Eleven years had passed, and in his century of life, Dumbledore had endured countless partings and losses. He could calmly manage the quiet sorrow that surfaced, but whenever he thought of that young mother who gave her life to place a protective charm on her child, he still felt a pang of emotion.
After recounting the events of that time, Dumbledore paused to sip his hot drink, giving both himself and Melvin time to gather their thoughts. He discreetly studied the young professor across from him, wondering how he'd deflect questions about Voldemort's Horcruxes or that ancient magic if Melvin asked.
Perhaps with a Scottish joke or a New York wizard quip…
But Melvin didn't ask. Like Dumbledore, he sipped his tea in silence, his expression calm, processing the moment.
"I'm 111 years old," Dumbledore said softly. "I don't know how much longer I'll live, nor how many times Voldemort might return. Last time, we defeated him at a heavy cost. This time, with great effort, we might defeat him again. But what about the next time?"
The old headmaster's face was serene, as if he weren't discussing his own mortality. Yet Melvin caught the faint trace of worry in his voice—not for himself, but for the persistent threat of Voldemort's Horcruxes.
As president of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, with achievements rivaling Hogwarts' founders, Dumbledore was a legendary wizard—but still just a wizard. He wasn't omniscient or omnipotent. He didn't fear his own death and was confident Voldemort's current return would be thwarted, but he couldn't shake the fear that Voldemort might never be fully destroyed, that he could lie dormant as a wraith for years, even decades, only to rise again.
"The future needs young wizards like you to shape it," Dumbledore said, his gaze lingering briefly on the ring on Melvin's finger before meeting his eyes with a serious look. "I need your help, Melvin."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble," Melvin replied dryly.
"…"
Dumbledore caught the agreement beneath the quip and smiled warmly, steering the conversation back to Voldemort. "As per my original plan, Professor Quirrell was to take action near the end of this school year, giving Harry a sort of 'introduction to the Dark Lord' lesson."
"Quirrell's been nothing if not dedicated," Melvin said, nodding.
Quirrell was indeed devoted, pouring his entire being into the noble cause of education.
To nurture exceptional students, he was willing to burn himself out—quite literally, down to ashes.
Dumbledore agreed with his choice of professor but had some notes on the timeline. "Voldemort is latched onto Quirrell, draining his life every moment. At the Christmas feast, when Quirrell claimed to be gravely ill, it wasn't entirely a lie. His body is already decaying. After tonight's exertion of magic, it'll only get worse. Death is closing in on that master and servant pair. Before, they could bide their time, but after tonight, their patience might rot along with Quirrell's flesh. Harry and the others need to pick up the pace."
Melvin shook his head. "Not necessarily."
Dumbledore's curious gaze met his.
Drawing on a distant memory from the depths of his soul, Melvin explained, "Voldemort and Quirrell are lying low because they fear the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot here at the castle. As long as you're at Hogwarts, they'll keep waiting for their moment. Before, they used potions to stave off death's advance. Now that things are worsening, they'll just need a stronger potion."
In the entire wizarding world, only a handful of potions could delay death's grip—and one such ingredient happened to be in the Forbidden Forest.
Dumbledore's brow furrowed briefly before realization dawned. He murmured, "Unicorn blood."
…
When Hagrid woke, his head throbbed, and he felt woozy—whether from the alcohol or sleeping too long, he wasn't sure. Groggily sitting up, he grabbed the pitcher by his bedside and gulped down half of its cold water. The fog in his mind cleared, and the headache eased.
Throwing off his blanket, he noticed Fang curled up by the bed. A pot on the table held half a serving of meat stew.
Hagrid blinked. "Did you make this?"
Then he chuckled at his own confusion, rubbing his head as he tried to piece together last night.
