The Quidditch match had ended, and the students gradually dispersed from the stands.
Though the wizarding world didn't have strict rules about portrait rights, Melvin felt it was only proper to get the players' consent. He approached the two house heads to discuss the matter, suggesting they talk to the students together.
Snape, predictably, brushed him off with a curt reply, telling Melvin to handle it himself while he hurried back to his office to deal with the singed hem of his robes.
So that was that.
When Professor McGonagall led Melvin to the players, both teams were in the changing rooms, sorting out their gear. The Gryffindor side was buzzing with energy, the players laughing and playfully deciding with rock-paper-scissors who'd stay behind to return the brooms.
The Slytherin locker room was gloomier. Captain Marcus Flint pointedly assigned the unlucky Seeker to clean-up duty, blaming him for losing the Snitch to Potter and costing them the match. It was typical Slytherin behavior, and the other players didn't bat an eye.
Melvin gathered both teams in the lounge and explained his plan, mentioning that footage of the match might be shown at a pub. "It's hard to say how much profit it'll bring, but it'll let more wizards see your skills. If you're thinking of pursuing Quidditch after graduation, this could give you a leg up."
The players mulled over Professor Levent's words.
The Slytherin Seeker, still stinging from his captain's scorn, perked up at the mention of profits being used to upgrade the team's brooms. A glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes. "Professor Levent, when can we get those new brooms?"
Melvin glanced at the Slytherin green robes and paused thoughtfully. "While the exact profits aren't clear yet, I can promise you this: next year, the entire Slytherin team will be riding Nimbus 2000s."
Backed by the Malfoy family fortune, naturally.
The Slytherin players erupted in cheers. New brooms next year? They could already picture themselves outflying Gryffindor and knocking Harry Potter off his broom. The sting of today's loss faded as they imagined crushing the other houses next season. Led by Captain Flint, they quickly agreed to authorize the match footage.
Things went just as smoothly with Gryffindor. Captain Oliver Wood, who was graduating next year and aiming for a professional Quidditch career, saw the footage as a chance to boost his reputation and attract more team offers. The other players, hearing that Dumbledore and McGonagall had approved, trusted their headmaster and professor and supported Melvin's plan.
The Weasley twins, George and Fred, were the exception. They huddled together, whispering, before piping up with a question. "Professor, can we skip the broom fund and just get the profits directly?"
McGonagall shot them a look, instantly seeing through their scheme. "In principle, the profits are generated by the team and should benefit the team. But if you insist, we can pass the money to your parents."
"Forget it, then."
"Stick with the brooms."
McGonagall, in a rare good mood, didn't scold the twins. As the players one by one agreed to the footage authorization, she suddenly noticed something off. "Where's Potter? He's not here?"
"He's off visiting Hagrid with his friends," someone answered.
---
"I saw Snape hexing Harry's broom with my own eyes, staring right at him."
"On Halloween, he sneaked into the fourth-floor corridor and got bitten by that three-headed dog. I found out his secret, so now he's trying to kill me."
"That dog's called Fluffy?"
"You bought it from some Greek bloke! What's it guarding?"
"And who's Nicolas Flamel?"
Melvin stood outside the rickety wooden hut, overhearing the conversation inside and falling into thought.
In just a few sentences, three first-years had managed to pry information out of the gamekeeper. Was Hagrid doing it on purpose, or was he just careless? Whatever Hagrid's intentions, Melvin was certain Dumbledore had deliberately placed him in this role.
A few ideas flickered through Melvin's mind as he knocked on the hut's door. When a young witch opened it, he gave her a warm smile. "I need to talk to Potter about something…"
The trio quickly ushered the Muggle Studies professor inside. Hermione, already considering herself a friend of Professor Levent, was at ease. Harry and Ron, grateful for his help during the Halloween troll incident, were equally welcoming.
