Saturday Morning, The Three Broomsticks
For decades, the Three Broomsticks was just another wizarding pub, nestled on the right side of Hogsmeade's main street, doing decent business with Hogwarts students. Its signature butterbeer and house-brewed mead were popular enough, and the glamorous Madam Rosmerta had a bit of fame among wizards, but that was about it.
Things changed subtly after last Halloween.
When the secret-recipe mead overtook butterbeer as the top seller, a new attraction appeared: the Memory Mirror. Fueled by the buzz of Hogwarts' Quidditch matches, it spread like wildfire to other pubs. Soon, it wasn't just Hogwarts games—footage from other magical schools' tournaments, international friendlies, and recent Quidditch continental matches filled the mirrors.
Now, the Three Broomsticks was the most famous pub in Britain. Butterbeer and mead were still draws, but the real profit came from being the birthplace of the Memory Mirror. Its proximity to Hogwarts meant it got match footage first, attracting travelers and passersby who'd stop for a butterbeer, watch a game, and reminisce about their school days.
Wright Monkstanley strode into the pub without lingering, heading straight for the top floor. His eyes scanned the place, assessing the business from the perspective of a repair shop owner.
The first floor was quiet, but the second buzzed with noise—a group of fans watching last week's Scotland vs. Chudley Cannons friendly, grumbling loudly. Scotland wasn't doing well, apparently.
For a Saturday morning to draw such a crowd, the Three Broomsticks' revenue had to be in the tens of thousands of Galleons. Melvin's commissions alone must be in the thousands, and with the Memory Mirror's earnings—tens of thousands more—his wealth likely surpassed many pure-blood families.
Merlin's beard, that man's rich!
Good thing Wright was making a profit too.
He silently marveled as he climbed to the third floor. The main area was closed off, reserved for a single meeting room with a long table and over twenty chairs. Only fifteen representatives from pubs and clubs were attending, leaving plenty of extra seats.
It was just a casual gathering of the Mirror Club, not some secretive society. No one checked IDs or demanded invitations. Wright entered, caught Melvin's eye from the front row, and quietly took a seat in the back. Then he noticed two unexpected faces nearby.
Dumbledore needed no introduction. As a Hogwarts alumnus, Wright owed the headmaster for discreetly helping him during tough times at the Ministry years ago.
Next to him was a gaunt figure in refined robes, his thinning silver hair neatly combed back. His pale, sagging skin resembled crumpled parchment, and his deep-set silver eyes carried a kind but distant air.
"Headmaster!" Wright blurted, then quickly reined in his excitement, greeting them eagerly. "Mr. Flamel!"
The greatest alchemist of centuries—Wright's family, generations of tinkerers, revered him like most wizards revered Merlin.
"Shh…" Dumbledore gestured for quiet, as the meeting was underway.
Wright nodded vigorously, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He rehearsed how he'd express his family's generations-long admiration for Nicolas Flamel and ask about technical puzzles that had stumped them for decades.
The meeting continued. The pub owners came prepared, as running a business with Memory Mirrors was a novel concept in the wizarding world, and problems were inevitable.
Over the past two months, they'd tried solving issues themselves with mixed results. Seeing the Three Broomsticks' operations up close and hearing Professor Levent break it down with Muggle-inspired logic made things much clearer.
Melvin, seated at the front, spoke casually. "My main job's teaching at Hogwarts. You're the real pub owners. My analysis is just a reference—how you actually run things is up to you."
"Professor Levent, you're always so modest about your achievements. It's admirable," said Fast-Talking Alfie, his voice slower than most wizards', almost deliberate.
The tall, lanky wizard with a faint scar above his right eyebrow ran a Quidditch club in Tinworth. He was well-respected among retired players and referees.
Outside Hogwarts matches, Alfie sourced most of the Mirror Club's footage. He was now in talks with Durmstrang, the third-ranked magical school in Europe, about their star Quidditch player's matches. If he secured that footage, the Memory Mirror could expand across the continent.
"Exactly! Everyone knows the Three Broomsticks owes its success to your ideas. Not just business strategies—Madam Rosmerta herself said you gave her the recipe for the new signature mead," Old Will, his nose red from years of drinking, boomed in his gravelly voice.
