Melvin stepped out of the Three Broomsticks, snowflakes drifting in the air. The cold was sharp, and within a few breaths, his nose felt as if it had been dipped in the icy waters of the Black Lake.
He exhaled a long puff of white mist, lips moving slightly. A thin, transparent film enveloped him, like a giant soap bubble, keeping the chill at bay. Snowflakes floated near his shoulders but slid away a few inches off, as if brushing against an invisible barrier.
This was his recently improved Bubble-Head Charm, now with a slight protective effect. It wasn't as strong as a Shield Charm, though.
A proper Shield Charm could block most hexes, at least in theory. The Bubble-Head Charm, in the eyes of most wizards, was more of a practical spell for everyday use—like breathing underwater, surviving dusty deserts, or enduring foul-smelling places.
With Melvin's magic growing stronger lately, his Bubble-Head Charm could now cover his entire body. The transparent bubble offered some insulation, kept the air fresh, and could even deflect weaker hexes. He'd tested it in his office, finding it could withstand two mild Repelling Charms and slightly weaken stronger curses.
It was no match for a Shield Charm, but the bubble's full-body coverage was a plus.
With more practice and stronger magic, he might enhance its protective power further, perhaps even blending it with the Shield Charm's strengths. Unlike the Shield Charm, which only formed a shield in the direction of the wand, a hybrid could offer all-around protection.
Passing the post office on the main avenue, Melvin continued down a small path toward Hogsmeade's village entrance a few hundred meters away. A small tavern caught his eye along the way.
He glanced up at the weathered wooden sign hanging above the door, painted with a severed hog's head, its rusty red stains looking like blood seeping through a white cloth.
The lights inside were dim, but he could make out the faint shapes of a few patrons. Business wasn't exactly booming, but it wasn't dead either.
Hadn't Hagrid mentioned inviting him for a drink here?
Melvin only gave the Hog's Head a quick look from afar. Worried it might be an invite-only kind of place, he didn't step inside. Still wrapped in his transparent bubble, he headed back to Hogwarts. It wasn't curfew yet, so he sought out the deputy headmistress to settle some accounts.
Professor McGonagall, ever passionate about Quidditch, was thrilled to learn that after Melvin's commission, the school would pocket 500 Galleons—enough for two Nimbus 2000s. She was in high spirits, praising Melvin throughout their chat for bringing fresh changes to Hogwarts.
Melvin, clutching his 400 Galleons, felt the coins were a bit hot in his hands.
…
December 16th, light snow.
The morning's first class was third-year Muggle Studies, the last lesson before the Christmas break. Instead of assigning essays, Melvin tasked the students with interacting with a few Muggle objects over the holidays, noting how they worked and their thoughts on the experience.
For pure-blood students, this was a challenge. For Muggle-borns or half-bloods, it was a breeze. Reactions varied, but there was no arguing—this was Muggle Studies, after all.
Lunchtime arrived.
In the Great Hall, the four Heads of House moved between their house tables, each holding a register. They asked students one by one, compiling the list of those staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays.
Whether staying or leaving, everyone had to sign the register using a special quill and ink provided by the professors. The quill's shaft shimmered with gold thread, and the ink sparkled faintly—beautiful to look at.
At a glance, nothing seemed amiss. The gold thread was delicate, the ink dazzling, drawing the eye for a second look.
Melvin noticed something odd, though. The Heads of House were only having first-years sign the register with the special quill and ink; older students just scribbled their names casually. He squinted at the quill and ink, sensing something off.
Those were…
"It's a magical contract," said Professor Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, noticing Melvin's curiosity. "Under the International Statute of Secrecy and the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, the Ministry bans underage wizards from using magic without permission. First-years sign a magical contract called the Trace before the Christmas holidays."
"The Trace?"
"Exactly. A magical thread that tracks their activity."
Kettleburn explained, "Once signed, the Ministry weaves the Trace around the student's ring finger until they come of age. If magic is detected nearby, the Improper Use of Magic Office can pinpoint the location and investigate. If it's a wizarding area like Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, or Knockturn Alley, it's considered normal. But if it's a Muggle town, they'll send a warning letter…"
Around the 16th century, tensions between Muggles and wizards had escalated. Uninformed Muggles launched large-scale witch hunts, imprisoning anyone showing signs of magic and publicly executing them by beheading or burning.
Most adult wizards could escape with magic—except for unlucky ones like Nearly Headless Nick, caught without his wand, his head only half-severed. But underage wizards, with less refined skills, often fell victim during this period.
Muggle persecution of young wizards led to retaliations from adult wizards, fueling a cycle of hatred that pushed things to a breaking point.
The newly formed British Ministry of Magic tried negotiating with the Muggle monarch, hoping their laws would recognize and protect wizards. But with England under Bloody Mary II at the time, the talks predictably failed.
To avoid all-out war with Muggles and protect underage wizards, the Ministry's Department of Mysteries dug up the ancient Trace contract. Hogwarts began requiring first-years to sign it.
Until they came of age, the Trace would detect any magic near them. If there was a risk of exposure, the Ministry sent what used to be called a "caution letter," now a warning letter. Serious breaches of the Statute of Secrecy could lead to legal action by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
The practice continued to the present day.
With tensions eased and witch hunts a thing of the past, plus the Trace's limitations—prone to errors, like detecting adult magic nearby—the rules were enforced loosely. Warning letters were mostly a formality, and the Ministry rarely hassled young wizards.