After leaving the Three Broomsticks, he'd invited the group to the Hog's Head for drinks… Dumbledore and Flitwick declined, but Melvin and that craftsman joined him at the pub. They ordered three bottles of Firewhisky, but those two started chatting about magical mirrors and the pub's setup…
He'd stepped out for a quick bathroom break, and after that, things got fuzzy.
"One bottle knocked me out?" Hagrid muttered, incredulous. He thumped his head, trying to recall more, but all he got were flashes of dragon names and an image of silvery-white flames.
"What dragon breathes silver flames?"
The harder he thought, the more confused he became, and the worse his headache grew. All he could figure was that Professor Levent must've brought him back. The rest was a blank.
"Woof! Woof!" Fang circled his feet, tugging at his pant leg toward the table, pointing out the stew.
Hagrid grinned, ruffling the dog's head. "You're right, breakfast first."
Ten minutes later.
Fang watched the half-giant slurp down the stew with gusto, letting out a satisfied sigh. The dog glanced at his own plate of plain boiled meat and fell silent.
That was supposed to be his dinner…
Hagrid, full and content, let out a burp, his stomach warm and happy.
He'd pegged Professor Levent as one of those snooty pure-blood types, but the man was surprisingly down-to-earth—and that stew was delicious.
He'd have to invite him for drinks again sometime.
…
Three nights after Christmas, a small argument broke out in the Gryffindor boys' dormitory.
"Fancy a game of chess?" Ron asked.
"Nope," Harry replied.
"Want to check on Hagrid?"
"Nah, you go."
"Harry, I know you're still thinking about that mirror. I've got to warn you—don't go back tonight."
"Why not?"
"I don't know, I just have a bad feeling. A mirror that shows your desires and dreams? That's the kind of thing that sucks you in. It's never good in stories—could be dark magic. Plus, you've been lucky sneaking past Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris so far. What if you get caught?"
"You sound like Hermione."
"I'm not joking, Harry. Seriously, don't go."
"…"
Harry ignored his roommate's advice. He'd never known his parents growing up, never felt their love in his ten years with the Dursleys. Now, with a chance to see their faces, not even Merlin himself could stop him—let alone Ron's baseless worries.
As night fell, Harry slipped on his Invisibility Cloak, left the dormitory, crossed the common room, and climbed through the portrait hole.
"You naughty little sneak, who are you!?" the Fat Lady snapped, annoyed at being disturbed from her sleep three nights in a row, even if the headmaster had told her to expect it.
Harry stayed silent, mentally apologizing.
The corridor torches were out, and with the darkness and his cloak, Harry felt less nervous than the night before. He moved lightly down the stairs, dodging Filch and Mrs. Norris on patrol, and soon reached the abandoned classroom. He stood before the Mirror of Erised.
"Mum… Dad…"
Harry gazed at the mirror, entranced, running his hand over its surface before sitting on the floor. He wanted to stay all night. No one—not even Merlin—could stop him from being with his family.
"You're back, Harry?" a voice said.
"Professor Dumbledore! I—I didn't see you."
"Your Invisibility Cloak shouldn't affect your vision. Perhaps your eyesight's gotten worse," Dumbledore said with a chuckle, sitting beside him. "Or maybe you were so focused on the Mirror of Erised that you missed what's around you."
"I didn't know it was called that, sir."
"I'm just going by the inscription."
"Erised…"
"Try reading it backward."
"…"
In the castle's abandoned classroom, the kindly headmaster began a heart-to-heart with the young student. Five hundred miles away in London, Melvin crossed Charing Cross Road, pushed open the creaky revolving door of an old pub, and stepped inside.
The Leaky Cauldron was at its liveliest. Dim kerosene lamps cast a hazy, mysterious glow over the room. A cackling old witch in odd robes sat in a corner, goblins from Gringotts were rowdy at a long table, and the younger Abbotts handled bartending and serving while old Tom slacked off behind the counter, chatting with a few wizards.