"Absolutely, absolutely…"
The room grew lively. What started as a Mirror Club discussion turned into a roast of Melvin, though it wasn't flattery. These seasoned pub owners wouldn't grovel, not even for Minister Fudge. They were just teasing the young professor for his age.
Melvin sighed, a bit exasperated. "Let's get back to the Memory Mirror."
"Whatever you say, Professor. We're all ears," they chorused.
"…" Melvin shook his head. "You're already doing great. I'm stuck at Hogwarts most of the time, only dropping by the pub on weekends, but I hear about you from the patrons. Alfie's detailed commentary for Tinworth's matches—World Cup finals and obscure but thrilling games—is fantastic. Jack's Upper Flagley footage is electrifying, gets the blood pumping…"
The pub owners who'd contributed to the matches beamed, their smiles radiant.
Old Will and a few others turned away, a bit jealous but unable to argue. They lacked the connections and expertise in Quidditch that these professionals had.
"But the Memory Mirror doesn't have to be limited to Quidditch," Melvin said, shifting gears, sparking interest among the others. "Think broader. The footage is just a medium—the content can vary. Your youthful adventures, old raids against dark wizards, even battles with Death Eaters."
His words hung in the air. The room fell silent. Everyone around the table had lived through that era, and hearing "Death Eaters," a term rarely spoken anymore, stirred complex emotions.
Before anyone could respond, Melvin continued. "Expanding ideas doesn't mean throwing caution to the wind. We can't chase attention with no limits, leaking sensitive secrets or showing crude content. Public footage must be vetted—that's the whole point of the Mirror Club."
When the mirrors were first sold, rules were set, and everyone signed a magical contract. All content shown on the Memory Mirror had to be approved by Melvin.
Old Will, a retired Auror, frowned slightly as Melvin outlined the rules. Decades as an Auror, scarred from countless battles, and years dealing with Ministry bureaucrats had given him a sharp political mind.
Now that he thought about it, this setup encroached on the Ministry's authority.
He mulled it over, considering Minister Fudge's recent actions and the state of the Ministry. After a moment's hesitation, he shook his head, choosing not to object.
"Many of you come from pure-blood families but don't cling to pure-blood supremacy. You're open to new ideas, and some of you have probably noticed—the Memory Mirror is a lot like Muggle screens. In the future, we'll introduce paid content…"
Melvin briefly explained the Muggle cinema model, keeping it simple since the wizarding world and Muggle society were fundamentally different. Cinemas were just a reference; the path forward needed exploration. "You live in mixed wizard-Muggle towns. There are probably cinemas nearby—check them out. I'm working on a film, almost done. It should be ready around Easter…"
Questions, answers, and discussions followed. Half an hour later, the meeting wrapped up successfully.
"If you have ideas, write to me or meet me here on weekends. Let's make the world inside the Memory Mirror even more exciting," Melvin said.
He escorted the pub owners downstairs, and no one noticed the two old wizards in the corner.
No surprise—Dumbledore had cast a charm to keep them discreet.
The white-haired headmaster sat by the window, quietly sipping mead. Nearby, Wright was gripping Nicolas Flamel's hands, pouring out his family's generations-long admiration for the legendary alchemist.
"Mr. Flamel, my grandfather grew up reading your Guide to Hieroglyphs."
"…"
"My father did too."
"…"
"I love that book, but I grew up with your Studies in Ancient Alchemy."
"…"
Flamel, looking utterly helpless at 665 years old, was fragile—prone to fractures or dislocations from the slightest bump. Wright's enthusiastic grip left him powerless, unable to pull away.
Melvin returned from seeing the guests off and witnessed this scene: Young wizard shamelessly accosts 665-year-old legend while 111-year-old wizard stands idly by, moral standards in tatters.
His mouth twitched. He stepped forward, pinched Wright to free Flamel, and rescued the elderly wizard.
"Mr. Flamel, it's been a while."
"Hello, Professor… Levent?" Flamel looked up, his silver eyes glinting faintly.
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