The feast for the new term was a lavish affair, with the ghosts' clumsy, comical performances stealing the show—though Dumbledore's quirky jokes fell flat as usual.
The young witches and wizards were having a blast.
After eating their fill, they headed back to their common rooms in groups.
Slytherin's Flint and Warrington walked together, the Quidditch captain asking about Professor Levent's Muggle Studies class. Was it really as entertaining as the rumors suggested? Flint, now in his fifth year, mused that if his O.W.L. results were decent, he might have a shot at the advanced class in his final two years. Warrington stayed quiet, privately impressed that Flint, who scraped the bottom of their year, still entertained such ambitions.
George and Fred were pestering their captain, Wood, wanting to know which team was foolish enough to overlook the twin Beaters and invite an ordinary Keeper instead. Harry and Ron trailed alongside, chuckling at the twins' antics and wondering if they'd ever get a team offer themselves. Harry thought playing professional Quidditch after graduation didn't sound half bad.
Hermione, meanwhile, patted the tube of medicinal toothpaste in her pocket and lingered behind to catch Professor Levent.
Lavender and Parvati wanted to tag along and see what was up, but Hermione shooed them away.
At the high table in the Great Hall, Melvin rose unhurriedly, strolling behind the others while gazing at the enchanted ceiling. His mind was on the task Dumbledore had given him—how to subtly guide the young witches without leaving a trace.
"Professor Levent."
Hermione stood before him, noticing he seemed lost in thought. She called out instinctively, then hesitated, her hand brushing the toothpaste in her pocket. It felt like such an odd gift. "Over the holidays, I told my parents about school," she mumbled. "They asked me to thank you, and they prepared…"
Her words trailed off into an awkward murmur as she pulled out the toothpaste and handed it over, avoiding his gaze.
"Granger… no, let's go with Hermione."
Melvin's mind flickered with a few thoughts. He ruffled her hair gently, took the toothpaste, and tucked it into his pocket. Then he pulled out a few boxes of Chocolate Frogs. "Thank your parents for me. These are my return gift."
Hermione's head bobbed slightly under his hand. She stared at the stack of Chocolate Frogs, a bit dazed, then glanced at his coat pocket and fell silent.
Still in a daze, she took the candies and wandered off, only realizing later that she'd forgotten to ask about Nicolas Flamel.
Back in the common room, with some time before lights-out, Hermione found her two friends at a round table by the window.
"Have you noticed? Professor Quirrell was absent again," Harry said, piecing together what he'd gathered. "He didn't leave Hogwarts over the holidays, but he's missed nearly every feast. Think we'll see him at Defense Against the Dark Arts tomorrow?"
"No idea if we'll see him…" Ron, stuffed from dinner and sprawled on the couch, was barely listening, his mind blank as his stomach worked overtime. He echoed Harry absentmindedly.
"There's got to be something going on!" Hermione said, sitting at the table and setting the Chocolate Frogs down. "If only we could figure out who Nicolas Flamel is."
"Figure out who Nicolas Flamel is…" Ron parroted, his eyes drifting to the unopened Chocolate Frogs. He casually looked away, but his gaze kept sneaking back to the boxes.
"From Professor Levent," Hermione explained briefly, splitting the boxes between Harry and Ron and saving a few for her roommates. She steered the conversation back to Flamel. "I feel like I've heard that name before. It's so familiar."
"So familiar…" Ron echoed, this time with a bit more enthusiasm.
Harry eyed the candies thoughtfully. "We've checked every famous wizard from recent times and found nothing. Maybe he's just an ordinary wizard. How are we supposed to find him?"
"An ordinary wizard…" Ron mumbled, his focus on the Chocolate Frogs. He carefully pulled out a card, praying for a rare Agrippa, only to groan at yet another Dumbledore. Disappointed, he was about to hand it to Harry when his eyes caught the text below. He gasped, lowering his voice. "I know where we've seen it!"
"Albus Dumbledore, current Headmaster of Hogwarts, known for defeating the dark wizard Grindelwald and for his groundbreaking work in alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel…"
Hermione read the card aloud, thrilled at the clue but also puzzled.
