Muggle Studies Professor's Office
Melvin was skimming through a notice distributed by the Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. Last week's mass brawl had been so egregious that Professor McGonagall was livid. The notice was plastered in every house's common room, pinned to the bulletin board outside the Great Hall, and even mailed to students' parents.
"Multiple students from Gryffindor and Slytherin engaged in a fight during break, behavior that gravely violates school rules and has caused a deplorable impact…
"After discussion among the Heads of Houses and the Headmaster, both Gryffindor and Slytherin will have their house points reset to zero. Involved students will receive a formal reprimand and weekend detention.
"We hope other students take this as a warning, focus on their studies, and strictly adhere to all school regulations…"
For an entire week, the Great Hall echoed with the deafening howlers from parents every morning and evening—far more energizing than a cup of coffee. Melvin picked up a slew of colorful British wizarding slang, a bit more refined than the howlers he'd heard at Ilvermorny, though they still dipped into crude territory now and then. To preserve his hearing and appetite, he'd taken to having house-elves deliver his meals to his office, freeing up time for magical research.
As the Shadow Mirror spread through wizarding pubs across the country, Melvin Levent's name kept popping up on the front page of The Daily Prophet. He wasn't sure why that beetle-like reporter had taken such a liking to him, but he wasn't above sending her a mental thank-you.
Setting down the parchment, Melvin gripped his wand, closing his eyes to feel the gentle trickle of magic flowing within him. The newspaper's influence was starting to show. Thousands of witches and wizards across Britain had spoken his name, forging a subtle, mysterious connection with him. A small fraction of them felt emotional stirrings—anger, admiration, curiosity—that sparked an unknowable change, crossing mountains and barriers to fuel a faint but steady increase in his magical power.
"Protego…" Melvin whispered.
A silvery metallic sheen flickered briefly, accompanied by a sharp, high-pitched clang. A shimmering bubble of magical energy enveloped him, then faded into invisibility. The shield extended a few inches from his body—far beyond the range of a standard Protego charm. Its defensive strength still needed testing, but maintaining the spell meant he couldn't cast anything else, and the few inches of distance didn't leave much room for powerful offensive spells.
Based on instinct alone, it could likely shrug off common spells like Stupefy, Diffindo, or Incarcerous with ease. Dark magic, though? That was less certain. Maybe he could ask Professor Snape to help test it…
As Melvin pondered the feasibility, a knock interrupted his thoughts. Filch's voice rasped through the door: "Professor Levent, the Headmaster wants you in the side chamber of the Great Hall for a meeting."
"Got it," Melvin called back, his mind racing as he tidied his desk, pocketed his wand, and threw on his cloak before heading out. A meeting? Had something unexpected happened? Dumbledore was still at Hogwarts, and Quirrell, barely holding himself together, wouldn't dare make a move so soon… would he?
Dinner was over, but it wasn't curfew yet. The corridors and staircases still had students milling about, though first-years were scarce. The few he spotted were from Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. None of the students involved in the brawl were anywhere to be seen. Melvin had a hunch why.
In the Great Hall, he finally saw them, sitting quietly at two long tables, heads bowed like scolded quails. A few glanced up as his footsteps echoed. Melvin spotted Hermione, as well as the main culprits from the fight. Their bruises and swelling had healed, their clothes neat and tidy, but the moment Gryffindor and Slytherin locked eyes, the tension was palpable. Draco and Neville, in particular, were glaring daggers at each other, no doubt plotting their next clash.
Inside the side chamber, not all the professors were present—just the four Heads of Houses and Quirrell. The Defense professor looked like a wreck: pale, waxy skin, swollen face, red-rimmed eyes like he'd been crying. He slumped in a corner, clearly unwell.
Dumbledore stood in the center, speaking quietly with McGonagall and Snape, his expression unreadable. As Melvin entered, the room's light shifted, and all eyes turned to him. He raised an eyebrow, feigning confusion.
"Melvin, sorry for calling you so late," Dumbledore said, his voice calm and steady. "We've got too many students in detention. After assigning tasks like polishing the trophy room, cleaning the greenhouse compost, and scrubbing the bathrooms, we're still left with the main instigators. After discussing with the Heads, we've decided to send them on a patrol through the Forbidden Forest."
A detention roster so long it could go down in Hogwarts history.