Hagrid, the school's gamekeeper, knew the new professor but wasn't close with him. They'd only exchanged nods in passing. To Hagrid, Melvin was always impeccably dressed, perpetually smiling, and effortlessly charming with everyone. For some reason, Hagrid instinctively distrusted people like that and preferred to keep his distance. But right now, he was thrilled to see Melvin, as Harry had been grilling him about Nicolas Flamel.
Melvin pretended he hadn't overheard anything, sitting down to accept a steaming cup of tea from the half-giant. As he sipped, he studied the hut and its owner. Hagrid, with giant's blood in his veins, stood a towering 8 feet 6 inches, broad and sturdy. At 63, a contemporary of Voldemort, he showed no signs of aging—his hair was thick and black, his voice deep and vibrant, exuding more energy than many younger wizards.
The hut looked rough and cluttered, but its materials were top-notch. The floor was laid with ash and Scottish pine, the walls pieced together with teak and yew. Ironwood and beech supported the beams and ceiling, crafted from trees at least centuries old—durable, pest-resistant, and built to last. Rare, expensive magical creature pelts hung on the walls.
By Melvin's estimate, the gamekeeper's wealth likely surpassed that of many Hogwarts professors.
"…Wood said you'd be here, so I came to find you," Melvin said, handing Harry a contract he'd drafted last night. "Strictly speaking, the Ministry doesn't have laws on this yet, and Muggle laws don't apply to wizards. Still, as the Muggle Studies professor, I think a contract makes things more official."
Harry, who'd only ever seen his Uncle Vernon sign contracts, was surprised to be signing one himself. Though the professor said it had no legal weight, it made him feel respected, like an equal. It was a strange, exciting feeling.
He skimmed the contract, nodding thoughtfully.
He didn't understand a word of it.
Still, trusting Dumbledore and the professor, Harry was on board with the plan.
While Harry looked over the contract, Hermione pulled a chocolate bar from her pocket. "Professor Levent, you gave me this last time. Can you check if it's still good? There's no production info, so I'm not sure about the expiration date."
Melvin stared at the wrapper, clearly branded with Honeydukes' logo, and stifled a laugh. Granger was Minister for Magic material. Three months into her first year, and she'd already turned the Froomes' decades-old, perfectly respectable candy shop into an illegal, no-brand operation.
"I'm not sure about magical candy shelf life either. Better safe than sorry—don't eat it." Melvin pulled a handful of fresh sweets from his pocket and scattered them on the table for everyone.
The young witches and wizards happily munched on the professor's treats. Hagrid popped a few toffees into his mouth, struggling to unstick his teeth as the sweet flavor spread. His opinion of the professor softened a bit.
The air filled with a sugary sweetness. In the corner, Hagrid's Neapolitan Mastiff, Fang, sniffed the air, his short tail wagging furiously. He trotted over, fearlessly nuzzling Melvin and eyeing the table's candies, his tail thumping loudly.
"You can't have these," Melvin said, picking out the chocolates and unwrapping a few milk candies for Fang while giving his head a pat. "Theobromine and caffeine are toxic for you."
Hermione, hyper-alert to anything dog-related, looked up. "Dogs can't eat chocolate?"
Melvin nodded. "Dogs lack the enzymes to break down chocolate. Theobromine and caffeine build up in their system, which can cause poisoning."
Harry immediately followed up. "What about three-headed dogs?"
"Um? Oh!" Hagrid's eyes widened, trying to cut in, but his teeth were still glued shut by toffee.
"Three-headed dogs have stronger digestion than humans," Melvin explained, glancing at the frantic Hagrid with a grin. "Plus, as a magical creature with a massive body and inherent magic, toxins get flushed out before they can accumulate. But who'd have thought their weakness is—"
"Professor!" Hagrid finally freed himself from the toffee's grip, mumbling, "Don't you need to get to the Three Broomsticks? It's Saturday—things'll get busy there soon."
"You're right. I'd better go," Melvin said.
"Let's grab a drink sometime—Hog's Head, maybe? Better vibe there."
"Sounds good, Hagrid."
"See you!"
