Sunday morning.
Mist curled through the Forbidden Forest, and the eastern sky glowed with an orange sunrise.
Melvin nibbled on a slice of bread as he pushed open the window, gazing down at the courtyard below while chewing.
Hogwarts, nestled in the Scottish Highlands, had a climate starkly different from Ilvermorny. Back at Mount Greylock, temperatures would already be dipping near freezing this time of year, with students bundling up in thick winter robes. Here, the lingering warmth of summer held on, the weather perfectly mild—not too hot, not too cold.
Filch hurried across the courtyard, early as usual.
Mrs. Norris, lounging on the corridor steps, lazily shifted into a patch of morning sunlight. Whether in the wizarding or Muggle world, cats always seemed to hate the cold and love basking in the sun.
Horned Serpents were no different.
The night before, Melvin had been sifting through memories, which influenced his dreams. He dreamt of his time at Ilvermorny—Horned Serpents, Headmaster Fontana—and then Dumbledore appeared. The two headmasters played chess, shared sweets, and chatted. The dream was so bizarre that waking up left him feeling disoriented, as if reality itself was slightly off.
Rustle…
A Hangman's Rope peeked out from the corner, its end slithering up his leg.
Melvin glanced down, waved the bread slice, and the rope retreated, coiling neatly into a tidy loop.
With another wave, a surge of magic swept through the room. Five or six cursed objects quivered, then lined up in a row, hopping into his suitcase. The Hangman's Rope brought up the rear, its tip flicking the suitcase lid shut as it slipped inside.
These objects carried only faint curses, behaving like ordinary items most of the time. A simple Levitation Charm was enough to manage them, making cleanup easy.
After breakfast, Melvin tidied the dishes and stacked them neatly on the tray, thinking to spare the house-elves the extra work—just as he'd done at Ilvermorny to respect the Pukwudgies.
But the elf collecting the dishes seemed heartbroken, nearly in tears, as if Melvin had betrayed it by doing its job.
These elves are a bit… odd.
Melvin adjusted his robes, grabbed his suitcase, and headed out.
…
At the end of the fourth-floor forbidden corridor.
Outside the room housing Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
Dumbledore and several professors were already waiting.
Whenever the professors set up their obstacles for the Philosopher's Stone, Dumbledore was there—not only to ensure the Stone's safety but also to protect the professors. Only he and Hagrid could make Fluffy behave.
It wasn't a mandatory rule, nor sealed by a magical contract.
If someone was curious enough to sneak in alone for a tour, they could try. Fluffy would block their path impartially but wouldn't snitch afterward—after all, it couldn't speak human languages, and no one at Hogwarts spoke dog.
Quirinus Quirrell was very curious but hadn't found an opportunity. One ferocious dog was bad enough, and he had a bat-like presence trailing him constantly.
To avoid suspicion, since the term began, Quirrell had diligently focused on teaching, occasionally sneaking a peek during Snape's Potions classes. Two weeks later, his plan to steal the Philosopher's Stone hadn't progressed an inch.
Today was the final day to complete the obstacles. He'd hoped to exploit the unfinished protections, but that plan was now scrapped, shifting to a long-term strategy.
Quirrell didn't need to be here—his contribution was a mountain troll in one of the rooms, requiring no further work. But for reconnaissance, he showed up under the pretense of checking on the troll.
The bad news didn't stop there. He'd assumed only the core subject professors were involved, but Dumbledore had added a last-minute participant: the new professor, Levent.
Quirrell touched the turban on his head, sensing Voldemort's impatience, a wave of urgency rising within him.
Melvin hurried over with his suitcase, greeting the professors before addressing the white-bearded headmaster. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I got caught up in research last night and slept late. I rushed this morning, but I got held up for ten minutes arguing with a house-elf over washing dishes."
"Their enthusiasm can be overwhelming," Dumbledore said with a chuckle.
"Sounds like you've been there."
"When we're done, I can tell you about my early teaching days…" Dumbledore turned the doorknob, prompting enthusiastic barks from inside. He glanced at the professors with a wry smile. "Give me a moment to calm this naughty pup."
Professor McGonagall nodded.
Melvin stepped aside with his suitcase, joining Professor Flitwick. Crouching slightly, he whispered, "Professor, when did you all get here?"
"…" Flitwick eyed his new colleague, amused. Sometimes Melvin's demeanor made his age easy to forget, yet his vibrant energy shone through in his words and actions.
Fresh and infectious.
He smiled. "Don't worry, Melvin. We only arrived three minutes before you."
"Sorry again…"
Melvin felt a bit better. Hearing the low, contented grumbling from inside, he glanced at the composed professors and couldn't resist asking, "Professor, don't you think the obstacles in those rooms are a bit… simple? Can they really stop a dangerous dark wizard?"
Quirrell's eyes flicked, first to Snape, then away, feigning disinterest while eavesdropping.
"Heh…" Flitwick chuckled. "I wouldn't call them simple. My charms are quite intricate, at least. Besides, Dumbledore has his reasons. We just need to trust him."
Professor Sprout nodded. "Filius is right."
McGonagall stayed silent.
Snape shot Quirrell a cold glance.
Noting their reactions, Melvin looked thoughtful. The Heads of House might not know the full story, but they clearly suspected something.
He didn't press further.
The barking inside softened, then stopped entirely. Dumbledore opened the door, beckoning them in.
Four Heads of House, one core subject professor, one elective professor, and the headmaster—seven in total. Melvin walked with Flitwick, lingering at the back.
Inside, Fluffy sprawled in a corner, three heads stacked atop one another, sleeping soundly with drool pooling around its teeth.
The group descended through the trapdoor.
First was Professor Sprout's Devil's Snare. The seedlings had matured, their vines thick and whip-like, snapping loudly, almost rivaling the Whomping Willow by the greenhouses.
The Herbology professor sprinkled special fertilizer to hasten their growth. The vines slowed their thrashing, tamed like a once-ferocious beast, even nuzzling her like a pet seeking affection.