explained. "Any issues with operation, just come to me. Non-user-caused damage is covered with a three-year free repair."
"For printing, I'd recommend Muggle-made newsprint with cold-set ink," he continued, addressing another customer. "It'll boost precision and fix color distortion issues. Bulk orders for supplies come with a discount—think it over."
"…"
The middle-aged wizard, dressed as a shop clerk, spoke with patience and expertise.
The opera singer and newspaper editor were thrilled. The singer promptly pulled out a pouch of pure gold—not Gringotts Galleons, but actual gold—for payment. The editor tried to haggle but failed, reluctantly handing over Galleons with a sigh. Feeling bad, the wizard tossed in two boxes of ink as a parting gift.
Mr. Borgin, meanwhile, was engrossed with the portable radios he'd ordered, fumbling with AA batteries as he figured out the positive and negative ends. He snapped the battery cover shut, and the speaker's diaphragm buzzed to life with a faint crackle.
The scene felt oddly unmagical—almost too Muggle.
After seeing off the singer and editor, the wizard turned to Borgin and Melvin, his tone now more relaxed. "Borgin, this the guest you wanted to introduce?"
Borgin, clutching his radio, waved a hand dismissively. "This time it's just an introduction—no commission. You two chat."
Melvin suddenly connected the dots. No wonder Borgin knew the previous customers' identities—he was running a side hustle as a middleman. The singer and editor were likely his referrals.
Shifting his gaze from Borgin, Melvin sized up the approaching shopkeeper.
The middle-aged wizard had a plain, unremarkable face. A few messy strands of hair fell over his forehead, his short, curly hair framing sharp, angular features. A neatly trimmed tawny beard adorned his jaw. He wore a simple wizard's robe over loose, dark gray work trousers—a man who could blend into a crowd effortlessly, with a hint of reclusiveness about him.
As Melvin studied him, the wizard was doing the same, his eyes flickering with interest. He extended a hand first. "Wright Monkstanley. A pleasure to meet you, Professor Levent."
Melvin raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You know me?"
"Hogwarts' new Muggle Studies professor," Wright said, his demeanor loosening. "The papers wrote about you—how you worked in a New York Muggle theater, using their tech to create visuals indistinguishable from magic. In Muggle culture circles, your name's nearly as big as Dumbledore's."
"I've heard of your surname too, Monkstanley," Melvin replied, offering a warm smile. "If I'm not mistaken, you're descended from Levina Monkstanley, the witch who 'brought light to the darkness.'"
"That's my great-grandmother," Wright said, a faint smile crossing his face.
In the late 18th century, a turbulent era swept through both Muggle and wizarding worlds. From the Bastille to London, New York to Manchester, wizards migrated in search of safe havens. During that chaotic time, Wright's mother invented the Lumos spell—known today as *Lumos*—a beacon of hope that uplifted the anxious wizarding community, earning her the title of the witch who brought light to the darkness.
"I've got plenty of questions about the Muggle world, Professor Levent," Wright said eagerly.
"My pleasure to help," Melvin replied.
"…"
For the next half hour, Wright peppered Melvin with questions about Muggle society—not about machines or gadgets, but history, culture, and customs.
Through their conversation, Melvin learned about Wright's past.
After the Lumos spell's invention and widespread use, the Monkstanley family gained considerable wealth and settled in London. As a mixed-blood family from abroad, they held no pure-blood prejudices. Their children, after graduating from Hogwarts, often attended Muggle schools to further their education, eagerly absorbing Muggle technological advancements and exploring ways to blend them with magic.
Steam engine improvements, the spinning jenny, the Industrial Revolution, the brilliance of electricity and fire—the Monkstanleys soaked up these innovations. In collaboration with the Ministry of Magic, they created marvels that defied imagination.
"Back then, the wizarding world was more open-minded," Wright said wistfully. "The Statute of Secrecy hid magic from Muggles, but wizards could interact with them discreetly. It raised eyebrows, but no one openly scorned it. The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office only banned reckless misuse, not innovation. Reasonable, limited modifications were permitted."