Was this a coincidence, or…?
…
Monday Morning
The seventh-year Muggle Studies class was first thing in the morning. The classroom was plain, with no magical tools in sight—just an ordinary room.
Candles hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow, while a fire crackled quietly in the hearth, making the room a bit stuffy. The glass windows were fogged with condensation, a small crack left open for ventilation.
The advanced class was small, and the students, already close from months of engaging lessons, had arrived early. With half an hour before class, they chatted about recent adventures: a neighbor landing in St. Mungo's, a Caribbean water beast, Romanian dragons, Quidditch tryout invites, and mysterious mirrors popping up in wizarding pubs.
As seventh-years, they were on the cusp of becoming adult wizards. A few sharper students had noticed a clear divide between Hogwarts and the outside world. Despite Dumbledore's reputation as the greatest wizard of the age, positive news about him was scarce beyond the school. The four Heads of House, all giants in their fields, were rarely mentioned outside niche journals, and elective professors were even less visible. It was as if an invisible force limited Hogwarts' influence.
Hearing about Professor Levent over the holidays—and his tangible impact on their families and friends—felt oddly refreshing to the students.
Melvin entered the classroom, a stack of papers in hand, dressed in a sharp black coat that resembled a robe. The chatter died down.
"Before we dive into the new term, I have a few words," Melvin said evenly, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Last year, we powered through four rounds of revision. You've learned what you needed to, memorized what you had to, tackled the assignments, and written the essays. You've endured the grind, and I'm confident you'll all pass your exams—unless a dark wizard hit you with an Obliviate over the holidays."
The room erupted in laughter.
"Now, for something unrelated to exams," he continued. "I know some of you will graduate and take over family businesses or follow your parents' paths into the Ministry. If they run a café or shop, you'll do the same. If they're a department head or director, you'll climb the same ladder, settle down, start a family, and pass it all on to the next generation.
"I'm not here to judge whether that's right or wrong, nor do I think you're responsible for it."
He raised his voice slightly, cutting through the murmurs. "Honestly, I think I'd be better suited to teaching History of Magic than Muggle Studies. The current curriculum is just a dry recounting of magical creatures and events—facts without perspective. Wizards haven't developed a proper historical mindset, and there's so much worth exploring there.
"But since Professor Binns isn't retiring anytime soon, and I'm too lazy to dive into endless historical records, I'll spend the next six months showing you some simple, fun, and meaningful Muggle topics when we have time."
"Professor, you said that last year!" Alistair Chastin, Hufflepuff's Quidditch captain, called out with a grin. His skills were average, but his cheerful personality shone through, and he was busy grooming Cedric to take over.
"This year, I mean it. Promise," Melvin replied with a laugh.
Seventh-years were pressed for time, so the young professor wrapped up his speech and moved on to reviewing holiday assignments. A few students had clearly slacked off, but Melvin didn't call them out, just teased lightly during the lesson.
Five minutes before the bell, he dismissed class early, giving the graduates a break and sparing himself the crowded halls.
At the staircase corner, Melvin spotted Hagrid slinking down the steps, his mole-skin coat wrapped around a stack of thick books. Words like "Dragon," "Breeding," and "Hatching" peeked out from the spines.
An eight-foot-tall half-giant trying to be sneaky was hilariously conspicuous.
Hagrid caught sight of Melvin and grinned. "Melvin! Fancy a drink sometime?"
"Maybe later. Since when do you read?" Melvin asked, amused.
"Er—" Hagrid's eyes darted away guiltily, and he hurried down the stairs. "Just got curious about books. See ya!"
Quirrell's up to something too, Melvin thought, chuckling. He was about to head down when a commotion erupted from the corridor.
…
"Class… dismissed."
Professor Quirrell, pale and waxy, looked frail from illness yet bloated, his face and purple turban stained an odd soy-sauce hue, as if unwashed for weeks. At the bell, he cut off mid-spell, mumbled dismissal, and scurried out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Students had expected him to skip class, but the lesson went ahead—though the stench clinging to Quirrell was worse than ever. In the stuffy winter classroom, the smell, like rotting mutton masked with pungent herbs, was unbearable, stinging their eyes.
