In the mid-August dawn, the lights of Ilvermorny Castle flickered to life one by one. Pukwudgie servers began their morning routine—sweeping the halls, trimming the lawns and branches. They exchanged a few words in their own tongue but mostly worked in silence.
Mount Greylock was slowly waking up.
Melvin spent half an hour in the garden, using a Severing Charm to trim the overgrown branches of a Serpent Tree. Unlike the Pukwudgies' precise cuts, he snapped off clusters with abandon. He examined the branches in his hand, noting the faintly yellowed edges—signs of peak magical potency and vitality, perfect for his needs.
He stuffed the clippings into a linen sack, packing it tightly until it bulged, then tied it with a makeshift rope torn from tree bark. The bundle was shoved into a suitcase that looked far too small to hold it.
Headmaster Fontana watched Melvin's busy figure, then glanced at the Serpent Tree, now looking like it had been gnawed by a dog. He paused, then said dryly, "Why don't you just dig up the whole tree and take it with you?"
Ignoring the headmaster's darkening expression, Melvin chuckled lightly. "Don't be so stingy, Headmaster. It's just a few outer branches. They'd fall off in winter anyway. Think of it as a parting gift for me."
"…"
A parting gift? From whom—Ilvermorny or the Horned Serpent?
Fontana stayed silent, unwilling to argue over a few… hundred branches. He sighed, reluctantly shifting his gaze. "The Triwizard Tournament—is your information reliable?"
"It's solid," Melvin said confidently. "If Ilvermorny wants in, you can't just approach it from the school's side. You'll need MACUSA to coordinate with the International Affairs Departments of the other three schools' Ministries. I don't know much about the French Ministry, but the head of the British Department of International Magical Cooperation is Barty Crouch. He's diligent in his main duties. As for Durmstrang, the Romanian Ministry can pull some strings—my name carries weight there."
Fontana listened to his student's advice, his reluctance over the branches fading. He even started to think the clippings might be worth it. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, pausing before bringing up the previous night's dinner. "Your business with the Graves family…"
"If it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out," Melvin replied with a shrug. "Even without the Graves family, Budapest's network will spread on its own." He had his own plans—control over content mattered more than Galleons.
Fontana nodded, offering a warm smile. "Safe travels, then."
"See you at the Triwizard Tournament!"
…
From Mount Greylock to New York, then from the Woolworth Building to the British Ministry of Magic—Apparition and Portkeys were vastly different experiences, neither particularly pleasant.
Two hours later, Melvin arrived at Charing Cross Road.
Pushing through the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron, Melvin felt a strange sense of wonder. He'd crossed thousands of miles—from Hogwarts to Budapest, Romania to Ilvermorny, and now back here. Two months had passed, and the summer holiday was nearing its end.
Since becoming a wizard, his perception of time and space had subtly shifted. Old memories sometimes felt unreal, like fragments of a dream.
Diagon Alley was livelier than ever. With the school term approaching, Flourish and Blotts and Madam Malkin's were packed with students and parents. Knockturn Alley, just next door, was a stark contrast.
Navigating the narrow, mossy lane, Melvin knocked on the door of Borgin and Burkes.
The brass bell chimed brightly, a sharp contrast to Borgin's oily tone. "Welcome, what can I do for—Professor Levent! What a pleasure to see you again!"
His lifeless, mechanical greeting shifted to a lively, eager pitch. The stooped, greasy-haired Borgin pushed up his glasses, the lenses glinting like his slick hair.
Melvin mirrored his smile. "I'm not here to buy or sell today, Mr. Borgin."
"Then what brings you?"
"I need you to introduce me to someone."
…
"Diagon—cough—Knockturn Alley."
Harry stumbled out of the fireplace, bruised and covered in soot, his cracked glasses barely holding together. He squinted, taking in his surroundings—a dim, eerie wizarding shop.
The shelves were lined with twisted, unsettling objects: bloodstained cards, glassy-eyed orbs, and daggers crafted from human bone. The ceiling dangled grotesque masks and rusty, spiked chains.
Harry was certain nothing here was on Hogwarts' supply list, and the narrow, damp alley outside the shop's window definitely wasn't Diagon Alley.
As he crept toward the door to slip out, two figures appeared. One was the insufferable Draco Malfoy; the other, an unfamiliar middle-aged wizard, likely Draco's father.
Trapped, Harry's mind raced. He ducked into a black wooden cabinet, easing the door shut, leaving just a sliver to peek through.
"If you want to keep that hand, don't touch anything, Draco," the older wizard said lazily, scanning the shelves. The bell jingled as someone stirred in the back.
"I thought you were getting me a gift," Draco muttered, pulling his hand back from a dark artifact.
"…"
Their conversation confirmed Harry's suspicions. He focused, listening intently.
A hunched figure appeared behind the counter, his voice as slick as his hair. "Mr. Malfoy, young Mr. Malfoy—what a surprise!"
Mr. Malfoy frowned slightly, pulling a parchment scroll from his robes—a list of some kind. "I'm not here to buy, Borgin. I'm selling."
"Most welcome," Borgin said, taking the list with exaggerated deference. He didn't look at it, instead hesitating. "Mr. Malfoy, those matters can wait. There's someone who'd like to speak with you, if you'd…"
Mr. Malfoy's expression didn't change, but his eyes turned cold.
Draco, oblivious, asked, "Someone? Who?"
Borgin's smile strained as he gestured toward the back room, indicating Lucius should see for himself.
