2:00 AM
Whoosh… whoosh…
A ball of fiery orange flames blazed in midair, its heat warping the space around it with a shimmering distortion. The bright light left faint greenish-black shadows in its wake, a trick of the retina reacting to the intense glow.
Fiendfyre—a term rooted in the idea of demonic flames from the underworld—was a forbidden dark spell, a branch of conjuration magic on par with the Unforgivable Curses. Its origins were lost to time, impossible to trace.
Casting it was deceptively simple, no harder than standard conjuration charms. Even underage wizards could pick it up quickly.
But Fiendfyre's terrifying power was wildly disproportionate to its ease of use. Once summoned, a torrent of flames poured from the wand's tip, spreading at an alarming rate, igniting everything it touched and creating a sea of fire in moments. Due to its unique dark magic properties, only raw magical energy could slow its spread—ordinary water or freezing charms only fueled the blaze.
Fiendfyre was easy to unleash but nearly impossible to control. If the caster couldn't contain its spread, the all-consuming magic would destroy everything nearby, including the caster. In a sense, unleashing Fiendfyre was akin to signing one's own death warrant.
Melvin had once only been able to barely manage Fiendfyre, but now he wielded it with precision, bending its volatile magic to his will. The flames obeyed his every thought.
Hiss… hiss…
The fire surged, morphing into a bat with wings spread wide. Its skeleton was made of condensed flames, its membranous wings roiling with fire. The creature let out a piercing, otherworldly screech, despite having no physical form.
The orange glow warmed Melvin's cheeks. With a flicker of intent, the flames vanished.
The room was left with superheated air, stirring unnatural currents that rustled the parchment on his desk.
Melvin sat back down, eyes narrowing as he caught his breath and reflected.
There were countless offensive curses, but only a select few were classified as dark magic. These required the caster to channel negative emotions—anger, hatred, contempt. Such feelings fueled dark wizards, whose goals were torment, death, and destruction.
This was why dark magic was so prone to spiraling out of control.
It was hard to say whether the soul or magic itself was more susceptible to dark magic's influence. As a wizard delved deeper into its study, their soul and worldview twisted, their personality growing erratic and extreme, slowly turning them into a reclusive, volatile dark wizard.
A wrathful wizard meshed well with Fiendfyre. A bloodthirsty one excelled at the Killing Curse. Those who relished causing pain favored the Cruciatus Curse. Rapid mastery of dark magic often signaled a shift in the caster's mindset.
Melvin examined his own emotions, finding no trace of malice. The pure magic of a unicorn seemed to act as a shield, warding off the corrosive effects of dark magic on his soul, allowing him to wield it without losing himself.
"On the other hand, spells that require positive emotions…"
Melvin exhaled softly, flicking his wand.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A brilliant silver light burst from his wand, coalescing into a shimmering mist that swirled like silk, gently rippling.
The Patronus Charm wasn't a required spell, and its practice was tedious, so Melvin had never fully mastered it. Once he could reliably summon a silver mist to repel dark creatures, he'd stopped practicing, uninterested in shaping it into a corporeal form.
Many wizards made the same choice.
The silvery glow rippled across the room, filling it with mist—but still no solid form.
Yet, within the mist, a faint, slender horn emerged.
…
"Young people have it good…" Dumbledore said wistfully.
The night before, they'd returned to the castle from the Forbidden Forest hut well past midnight. The young witches and wizards could head straight to bed, but the professors had to deal with the aftermath. Minerva had dragged Dumbledore into discussions until dawn, and Melvin had likely stayed up late pestering Professor Kettleburn for unicorn-related materials.
Yet, despite the late night, Melvin looked vibrant at breakfast, showing no signs of fatigue. The aging headmaster couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy.
At the high table in the Great Hall, Melvin studied Dumbledore closely. "You're looking pretty spry yourself, Headmaster. Not a dark circle in sight."
"Not compared to you youngsters," Dumbledore replied with a chuckle.
"…"
Nearby, Snape sat expressionless, his face framed by two prominent dark circles. The way he sliced his fried egg with his utensils, paired with his grim demeanor, looked almost menacing.