At the dismissal, first-years bolted out, desperate for fresh air in the courtyard before Potions.
Only Neville Longbottom lingered, slowly packing his things. He'd learned that taking his time and reviewing helped him remember—whether it was textbook facts or password lists.
He still used his old wand, which felt sluggish but worked well enough. Tucking it into his robe's inner pocket, he slipped his password list into his textbook, packed it with his notebook, and stuffed a crumpled candy wrapper into his coat.
As he stood, he realized he was alone. Glancing out the window, he saw a rare sunny winter day, the sunlight glinting off clouds and snow, casting bright patches on the walnut desks. The classroom felt warm and alive.
His mood lifted. It was just a good day.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Neville stepped out—nearly colliding with two boys bigger than him. He stopped just in time and looked up to see Slytherin's Goyle and Crabbe, with a platinum-blond boy in pristine robes: Malfoy.
Their expressions were anything but friendly.
Draco Malfoy tilted his chin up, sneering. "Well, look who it is—Longbottom, the Squib. Lingering in there because you love that stench, huh?"
Neville ignored him, stepping aside to pass.
Draco's temper flared. Last term's Flying lesson—Neville had caused his fall from midair. Draco's flying skills rivaled Potter's, and without that mishap, he might've been the one scouted by a team, his victories broadcast in every wizarding pub.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Neville turned at the shout, seeing Draco's wand aimed at his chest. A thin red beam shot out.
He recognized the minor jinx. As it hit, his legs snapped together, bound by an invisible force, and he toppled forward, rigid.
Inside, he felt oddly calm. His eyes flicked to the winter sky outside—still beautiful. It was just a petty spell. Once they left, he'd undo it.
Crabbe and Goyle roared with laughter. Draco smirked, relishing Neville's awkward sprawl. He kicked Neville's dropped bag, scattering books and papers, and ground a crumpled candy wrapper under his foot.
It wasn't harmful, just a taunt. The Slytherins saw nothing wrong with it, no worse than the jinx.
But Neville's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto them.
Draco felt a chill, like a lion was sizing him up. Unnerved but hiding it, he turned to leave.
Still bound, Neville didn't undo the spell. Instead, he bent his knees, regained his balance, and crouched. With a push, he launched himself forward, tackling Draco.
His right fist swung in a clean arc, smashing into Draco's left cheek. The slim boy spun like a top, crashing to the ground, his face swelling instantly as tears and snot streamed down.
Crabbe and Goyle froze for a split second before piling onto Neville, who was now atop Draco, fist raised again. The four tangled in a chaotic brawl.
A scream rang out nearby.
Harry and the others, back from the courtyard, gaped at the sight of three Slytherins ganging up on Neville. Without thinking, Gryffindors charged in—Seamus and Dean yelling, Lavender and Parvati tossing their hair back and rolling up their sleeves.
Hermione tried to calm things down but, seeing her friends overwhelmed, grabbed her Charms textbook as a weapon.
Slytherin's Pansy Parkinson screeched as Harry kicked Draco, rushing in with Millicent and Daphne behind her.
The quiet corridor turned into a battlefield, new students joining the fray every few minutes.
…
Melvin and Professor McGonagall arrived almost simultaneously, greeted by a chaotic scene: a crowd of onlookers surrounding nearly every Gryffindor and Slytherin first-year, bruised and battered, hair wild like they'd been dragged through the Owlery, robes askew.
"In all my years at Hogwarts, I have never—NEVER—seen such disgraceful fighting!" McGonagall's voice shook with fury, her glasses practically sparking. "How dare you! How dare you!"
"Points deducted! Detention! All of you will serve detention!"
Snape, arriving late, surveyed the students coldly, his face unreadable.
To wizards, these scrapes were minor, and Melvin found the situation amusing. If he wasn't mistaken, that Gryffindor girl had left clear footprints on Pansy and Millicent's backs—and even snuck in an extra kick after the professors arrived.
That's a Gryffindor for you.
The Sorting Hat never got it wrong.