Wright's tone grew nostalgic. "My grandfather worked on the Hogwarts Express—a massive project. It runs from Birmingham and Manchester through Scotland, from Glasgow to Inverness, ending at Hogsmeade. Over five hundred miles across Britain—unthinkable today.
"My father designed parts of the modern Ministry of Magic. You've seen the red telephone booth? It's got Muggle tech's charm, magic's convenience, and those dazzling golden lifts…"
Melvin listened quietly, picturing that enlightened era. If that progress had continued, the wizarding world might have achieved wonders beyond imagination.
"After I graduated from a Muggle school, I carried on my grandfather and father's work," Wright continued. "I designed the Knight Bus and helped the Ministry outfit cars with magical modifications.
"During the wizarding war decades ago, we used Muggle tech to pass intelligence, saving many wizarding families from You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. The Monkstanley name shone again as a light in the darkness."
Melvin sighed inwardly, watching the somber wizard. He could guess what came next.
"When Umbridge took over, she used the Statute of Secrecy as an excuse to halt all projects," Wright said bitterly. "She gutted the office, keeping only pure-blood idiots who knew nothing about tech.
"I was skilled in alchemy and Muggle mechanics, so I was on her list to be sacked. But the Monkstanley name carried weight at the Ministry. The Wizengamot, Dumbledore, and Amelia Bones weren't all pure-blood fools like Umbridge. Any list with my name on it got sent back for revision.
"She got clever eventually, transferring me to the Department of Mysteries to join the Unspeakables—studying vague prophecies, time, the Veil of Death, and some massive, stupid animal brain."
Wright scoffed. "Research like that goes nowhere. With the Ministry growing more corrupt and Dumbledore letting Fudge run amok, I quit and opened this Muggle appliance repair shop."
*Of course it's Umbridge. Always Umbridge. That woman ruins everything!*
Melvin glanced at the shop's elegant decor and the shelves of secondhand appliances, feeling a pang of regret for the Monkstanley legacy. Their contributions far outshone Umbridge's. If open-minded wizards like them ran the Ministry, things would be far better.
Who even picked the current Minister? Oh, right—Dumbledore. *Old man's losing his touch.*
Melvin sighed. "Isn't running a shop like this risky? If Umbridge finds out, she'll have you thrown in Azkaban."
Borgin, the other Azkaban candidate in the room, chimed in with his slick tone. "Don't underestimate the Monkstanley name, Professor. Even if it went to trial, the Wizengamot would only slap him with a fine.
"Besides, unlike us Knockturn Alley rats, Wright's clients are big names. You saw the singer and the editor. Others include Ministry higher-ups and even foreign officials. They wouldn't let him rot in Azkaban."
"Muggle tech is too alluring," Wright added. "Their civilization shines too brightly. Not all wizards are content living in a backward, ignorant age. Your arrival, Professor, will show young witches and wizards that brilliance—like the glow of a Lumos spell."
"That's your great-grandmother's title, not mine," Melvin said modestly.
"So, Professor, what brings you here?" Wright asked, finally getting to the point. He was curious—Melvin's knowledge of the Muggle world seemed deeper than his own, and he could source equipment himself.
"I need a special set of filming and projection equipment," Melvin explained. "Hogwarts' protective magic interferes with precise Muggle electronics, causing them to short-circuit. I'd prefer a purely mechanical setup, maybe magic-powered. It's fine if the spellwork's a bit complex."
Wright frowned. "That's a tall order…"
"I also need two projection systems," Melvin continued. "A small one for my office and a larger one for the Great Hall. Ideally, they'd run without electricity—maybe battery-powered—since Hogwarts and Hogsmeade won't have power anytime soon."
"For the whole school to see?" Wright's eyes lit up, his excitement palpable, his breathing quickening. The Monkstanleys hadn't tackled a project this big in ages.
He began muttering to himself, brainstorming. "Cameras would have to use film… Projection without electricity? No, impossible…"
Melvin and Borgin waited quietly, not interrupting.
After a long bout of muttering, Wright's head snapped up, his voice brimming with excitement. "We could turn memories into film!"
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