McGonagall's face was grim, still fuming over the brawl. Melvin's gaze flicked to Quirrell in the corner, his mind whirring. "The other tasks are covered by Mr. Filch, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Sprout," Dumbledore continued. "For the Forest, we've got Hagrid, but we need two more professors. Originally, it was to be Minerva and Severus, but Severus has a potion at a critical stage tonight and can't be away long. I asked Professor Quirrell, but he says he's still recovering…"
Dumbledore paused, then added, "So I'll need to trouble you, Professor Levent."
Melvin caught Quirrell stiffen in the corner, his hand clutching his turban so tightly his swollen fingers turned white with rage. Melvin's expression turned odd. Is Dumbledore banking on Quirrell's body being on the verge of collapse, forcing him to hunt in the Forest tonight?
Over the Christmas holidays, Quirrell had used a dragon egg and some Firewhisky to pry information from Hagrid. Since then, he'd holed up in the hospital wing, barely showing his face except for classes. Melvin suspected Quirrell had been clinging to life, only to realize his vitality was decaying faster than he could manage. He must've turned to the idea of unicorn blood, but Dumbledore and the Forest's creatures had tightened security, leaving Quirrell no openings.
Time was running out. Quirrell's body was nearing its end. If he failed to kill a unicorn, he'd have no choice but to go for the Philosopher's Stone in his weakened state—a move that would make him less of a threat to Harry and the others.
Dumbledore's calculations were meticulous, as always.
"I understand," Melvin said with a nod.
Quirrell, still gripping his turban in the corner, looked ready to snap.
---
Edge of the Forbidden Forest
Winter in the Scottish Highlands dragged on, the snow still thick and unyielding. The sky was clear of clouds and stars, but the moonlight bathed the snow in a ghostly glow, casting an eerie silence over the scene.
Hagrid led the way, his oil lamp swinging. The half-giant carried a crossbow and quiver on his back, a pink umbrella tucked into his waistband, and his beaver-skin boots crunched steadily through the snow, the sound sharp in the quiet night.
Behind him were two groups: Gryffindor's Harry, Ron, Neville, and Hermione, and Slytherin's Draco, Theodore, Pansy, and Daphne. "No need to be scared," Hagrid boomed. "The centaurs are patrolling, so the Forest's plenty safe. The acromantulas and those pesky snakes are hibernating, and it's too early for blood-sucking leeches or stinging wasps. We'll do a couple loops and head back."
The young witches and wizards sniffled, slowing their steps to stay closer to the two professors trailing behind—McGonagall and Melvin—for a bit more security. The night was freezing, the wind biting, and the air stung their noses. A few of them had red noses and runny sniffles they couldn't stop.
"Thanks to your Muggle Studies class, no older students got involved in the brawl," McGonagall said to Melvin, her tone grateful. "Otherwise, things could've been much worse. The Slytherin upper years were about to jump in, but Cassius Warrington, who takes your class, worked with Lee Jordan to keep it to their own fight. Marcus Flint, from the Quidditch team, backed them up, and the others followed."
Melvin recalled Marcus, the bucktoothed Slytherin who hadn't taken his class but had thanked him at the start of term for the Shadow Mirror, which had earned him a tryout with an Argentinian youth team. "That was unexpected," Melvin admitted.
"There's always been tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin," McGonagall sighed. "Almost every year, there's some kind of clash—sometimes even fights. It's rare for students to come to an agreement like that. I used to think it was their family backgrounds—many Slytherins come from pure-blood families raised to think they're superior, while Gryffindors often misinterpret courage and act recklessly."
"School's just one part of life," Melvin said, nudging Fang away from nibbling his trouser hem. "They'll learn the important stuff after they graduate."
"I think the school could do more to guide them," McGonagall countered. "Or maybe it's us professors who haven't done enough."
Melvin didn't entirely blame Hogwarts. "Hogwarts is the only magical school around here, and it stays independent, avoiding outside influences while not forcing the staff's beliefs on students. That's a solid approach. Back in Phineas Black's day, pure-blood ideology was dominant, but the school didn't take sides. Now, with equality between Muggle-borns and pure-bloods gaining traction, Hogwarts still stays neutral."
"Is that so…" McGonagall murmured, glancing at the young professor beside her, wondering how someone so young could have such deep insights. Is Ilvermorny's education really that advanced?
They pressed deeper into the Forest, soon reaching a fork in the path. Hagrid turned to the group. "Here's where we split up. The centaurs know me and Professor McGonagall. Professor Levent, you've got Fang with you. If anything happens, send up a signal. We'll meet back here when we're done."
McGonagall and Melvin, respecting Hagrid's expertise, divided the students into groups.