As Hagrid ushered Melvin out, Harry and Hermione fumed, itching to stuff his mouth with more toffee.
---
**Hogsmeade, Evening**
The sky had darkened, clouds and mist tinged with the hue of a theater curtain. Streetlamps flickered on, and most shops had closed, save for a few lit by oil lamps for nighttime business.
Middle-aged wizard Tucklot, having finished dinner and wheedled a chore to buy salt and oil from his wife, strolled out of his house toward the Three Broomsticks, taking in the familiar village.
Hogsmeade, nestled in the Scottish Highlands, was chillier than London, with rolling hills and sharp temperature swings. A brisk wind whistled through the streets at night, cold and biting.
Tucklot ambled along, spotting other middle-aged wizards emerging from alleys. They exchanged knowing glances, trading jabs and chuckles, their mood light and carefree.
A Hogwarts graduate, Tucklot had once been a school heartthrob, serving as Slytherin prefect and Quidditch captain, leading his house and team to two House Cups. But after graduation, he hadn't made it to the professional pitch. Instead, he settled into an ordinary wizard's life, inheriting a modest family business importing hinkypunks from Africa to craft durable, stylish lanterns sold to wealthy wizards.
The business, passed down through generations, wasn't wildly lucrative but provided enough for a comfortable life, supporting his family's needs with a bit of savings to spare.
Tucklot's greatest passion was Quidditch. He'd long since made peace with his unfulfilled dreams and now simply loved watching matches. Every four years, he took his family to the Quidditch World Cup, cheering for whichever team looked poised to win. Last year, he'd backed the stronger Scottish team before the final but switched to Canada's side the moment they won.
Honor and strength—that was what mattered.
Tucklot saw no issue with his approach. Until the next World Cup, he'd be a proud Canada fan, basking in their victory at the Three Broomsticks.
Typical Slytherin.
But his plan hit a snag when he ran into Malcolm.
Malcolm, his age and a former Gryffindor Quidditch captain, had been a rival at school, their matches fiercely competitive. As neighbors after graduation, they'd softened toward each other—slightly. Malcolm was a diehard Scotland fan, and before the last match, they'd gotten along fine. But after Scotland's loss, Malcolm stubbornly insisted they were the better team, blaming the defeat on their Seeker's "short fingers."
That sparked a heated row.
Gryffindors were so pigheaded!
Tonight, Tucklot was determined to shut Malcolm down. He pushed open the door to the Three Broomsticks and spotted Malcolm in his usual spot by the bar.
Tucklot sat beside him, skipping his usual butterbeer for a mead. Noticing Malcolm had ordered the same, he smirked inwardly. "What happened to your 'individuality'? Copying me with the mead now?"
"You wouldn't get it, you dragon-dung-brained, brain-clogged Slytherin."
"!!"
The fight was on, the pub filling with crude insults and colorful wizarding curses.
The other patrons listened with amusement, sipping their drinks. The banter was prime entertainment, a chance to catch player gossip and learn long-forgotten wizard slang. It was the highlight of their weekend.
Madam Rosmerta calmly polished her barware, used to the routine. As the weekend crowd thickened, she set down her silver spoon in a wooden bucket and slipped into the back room.
The patrons, engrossed in Tucklot and Malcolm's spat, barely noticed, though a few caught her movement as she returned with a massive, shimmering silver mirror.
Some turned their attention to it.
Tucklot and Malcolm, mid-argument, realized the room had quieted. The crowd's jeers had dwindled, and their insults lost their flow, stumbling awkwardly.
Still, they pressed on, slinging jabs about each other's imaginary dragon dung, until a young, vibrant voice cut through the din:
"Welcome to this season's Hogwarts Quidditch match!"
Tucklot and Malcolm whipped around, their eyes locking onto the vivid scene playing across the silver mirror. They stared, unblinking, at the familiar yet thrilling sight of the Hogwarts pitch.
"Today's match pits Slytherin against Gryffindor!"
The pub erupted in cheers.