As evening settled in, Hermione, dressed in black wizarding robes, stepped off the Hogwarts Express. Following the platform signs, she walked a short distance to where dozens of carriages, pulled by invisible Thestrals, awaited.
She could hear faint hoofbeats but saw no creatures. Thinking of her two friends, she took a deep breath, pulled back the curtain, and climbed into a carriage, joining the stream of students heading to Hogwarts under the deepening night sky.
In the distance, the deep blue horizon was speckled with stars. Two flickered and vanished, like the headlights of a Ford Anglia soaring over the Scottish Highlands.
…
The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling mimicked a midsummer night's sky, with colorful candles floating above. The tables were set with gleaming metal cutlery, and the champagne in crystal glasses fizzed, releasing a faintly sweet aroma.
The professors were already seated. Dumbledore wore a gold-and-red dress robe, his silver beard tied with a silk ribbon, his half-moon glasses glinting in the candlelight, a warm smile on his face.
Outshining him was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart. Clad in a blue-and-gold robe with silver-trimmed embroidery, he flashed a flawless smile, his dazzlingly white teeth catching the candlelight.
Lockhart sat beside the headmaster, holding a goblet with exaggerated poise. He swirled it for ages before taking a sip, then frowned slightly. "The glass wasn't chilled on ice beforehand. The temperature's off."
"Oh, I'll remind the kitchens to take care next time," Dumbledore replied, graciously accepting the critique.
"It's already quite good, really. It's just my tongue—too picky, too refined. I once tasted a vintage in France's Marne Valley…" Lockhart's words were humble, but his expression told a different story. He clearly believed he was the center of attention, shining as brightly as Dumbledore.
He casually glanced at the nearby professors' table, his eyes lingering on Melvin. The young professor wore a casual light-blue suit, no tie, looking as relaxed as if he were at home.
Melvin was chatting quietly with Flitwick, his handsome features undeniable, though his attire was understated.
Lockhart privately congratulated himself on his brilliant choice of outfit. Yesterday, while browsing in Diagon Alley, he'd flipped through a year-old newspaper at Flourish and Blotts and noticed Melvin's striking style in a cover photo. Inspired, he'd dug out the dress robe he'd worn for his Order of Merlin ceremony.
Outdressing the elective professor, outshining the old headmaster—Lockhart even fancied the gap in prestige between him and Dumbledore was narrowing. With his bestselling books fueling his fame, he might even be more popular than the headmaster.
A few sips of champagne left Lockhart feeling rather buoyant.
"…"
Melvin, seated beside Flitwick, noticed Lockhart's frequent glances. He knew exactly what the man was up to. During the Shadow Mirror's peak popularity, Lockhart had publicly offered to share memories of his adventures in the papers.
"Professor Levent!"
Lockhart, basking in his self-proclaimed victory, raised his goblet and approached. "I know you're a foreign professor, so you may not know me well. Allow me to introduce myself: I'm Britain's bestselling author, Order of Merlin recipient, honorary member of the Anti-Dark Arts League, legendary adventurer, world traveler, guardian of remote villages, dear friend to witches everywhere, master of the perfect smile—and now, a Hogwarts professor."
"Pleased to meet you, Professor Lockhart," Melvin replied, barely suppressing a laugh at the grandiose introduction.
After clinking glasses and watching Lockhart return to his seat, Melvin leaned toward Flitwick. "I think the head table's too small for all those titles."
"Haha…"
The nearby elective professors—Pomona Sprout, Bathsheda Babbling, Vector, and Kettleburn—stifled chuckles, exchanging amused, knowing looks.
Technically, this table was for elective professors. Flitwick, as a head of house, should've been up front, but Lockhart had claimed that spot.
The self-styled legendary adventurer, accustomed to high-profile galas, clearly saw Hogwarts' start-of-term feast as another stage to dazzle, positioning himself at the center of attention.
"What a stellar Ravenclaw alumnus, eh, Professor Flitwick?" Babbling teased.
Flitwick, mortified by his former student's theatrics, bowed his head. Even his thick goblin-ancestry skin felt hot with embarrassment.
Lockhart's titles and tales sounded impressive, but a brief conversation revealed the straw beneath his polished exterior—a man obsessed with self-promotion, with little substance to back it up.
The thought of working with him for a year darkened Flitwick's mood.
As the elective professors playfully ribbed Flitwick, Melvin grinned, but soon caught Flitwick's resentful glance. He coughed lightly and turned to Sprout, steering the conversation to Serpent Tree cultivation.
"Melvin, I must say, Ilvermorny's Serpent Tree is unlike any other plant," Sprout began.
"Running into trouble?"
"The branches are brimming with vitality, but getting them to root and sprout requires a unique magical trigger. I haven't figured it out yet," Sprout said regretfully, frustrated by the rare magical plant's elusiveness.
Unique magical trigger…
Melvin's mind stirred. He suspected it tied back to Salazar Slytherin. The legendary wizard had been dead for nearly a millennium, so any answers likely lay with his heir, Tom Riddle. Time to write in that diary tonight.
He couldn't share that with Sprout, so he simply said, "Take it slow."
Sprout sighed and nodded.
A commotion erupted from the entrance hall—clattering footsteps and chattering voices as students poured into the Great Hall. After two months, familiar faces showed subtle changes: less childishness, more freckles, and a few pimples.
Professor McGonagall, her hair tightly bound in a bun, had gone to guide the first-years to the side chamber to wait. She'd left in good spirits but returned to place the Sorting Hat with a grim expression, lips pursed, movements brusque.