Mr. Malfoy's nostrils flared slightly. He shot Borgin a sidelong glance and strode toward the back, Draco starting to follow. Borgin quickly intervened. "Young Mr. Malfoy, how about this skull? Crafted by an Indian priest for voodoo rituals…"
Harry smirked as Draco fell for the distraction. Anyone could see Borgin was separating father and son, yet Draco took the bait. What an idiot.
Peering through the sliver, Harry strained to see into the back room. Beyond Mr. Malfoy, he glimpsed a tall, blurred figure—somehow familiar.
…
Mr. Malfoy entered the back room and immediately spotted the young wizard in the center, flipping through a dark magic book. Its cover bore a blood-red serpent, exuding a faint, bloody aura.
He set his cane on a nearby rack. "Professor Levent?"
Lucius Malfoy knew of the professor, of course. First making headlines, then rising through the Mirror Club to become a star in British wizarding society, Melvin Levent was the most prominent name among his peers.
But his deeper impression came from Draco's accounts.
It started with a trivial joke—Melvin's absurd deduction that Severus Snape fancied Narcissa. When she showed Lucius Draco's earnest letter, he'd found it ridiculous and amusing.
Lucius never believed such nonsense, treating it as a jest. He'd even sent Snape an invitation to poke fun in person, but Snape never showed.
Then came the Forbidden Forest night patrol warning. Afterward, Draco matured noticeably. Lucius and Narcissa thought it was just the effects of school, but later learned from Draco's offhand questions about shop rents that Melvin had taught him a lesson.
Finally, Draco came home boasting about a deal with the Longbottom boy—child's play, but it showed the Malfoy flair.
Lucius didn't mind befriending such a rising professor.
Of course, it was a cautious, measured friendship.
Melvin, too, was sizing up the middle-aged wizard: Lucius Malfoy, head of the Malfoy family, a global trader, former core Death Eater, escaped justice, a hypocritical philanthropist, a scheming mastermind.
Pale blond hair, piercing grey eyes, a sharp, pale face strikingly like Draco's.
"Mr. Malfoy, apologies for arranging the meeting this way."
Melvin set down the book, bowing slightly with a flawless smile. He summoned two chairs, gesturing for Lucius to sit. "I hear you're looking to offload some tricky items to dodge the Ministry's recent inspections?"
Lucius nodded faintly, settling into the chair with ease. "The Malfoy name doesn't carry much weight anymore—just enough to buy me a couple of days to clear out the attic."
"Dark artifacts are a minor issue. A fine at most, and Galleons are nothing to the Malfoys…"
Melvin's praise made Lucius lift his chin, a touch of pride in his eyes. But the next words hit like a Stunner:
"What about the Dark Lord's possessions? How do you plan to handle those?"
Lucius' pupils constricted, his smile freezing. His body tensed, instinctively defensive. "What are you implying?" he asked coldly.
Melvin held his gaze, speaking deliberately. "I'm talking about the diary in your pocket. What's your plan for it?"
The precise, damning words shattered Lucius' composure. Cold sweat beaded on his back as his mind raced, trying to decipher the young professor's intentions.
How did he know about the diary?
Was he the Dark Lord's agent? No—Dumbledore's?
Melvin continued, unfazed. "I'm sure you've seen my films. Dumbledore and I both believe the Dark Lord will return one day. I'm curious: when he does, will you—Death Eaters who betrayed him, abandoned him, and never sought him out—still have his trust?
"With the Malfoy wealth and connections, you, Narcissa, and Draco might reclaim your place as core Death Eaters. But what then? Will the Dark Lord win this time? If he falls again, whose side will you choose?
"Or will you be discarded by both sides, cannon fodder in the crossfire, with the Malfoy name crushed no matter who wins?"
"…"
A chilling dread crept from Lucius' feet to his heart.
Melvin smiled warmly. "Or… you could choose a third path."
…
Click!
Through the cabinet's narrow slit, Harry saw Mr. Malfoy hurry out of the back room, grab Draco, and rush out of the shop.
"Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy! Can I come by the manor tomorrow noon to pick up the items?" Borgin called obsequiously.
"Mhm…"
The father and son vanished into the damp, narrow alley, leaving the shop silent. Borgin adjusted his pince-nez glasses and shuffled back to the room, muttering, "If the rumors are true, this list is barely half of what's hidden in Malfoy Manor…"
"Phew…"
Harry exhaled, planning to slip out once Borgin was gone, unnoticed.
As he waited, his eyes widened. Through the slit, he saw an unexpected figure emerge from the back—tall, handsome, young.
"It's Professor Levent!" Harry gasped inwardly.
He watched as Levent chatted briefly with Borgin, tucking a dark magic book and a diary under his arm, preparing to leave. Then Levent's gaze swept the shop, landing on Harry's cabinet with a knowing smile.
Levent approached, step by step. Harry held his breath.
He'd always found Professor Levent's smile warm and kind, but now, that same smile sent a shiver down his spine.
A musty breeze stirred as Melvin opened the cabinet door, looking at the disheveled Harry. Old memories surfaced—Dobby must have sensed Malfoy's plot and tried to stop Harry from returning to school, leading to the Weasleys taking him to the Burrow to wait for term… and later, a certain Whomping Willow would suffer.
"First time using Floo Powder? Mispronounced the destination?" Melvin asked with a grin.
Harry mumbled an embarrassed "mm-hmm."
With a soft crack, Melvin flicked his wand. Harry's shattered glasses snapped back together, his vision clearing. Another flick summoned a small whirlwind, whisking the soot from Harry's clothes into the nearby fireplace.
"Come on, I'll take you to Diagon Alley. Mrs. Weasley's probably worried sick."
"…"
In a blink, Harry's bedraggled state was gone. He stood there, dazed.
Was Professor Levent a good guy… or a bad guy?