Melvin looked down at her with a faint, amused smile.
"…"
Why did Professor Levent's gaze feel as intimidating as Professor McGonagall's?
Hermione squirmed under his stare but pressed on, her voice small but determined. "Professor, my mum always says friends should help each other, especially when someone's in trouble."
Melvin shook his head, slowing his pace toward the castle. "Hermione, remember the start of last term? You kept correcting everyone's spellwork in class, and it caused some friction with your classmates."
Hermione fell silent, hesitating before replying, "Are you saying I'm making the same mistake? But I think Hagrid's situation is different from learning spells…"
She'd spotted that dragon egg during the Forbidden Forest patrol but hadn't had a chance to talk to Hagrid about it. Then the Quirrell incident happened, Harry ended up unconscious in the hospital wing, and Hagrid was a sobbing mess every time she visited. She couldn't bring it up then.
Harry had woken up a few days ago, and during a weekend visit to Hagrid's hut, Hermione finally mentioned the dragon egg.
But Hagrid was obsessed, treating himself like the dragon's mother. Harry, fresh out of the hospital, was too pumpkin-juice-addled to think straight and sided with Hagrid. Ron, predictably, had no sense at all, babbling about how cool hatching a dragon would be.
The dragon was due to hatch next week. What was she supposed to do? Stand by and watch Hagrid make a mistake that could get him sacked?
"There won't be any life-threatening trouble at Hogwarts—well, not for the next few months, at least. The centaurs will handle things in the Forbidden Forest, and if Hagrid faces something he can't manage, he can always turn to Dumbledore. Beyond that, it's his personal business."
Melvin ruffled her hair. "Whether you found out on your own or Hagrid confided in you, the fact that you know means he trusts you. So you shouldn't go spreading his secrets to others, even to me."
Hermione mulled this over, then tilted her head up at him. "I asked if you and Hagrid were friends first."
"If Hagrid needs my help, he should be the one to ask for it," Melvin said, glancing down at her and quickening his pace.
Her already bushy, curly hair, after a few pats, now looked like an owl's nest gone rogue.
"…"
Hermione frowned, lost in thought. Minutes later, she looked up, watching Melvin's figure head toward the entrance hall, her lips pressed tightly together.
Back in the castle, Melvin felt no burden. Hogwarts had produced the Dark Lord himself and housed a slumbering basilisk in a secret chamber. A dragon hatching was hardly a crisis.
He was certain Dumbledore wasn't clueless about it.
Melvin suspected the headmaster might be using this as a lesson for the gamekeeper. Professor Kettleburn, missing limbs and nearing retirement, would step down next year, leaving the Care of Magical Creatures post open. Hagrid, with decades of experience as gamekeeper and a natural rapport with the forest's creatures, was the obvious successor.
His skills were more than adequate.
His temperament, though, needed work.
Hagrid had hatched acromantulas in a cupboard as a student and was now incubating a dragon in his hut. If he didn't face some consequences, who knew what chaos he'd cause as a professor?
Staff conduct was the headmaster's concern. Since Dumbledore hadn't acted, why should Melvin, a mere elective professor, worry about it?
Inside the castle, the roaring fire in the Great Hall's hearth chased away the chill.
February's early spring was colder than snowy winter, the castle and outdoors like two different worlds. Melvin climbed the stairs, greeting his elective students with a cheerful wave and reminding fifth- and seventh-years that exams were ten weeks away—time to buckle down.
At the second-floor landing, he ran into the deputy headmistress coming downstairs. "Professor McGonagall, off to tackle the financial reports again?" he teased.
"…"
McGonagall, clutching a stack of parchment, fixed him with a stern look. Noticing the damp marks on his shoulders and trouser hems, she knew he'd been outside. "Are you free next week? Come with me to Hogsmeade to settle this quarter's accounts and pick up Easter supplies."
"Of course, Professor."
"The weather's been erratic lately. Remind your students to dress appropriately to avoid catching colds—flu spreads easily this time of year."
"Will do, Professor."
Melvin bid her farewell and returned to his office, settling behind his desk.