Quirrell, as usual, was absent.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled together, whispering about the previous night.
"Firenze told me that a fugitive was willing to pay a steep price to attack a unicorn, all to extend their life and bide time for the Philosopher's Stone…" Harry kept his voice low. "And that fugitive might be Voldemort—or one of his followers."
"I think they're hiding right here in the school," Hermione said, her thoughts clearer after a night's reflection. "I suspect it's Snape."
Ron, mouth full of bread, mumbled, "The Stone's still safe, though. Snape tried on Halloween and couldn't get past Fluffy. Plus, Dumbledore's here."
Harry frowned, sensing something was off.
Hermione sighed. Hagrid was still obsessed with hatching a dragon, and no amount of reasoning could stop him.
"…"
It was Saturday, and breakfast was served until 9:30. Just before nine, a commotion broke out at the Great Hall's entrance as seven or eight people pushed through the doors.
"Director Scrimgeour, this way," said Professor McGonagall, leading the group. Her face showed signs of exhaustion.
She'd had the most to handle the previous night: calming the Slytherin students, reporting the Forbidden Forest incident to the Ministry, coordinating with the night staff, and liaising with the Auror Office that morning—all on three or four hours of sleep.
Behind the deputy headmistress was a tall, lean wizard in his middle years. His tawny hair and bushy eyebrows were streaked with gray, and he wore gold-rimmed glasses. His sharp gaze and slight limp didn't diminish the commanding stride of an old lion. His attire was peculiar: a voluminous wizard's robe over a suit vest, white shirt, and a meticulously tied tie.
Melvin, familiar with the Aurors from Woolworth's Building, recognized this as their standard field attire. Remove the outer robe, and they blended seamlessly into the Muggle world for undercover work.
Trailing behind were the Aurors accompanying him.
Thanks to the mirror incidents, Melvin had spoken with many retired British Aurors and heard plenty from Boggins and White about Ministry officials.
This was Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Auror Office, a rare independent figure in the Ministry. He aligned neither with Dumbledore nor Minister Fudge and had earned a fearsome reputation during the last wizarding war for his uncompromising stance.
Dumbledore set down his utensils, wiped his mouth, and stepped down from the high table to greet him. "What a surprise, Rufus. I didn't expect you to lead the team yourself."
Scrimgeour's wariness of Dumbledore stemmed from the headmaster's overwhelming influence, which he felt undermined the Wizengamot and Ministry's autonomy. Still, he respected the legendary wizard. "An emergency, and urgent. Minister Fudge is visiting Ireland and couldn't return."
Dumbledore's smile remained warm, unbothered by whether Fudge's absence was genuine. He turned to Melvin. "Allow me to introduce our new Muggle Studies professor, Melvin Levent."
After a pause, he added, "Melvin, this is Rufus Scrimgeour. You've likely heard of him."
Scrimgeour's gaze lingered on Melvin, one eyebrow raised. He extended a hand. "Professor Levent, I've seen your name on the front page more than once. Good luck."
"Good luck?" Melvin echoed, puzzled. Was this how British wizards greeted each other? Odd.
Scrimgeour, a Hogwarts alumnus, exchanged pleasantries with the other professors—except Snape. As an Auror dedicated to combating dark wizards, Scrimgeour had nearly died multiple times during the last war and held no fondness for former Death Eaters.
Snape, unfazed by Scrimgeour's coldness, snorted twice and left the hall.
After a brief exchange, Dumbledore and Scrimgeour connected, discussing the previous night's events as they walked toward the Forbidden Forest, planning a search operation.
Melvin watched them leave, his mind racing.
What did Scrimgeour mean by "good luck"? Shouldn't Dumbledore be finding an excuse to leave, giving Quirrell a chance to act? Why bring Aurors into the school? Quirrell's frail body wouldn't hold out much longer…
Over the next half-day, Scrimgeour learned the full story from Hagrid. The Aurors sealed off the Forbidden Forest's edge, scouring the scene and tracking the mysterious dark wizard.
As expected, they found nothing.