The term montage comes from French, meaning to assemble or piece together.
When different fragments of footage are stitched together, they often create a meaning that each piece alone wouldn't convey.
By selecting various fragments as material and arranging them according to the storyteller's vision, the audience is guided to connect the dots, linking standalone moments into a cohesive narrative. This technique of assembly is called montage.
In the office of the Muggle Studies professor, wisps of memories were carefully extracted and sealed in glass vials, each labeled neatly. The silvery-white mist inside shimmered faintly, revealing fleeting glimpses of disjointed scenes:
- A professor wearing a peculiar purple turban hurries through a corridor, looking suspiciously furtive.
- The same oddly dressed professor organizes a haystack, next to which a troll lies fast asleep.
- A hulking, grotesque troll lumbers through the corridor, dragging a thick club that leaves white scratches on the floor.
- A first-year student in a wizarding robe bravely leaps out to trap the troll, striking a heroic pose.
- The troll collapses to the ground, and the turbaned professor leans against the wall, sobbing.
Melvin was already planning to order a rack for the vials to organize these memory fragments. Satisfied with his work, he intended to review them in sequence. The fragments vaguely pieced together a somewhat coherent story.
"There's a plot, but the main thread isn't quite complete," Melvin muttered.
He tidied away the vials and the quartz pensieve, opened a drawer, and pulled out a notebook. Dipping a quill in ink, he began scribbling and sketching on the page.
The night grew deeper.
A few desk lamps illuminated the workspace, ink capturing thoughts as they spilled onto the paper. Since it was a draft, revisions and cross-outs were inevitable, and Melvin didn't bother using magic to clean the smudges.
In the center of the page, one edit stood out: the first half of Home Alone was scratched out and replaced with School Alone.
Home Alone? More like Student Left at School.
---
November 1, Friday
Despite the Halloween feast the night before, Hogwarts had no holiday, so classes proceeded as usual.
Melvin had finished the first round of review with his two exam-prep classes and was now starting the second. The advanced students were remarkably disciplined, and with the weekend trip to Hogsmeade as a reward, the young witches and wizards only grumbled lightly before diving into their tighter revision schedules.
"Dumbledore has decided not to report last night's incident to the Board of Governors," Professor McGonagall announced sternly. "No one will be sacked or expelled over an accident. However, that dangerous troll cannot stay on school grounds. Professor Quirrell, please deal with it promptly. The weekend is upon us—sell it, entrust it to a friend, whatever you must do, but don't let it linger past this week."
Quirrell nodded frantically, stammering assurances to McGonagall. He looked haggard, his frame thinner than it had been, though puffiness seemed to compensate for the loss. Compared to three months ago at the start of term, he was noticeably gloomier.
Snape, standing nearby, was even more dour—likely due to the bite on his left leg, which left him visibly irritable.
Last night in the Great Hall, Quirrell had dramatically announced the troll's escape before faking a faint. Snape, suspecting it was a diversion and that another wizard might be helping Quirrell steal the Philosopher's Stone, had rushed to the fourth-floor corridor—only to nearly become a snack for Fluffy, the three-headed dog.
Fluffy's bite wasn't venomous, but the wound, tainted by the beast's saliva, resisted standard healing charms. Snape had to rely on regular salves and wait for it to heal slowly. The other professors, learning of his injury, understood his actions and believed he'd gone to the fourth floor to protect the Stone.
Quirrell, however, as the one under suspicion, had complicated feelings about Snape.
At the start of term, Snape's relentless scrutiny had convinced Quirrell he was Dumbledore's loyal watchdog. But after learning more about Snape's past and observing his behavior, Quirrell's careful analysis led him to a different conclusion.
This former Death Eater, deeply embedded at Hogwarts, appeared to serve Dumbledore but often ignored the headmaster's directives, playing a double game. Take Potter, for instance. The entire wizarding world knew Dumbledore cherished the boy. He'd placed Harry's parents' graves next to his own family's, kept Harry hidden from dark wizards, and ensured Hagrid personally escorted him to school. Yet, in their very first Potions class, Snape targeted Harry, practically itching to expel him.
If Snape wasn't truly Dumbledore's man, then why was he so fixated on the Philosopher's Stone?
Of course—he wanted to steal it himself!
Quirrell's gaze flicked to Snape's injured leg, sizing him up, his suspicions growing stronger. Snape, unaware of the Dark Lord's possession of Quirrell, saw him as a rival for the Stone and had been targeting him all along. If only the Dark Lord were less cautious and trusted his former Death Eater, they could have teamed up to steal the Stone.
---
Melvin, observing Quirrell's shifting expressions, decided to clip this memory fragment too. It was clear this shady wizard was up to no good.
Half an hour later, lunch ended, and owl post arrived on schedule. Students received plenty of letters and packages, while a few owls landed at the staff table.
Melvin took an envelope from an owl, tossing it two pieces of beef rib as a treat before opening the letter.
> Dear Professor Levent,
>
> I hope you're settling in well at school. My work on the enlarged pensieve hasn't gone smoothly. You can't imagine the challenges I've faced. Melting a small quartz piece seemed simple enough, but scaling up the size exponentially increased the difficulty. I've lost count of my failures. Still, your inspiring vision keeps me going—failure is nothing in the face of that.
>
> The technical hurdles are one thing, but sourcing materials has been even tougher. With rare ingredients and high demand for pensieve crafting, potion merchants in Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley have colluded to jack up prices. I had to dip into family funds to cover costs. These vendors have no shred of business ethics, and I strongly condemn their greed.
>
> But fear not—I've overcome every obstacle. I have more integrity than those profiteering peddlers. Your order is complete, and I'll deliver it Saturday at our usual spot.
>
> Your reliable and sincere partner,
> Wright
Melvin read the letter twice, catching the subtext loud and clear: Pay the outstanding balance. Wright had likely consulted Borgin to craft this letter, and it seemed the cost of the oversized pensieve was higher than expected—enough to push even the tech-obsessed Monkstanley to his limits.
The owl post, oblivious to wizardly woes, didn't notice Melvin's concern. It gobbled the beef ribs, patted its belly with a satisfied hoot, and took off. The other owls followed, and for a few seconds, the Great Hall echoed with the sound of flapping wings.