"How dare they…" she muttered. "How dare they!"
"Unbelievable!"
"…"
The students near the front fell silent, wary of crossing the deputy headmistress.
At the head table, the professors exchanged confused glances, unsure what had happened. Flitwick was about to ask when Snape let out a cold sneer.
With a mocking smirk, he pulled out the latest Daily Prophet and passed it around.
The bold headline screamed: "Flying Ford Anglia Stuns Muggles!"
Melvin silently applauded. The Daily Prophet was truly the wizarding world's premier paper—reporters and photographers so efficient that Harry and Ron's airborne car hadn't even reached Hogwarts before the story hit the presses.
"Two London Muggles swear they saw an old car fly over the post office… At noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss was hanging laundry… Angus Fleet of Peebles reported to police… Six or seven Muggle witnesses in total."
Lockhart slapped the paper on the table, laughing heartily. "Ha! Talk about stealing the spotlight!"
"It's no big deal," he added, winking playfully. "I thought about stuff like this when I was young—students, right? Even our Harry Potter's no exception. Once they read my adventures, they'll know what's what!"
"…"
His prattle was grating, but the incident wasn't catastrophic.
It breached the Statute of Secrecy, but no one was hurt, and the spread was limited. Given the culprits were second-year students, prison was out of the question.
The Whomping Willow, though, was in for a rough time. Melvin offered it a silent condolence.
And then there was Arthur.
If the Ministry pursued parental accountability, things could escalate. As an employee of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, keeping and illegally modifying a Muggle car could cost him at least three months' pay.
As the paper circulated the head table, the Sorting Hat was ready. Minutes later, McGonagall led the first-years into the hall.
Their faces were youthful—some nervous, others eager. Their eyes widened at the Sorting Hat's song, darting around curiously.
"Edgar Shackle!" McGonagall called, reading from her parchment.
"Slytherin!" the Hat declared after five seconds.
"Godwin Randall!"
"Slytherin!"
"…"
When she called Colin Creevey, McGonagall noticed two latecomers at the entrance. Her face darkened further, and she shot a glance at the head table. Before Dumbledore could act, Snape stood, slipping out a side door.
The professors exchanged looks and shrugged helplessly.
Harry and Ron were in for it now.
Melvin sent them a silent prayer.
The minor disruption didn't halt the Sorting. The first-years stepped forward nervously, donning the Hat before joining their house tables, greeted by the professors' warm smiles.
This was Melvin's second Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony. Like classroom introductions, it was a chance for standout students to make their names and houses known.
But there was only one name as famous as Harry Potter's.
Among the ordinary students, pure-blood surnames from the Sacred Twenty-Eight carried weight, often landing in Slytherin.
Then there was Rolf Scamander, with his wild curly hair, grandson of Newt Scamander. Under Sprout and Kettleburn's hopeful gazes, he joined Hufflepuff.
Others included Ginny Weasley in Gryffindor, Luna Lovegood in Ravenclaw, and a gifted witch named Stelennos Nia, whose parents were voodoo researchers.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore rose, beaming at the students. "Welcome back to Hogwarts for a new year! I know some of you fans are eager, but I prefer introducing new professors after the feast."
"For now, enjoy the food!"
Dishes appeared on the tables, their aromas wafting up. Knives and forks clinked musically.
At the Gryffindor table, a group of girls ate while chattering about their idol, their excitement uncontainable despite the steak and roast chicken.
"Have you seen Magical Me?"
"Totally! I went to the signing!"
"…"
Hermione sat distractedly on the bench, half-listening to their chatter. Her eyes drifted to the head table, then to the door, worrying about her friends dragged off by Snape. She gripped her cutlery tightly, glancing anxiously outside.
"I think Holidays with Hags is better!"
"How's that better than sailing with vampires?"
Hermione frowned, tempted to jump into the debate, but her concern for her friends stopped her. Her gaze flicked between the door and the table, her head spinning until she couldn't keep up.
As she closed her eyes to rest, Lavender nudged her. "Hermione, who's cooler—Professor Lockhart or Professor Levent?"
Hermione blinked, looking at the two professors, her brows furrowing in indecision.
She'd read all of Lockhart's books. Despite his peacock-like demeanor, his adventures were thrilling, his magical prowess undeniable.
But Levent was younger, erudite, with deep, unique insights that subtly guided students to think critically, blending wizarding and Muggle wisdom.
After a moment's hesitation, she shook her head. "I don't know…"
"We think Lockhart! He's fought so many dark creatures—he's stronger!"
Hermione, ever the contrarian, couldn't resist challenging them. "I don't think so. Levent took down a troll and dark wizards with ease! Remember last Halloween?"
"But—"
"No buts! I saw Levent save a unicorn from a dark wizard in the Forbidden Forest."
Hermione faced her dormmates, countering every argument, pausing only to sip juice. Her mind raced, fully engaged.
Occasionally, she faltered, feeling like she'd forgotten something.
…
In the Potions professor's dungeon office, Harry and Ron slumped in chairs, groaning, their bellies stuffed with chicken-and-ham sandwiches and pumpkin juice.
McGonagall and Dumbledore had stopped by earlier, saying a few words. Since it was before term, Gryffindor escaped point deductions.
But they were barred from the feast.
The professors left a platter of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a pitcher of iced pumpkin juice. The platter refilled magically, which the boys took as their detention punishment.