At the sound of the copper bell above the door, Tom's gaze snapped up. Spotting his guest, his eyes lit up, and a gummy grin spread across his wrinkled face, looking like a shriveled walnut. "Professor Levent!"
Tom hurried from behind the counter, ushering Melvin toward a room upstairs. "Give me a few minutes. Wright told me about this, but I didn't expect you so early. He'll be here soon."
The pub's second floor doubled as an inn, with tidy guest rooms prepared for visitors. The air carried a faint scent of alcohol, and a fire crackled in the hearth, mingling with the distant hum of Muggle cars outside.
"Tom, it's only been a few months, not like we just met," Melvin said with a wry smile. "I liked you better in the summer—polite, but not this polite."
"Well, we're talking business tonight, aren't we?" Tom chuckled, flashing his toothless gums. "Let me tell you, a couple months back, the pub was packed every night. I thought it was trade caravans from Knockturn Alley coming for a drink after deals, but when I tallied the books, business hadn't budged. Turns out, they were just using the pub's Floo to get to Hogsmeade—heading to the Three Broomsticks to watch the matches."
"Word spread that fast?" Melvin asked.
"Yup! At first, it was just Hogsmeade locals and their friends popping by for the fun. Now everyone knows the Three Broomsticks shows Hogwarts Quidditch matches. Regulars like Cauldry and Dedalus went and came back raving about it—the Boy Who Lived as Seeker, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, a nail-biter where Harry Potter snatched the Snitch for the win."
Tom's voice dripped with indignation. "It's downright outrageous!"
"So you want to buy a mirror too?" Melvin asked.
"Exactly!" Tom nodded vigorously.
Melvin let out a soft laugh. "Didn't peg you for the type. You're always slacking behind the counter, barely bothering with cleaning or mixing drinks on time. I thought you didn't care about the pub's business."
Tom blinked up at him. "I don't."
"Then why buy a mirror?"
"Because I want to watch Harry Potter's matches too!" Tom said, as if it were obvious. "The Leaky Cauldron's the gateway to Diagon Alley, with the public Floo right here. Regulars come by for drinks, so I can't just close up and leave. A mirror's the only way I can catch the games."
"…"
Melvin's expression turned thoughtful.
Quidditch's influence—and Harry Potter's fame—was spreading faster than he'd expected. If Diagon Alley in London was like this, what about other wizarding hubs?
Would other pub owners want mirrors too?
How long would it take to build a wizarding cinema network?
Oblivious to Melvin's wandering thoughts, Tom kept grumbling. For years, he'd been stuck running the Leaky Cauldron while others traveled. Quidditch World Cup posters went up every four years, but he'd never seen a match in person. "And those smug blokes like Dedalus, bragging about the games right in my face!" Tom muttered, toothlessly gnashing. "Makes me want to spit in their drinks!"
Creak…
The door swung open.
Wright and Borgin froze in the doorway, a tray of butterbeers in hand. They'd rushed over, ordering drinks to support the pub, only to overhear Tom plotting to tamper with the drinks. They hesitated, unsure whether to step inside.
"…"
Wright mentally reviewed whether he'd bragged about World Cup matches in the pub or had Tom personally mix his drinks.
Borgin, a Knockturn Alley merchant, wondered if he'd ever crossed the Diagon Alley pub owner.
Caught red-handed, Tom's expression faltered. He coughed, scratching his nearly bald head, muttering that maybe an Imperius Curse made him say such things.
Melvin ignored the awkwardness, ushering the two inside and picking up a butterbeer. "No one told me Mr. Borgin would be joining us tonight. Got good news for me?"
"Indeed, it's good news," Borgin said with an oily smile. "Plenty of wizards have seen the mirror at the Three Broomsticks and know its value. They're not as well-connected as Tom, though. They can't tell it's Monkstanley craftsmanship or find Wright's repair shop, so they come to Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley."
"How many want to buy?" Melvin asked, his mood lifting.
His wizarding cinema network was taking shape.
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