"…"
Melvin's gaze drifted to the Gryffindor table, lingering on a certain bespectacled student for a few seconds, his expression unreadable.
Final interpretation belongs to the Ministry. Flexible enforcement.
Curious, he asked Kettleburn, "What counts as 'normal circumstances'?"
"As long as you don't cause a major incident."
"What's a major incident?"
"When the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes has to work overtime," Kettleburn chuckled, his forehead wrinkling. He was in high spirits for the upcoming holidays. "Melvin, you staying at school for Christmas?"
"Probably, under normal circumstances."
"You should. The Christmas feast is fantastic."
"Sounds like you're not sticking around."
"I'm off to Cornwall for a house-elf festival," Kettleburn said, waving his empty sleeve with one hand and wiping his mouth with a napkin in the other. He turned to the side. "Quirinius, what about you? If you're not staying, come with me to Cornwall! On the way, I'll tell you about three-headed dogs—you've asked me about them a few times. You can tell me about your summer in Albania. I've always wanted to explore those forests."
"No… no need!" Quirrell's eyes darted nervously, flicking toward Melvin with a hint of panic. He shifted away slightly, stammering, "It's been so cold lately, and I'm not feeling well. I'm planning to rest in my quarters and skip the Christmas feast."
"If it's serious, you should see Poppy!"
Kettleburn's expression shifted subtly but he didn't press further. Limping, he headed out.
Melvin watched him go, a thoughtful look on his face. That invitation had layers, and the old, lame, near-retirement professor seemed to suspect something too.
…
December 20th.
The weather grew colder by the day.
Hogwarts broke for the holidays today. At ten in the morning, the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade station, and students heading home boarded Thestral-drawn carriages to the platform.
Over the past few days, Hagrid had hauled in twelve fir trees to serve as Christmas trees, filling the Great Hall. Professor Flitwick roamed the castle, wand flicking, adorning it with fairy lights and glittering baubles. Professor Sprout hung fresh holly and mistletoe on the walls. McGonagall was buried in paperwork for the Board of Governors.
Snape and Quirrell were circling each other like wary cats, probing and suspicious. They could often be seen locking eyes in a corner. Their interactions had three stages: first, a silent stare-down; second, Quirrell hesitating to speak; and third, Snape pouncing on his stutter, snapping insults with zero productive communication.
Melvin was in the Great Hall, helping Flitwick and Hagrid with decorations, doing odd jobs.
His robe was tugged twice.
Thinking it was Flitwick needing help, he looked down—only to find Miss Granger saying goodbye, standing half a head taller than Flitwick.
The young witch's bushy hair spilled messily around her red-and-gold scarf, making her face look small, though her front teeth were a bit prominent. She resembled a beaver—cute, in its own way.
"Professor Levent."
"Miss Granger."
Melvin crouched to meet her eyes, not asking why she was there. He pulled a handful of sweets from his pocket, paused, then added an apple. "Happy Christmas in advance. No big gifts from me."
Hermione blinked, a bit stunned. "Happy Christmas to you too."
Was the professor treating her like a toddler?
Sweets, sure—but an apple?
She glanced at her gloved hands, then at the pile of sweets, frozen, unsure how to take them.
Melvin, sensing her dilemma, kindly tucked the sweets and apple into the hood of her winter cloak. Hogwarts' winter robes came with a hood, which, when not worn, was basically a pocket.
"Have fun at home over the break. Don't spend all your time studying."
"…"
Hermione turned to leave after the farewell, feeling the weight of the hood at her neck. Her expression was dazed, her mind struggling to catch up.
What had she come to see the professor about again?
Melvin watched the young witch shuffle out of the entrance hall, her walk even more beaver-like now. He wondered how those front teeth would tackle the apple.
The Muggle Studies professor smiled warmly. An apple for Christmas Eve seemed fitting.
"…"
His robe was tugged again.
This time, it was actually Flitwick.
"Melvin, pass me that star ornament."
"Sure."
"You're quite popular with the students, aren't you?"
"Maybe they're grateful for that troll business on Halloween."
"I think it's because you're good-looking…"
The fir tree was slowly transforming into a Christmas tree, with glowing star and moon ornaments floating among the branches, dusting the air with sparkles. Snape appeared nearby at some point, hair gleaming, face blank, watching them decorate.
Back when Melvin was sorted into Slytherin, Snape had initially warmed to him. But after that Muggle psychology lecture, the Potions master had soured.
"Professor Levent is quite charming, isn't he? Even first-years who don't take your class make a point to say goodbye before leaving. You must be pleased with yourself."
"I'm pretty chuffed, yeah."
Melvin levitated an ornament to the treetop with a flick of his wand, then reached for another. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure and grinned. "You're not short on charm either, Professor Snape. Look, one of your Slytherins is here to say goodbye too."
Snape turned, eyes narrowing. "Draco… Malfoy."
"Professor…"
Draco avoided his gaze, pulling out an elegantly framed invitation letter from behind his back. His words stumbled. "My family's hosting a Christmas Eve dinner at the manor. My father… my father asked me to give you this invitation to attend."
"Your father, Lucius?" Snape didn't take the letter, instead staring down at Draco's head. "Why is he inviting me?"
Draco's hand trembled as he held out the invitation. "I—I don't know."
"…"
Snape's face darkened, as if he'd just swallowed a fly.