His room was tidy, most belongings stored in his enchanted suitcase. He assigned little written homework, so there were no papers to grade. His desk was clear, the wastebasket stuffed with crumpled script drafts. A small Memory Mirror sat on a shelf by the wall, its silver mist swirling.
Dumbledore's Pensieve had been returned.
Melvin poured a cup of hot tea and opened Nicolas Flamel's journal, the room filling with faint white steam.
"04.24.1527: Paracelsus lectured in Basel. Visited him. This young alchemist's skill is remarkable, particularly in human transmutation, influenced by ancient Roman wizarding thought and a firm believer in the tria prima theory. After I showed him the Philosopher's Stone, he insisted its magic derived from sulfur, mercury, and salt…"
Paracelsus, the famed 16th-century alchemist, was renowned even in the Muggle world before the Statute of Secrecy, leaving behind countless legends.
The page detailed their conversation, accompanied by an illustration. The Swiss alchemist was depicted casting a spell on a necrotic leg, blackened and oozing yellowish-white pus, as if cursed or poisoned. Limited by space, Flamel hadn't drawn the leg's owner.
The sketch was fluid and vivid, colored with mineral dyes that hadn't faded in centuries. But that was all.
The image held no magical aura; the figure didn't move, frozen in its pose.
The text offered no firm conclusions. Flamel neither confirmed nor refuted Paracelsus' views, recording them with concise neutrality, devoid of personal commentary.
Melvin pondered Paracelsus' tria prima theory. Few medieval wizards clung to ancient magical beliefs, which were outdated even in Flamel's time. Yet, those raised on such ideas often grew into exceptionally powerful wizards.
Unfortunately, the theory seemed unrelated to external emotional magic.
Melvin studied the illustration closely, turning the page slowly, unhurried.
When Flamel revealed the truth about magic and will, Melvin had felt a fleeting panic. But as he sorted his thoughts, he realized he differed from legendary wizards like the Founders, Merlin, or Helpo.
Those wizards passively absorbed external magic in their youth, unaware of their innate ability. Only in old age, influenced by external will, did they notice the anomaly.
Melvin lacked that natural gift. After receiving the horned water serpent's blessing, he quickly sensed the external magic and began consciously spreading influence to harness it.
The process was clear, and he was certain his sense of self remained untouched—at least for now.
The path ahead was uncertain, but he couldn't shrink back.
After reading conversations with four alchemists, Melvin set the journal down, exhaled, and summoned the Memory Mirror to continue editing.
The film was nearly complete, with only minor details left to refine—like whether to cut the final segment or reveal Voldemort's involvement. He worried about causing panic or provoking the Ministry's fragile nerves.
…
Snow melted, cold faded, and the weather warmed.
Late February.
In his office, Melvin sat by the window, holding the ancient journal, turning to the final page.
It was blank, faintly red, with no farewell or hidden enchantments. He'd expected something special—a secret spell or transformation—but there was nothing.
All signs pointed to it being a simple record of Flamel's visits with 71 wizards across six centuries. The first three centuries covered 57, the latter three only 14, including Dumbledore. Most were wizards, though Muggles were mentioned in passing.
Flamel's life seemed to unfold through these entries. For his robust first 300 years, he traveled the world, seeking ancient magical relics and eagerly conversing with locals. As his body aged, his drive to uncover truths waned—or perhaps he stopped chasing them.
Melvin sensed secrets in the illustrations but had no clue how to unlock them.
Closing the journal, he stretched lazily, glancing outside. Early spring sunlight carried a soft warmth, wild grass sprouted on the grounds, and a dozen brooms circled the Quidditch pitch.
By his estimate, Hagrid's dragon had hatched by now, probably growing sturdier than Fang already.
Knock, knock, knock…
"Come in," Melvin called.
The door creaked open, revealing an unexpected face framed by distinctive platinum-blond hair. Draco's brow was furrowed, his eyes darting nervously behind him before he cautiously shut the door, as if someone were tailing him.
"Mr. Malfoy," Melvin said, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
"Professor Levent, I need your advice on something."