Ten minutes later, moonlight filtered through the treetops, illuminating the snowy path. Hermione, Neville, and Draco trudged along, a bit dazed. They'd hoped to stick with familiar faces from their own houses, but somehow, Melvin had picked them out.
As Melvin teased Fang, he broke the silence. "Neville, still using that old wand?"
"It… it was my dad's," Neville mumbled.
"I see," Melvin said, pausing thoughtfully. "In traditional dueling etiquette, a defeated wizard's wand is snapped. You wouldn't want to lose a match because your wand doesn't suit you, only to have it broken, would you?"
Neville's face paled, clearly taking the warning to heart.
Hermione, watching Melvin closely, was still wondering if the chocolate frog incident had been a coincidence. Testing the waters, she asked, "Professor, have you ever heard of Nicolas Flamel?"
"Heard of him? I met him," Melvin replied casually. "He and Dumbledore were the ones who recruited me to Hogwarts."
His answer was so straightforward it left no room for suspicion. Maybe I really am overthinking this, Hermione thought, frowning as she sank into self-doubt.
Draco, meanwhile, felt his stomach sink. He'd assumed none of them knew the Muggle Studies professor well, but Melvin seemed to have a connection with both Neville and Hermione. As he started worrying about getting ganged up on and how to call for help, Melvin's voice cut through.
"Draco Malfoy, right?"
"Uh? Yes, Professor," Draco stammered.
"There's a pub in Thetford run by a retired Auror, rented from your family to old Wil, isn't there?"
"I… think so?" Draco wasn't sure. He was only twelve—how was he supposed to know the ins and outs of his family's properties? But the Malfoys owned plenty of real estate, so it sounded plausible.
"Do you know how low that rent is?" Melvin continued, as if chatting about the weather. "Nearby shops pay thousands of Galleons a year. Your father rents to old Wil for less than a hundred, and after thirty years, Wil gets full ownership of the land."
Hermione and Neville perked up, doing the math. At that price, the Malfoys were practically giving the shop away.
Draco's brow furrowed. His shrewd father, the current head of the Malfoy family, making a deal that bad?
Sensing their confusion, Melvin didn't wait for questions. "Old Wil lost his arm to a Death Eater's curse. Your parents, well-known Death Eaters back in the day, claimed they were under the Imperius Curse when Voldemort fell. They narrowly escaped trial and have spent years making amends to Aurors who were injured or killed fighting Death Eaters. Cases like Wil's? There are dozens."
He went on, almost offhandedly. "Your father says that, even if he was controlled, he wants to make up for his mistakes. He pours thousands of Galleons into this every year. The Daily Prophet calls him kind-hearted, a man who owns his errors. But in the pubs, some say he's just putting on a show to avoid old grudges being dredged up. What do you think, Draco? Which is it?"
Hermione and Neville shot him sidelong glances, their opinions clear. Draco had an answer in his heart but couldn't voice it.
Melvin shifted gears. "Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom were renowned Aurors. They fell just before victory, tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange—your mother's sister, Draco, your aunt. She used the Cruciatus Curse to shatter their minds."
Neville's head snapped up, his tear-filled eyes locking onto Draco with a coldness sharper than the snow or moonlight.
Melvin didn't look at Draco, focusing instead on teasing Fang. "Your parents were high-ranking Death Eaters, infamous and with plenty of enemies. Every time the Ministry showed signs of leniency, victims' families protested at the Wizengamot. The Malfoys came this close to Azkaban for life. To win over the Aurors, they threw their generational wealth around like it was nothing, especially trying to earn forgiveness from Neville's grandmother. But the Longbottoms don't need money, and Augusta Longbottom's a stubborn old witch who'd rather Avada Kedavra every Death Eater than take a single Galleon."
Draco's face was ashen.
"Still, Lucius Malfoy's a clever man," Melvin continued. "He found a way to use his gold. He funneled it into St. Mungo's, demanding the Healers give top-notch care to the Longbottoms and pouring a fortune into researching cures for Cruciatus Curse damage."
All three students were stunned. Melvin had learned these secrets through pub gossip. "In the end, Augusta didn't forgive them, but she stopped rallying her allies to protest at the Wizengamot."
Draco stammered, avoiding their eyes. "I… I didn't know that candy wrapper… it was from his mum. I made sure not to mess up his book."
"I'd rather you'd trashed it!" Neville shouted, his voice breaking with tears.
Draco fell silent, unable to respond.
The Forest grew quieter still.
Whoosh—
A burst of red sparks shot into the sky, lighting up half the night.
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