August 28, 1992. Sunny.
Three days until Hogwarts starts.
Diagon Alley was as lively as ever. Gilderoy Lockhart held a book signing at Flourish and Blotts.
As the incoming Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Lockhart is not only skilled in various spells but has also completed countless adventurous tales—battling yetis, werewolves, vampires, and banshees. Honestly, I can't fathom why a Merlin Medal recipient like him would return to teach at a school.
Perhaps it's the cozy school life—house-elves handling meals and chores, and students brimming with youthful energy. Or maybe it's because of the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter.
The quill ran dry, and Melvin set it back in the ink bottle. While waiting for it to refill, he adopted a thoughtful expression, as if mulling over past experiences. But his eyes stayed fixed on the diary.
The ink seeped into the paper's fibers, spreading slowly without any unusual reaction.
Melvin rubbed the quill, his face contemplative.
It seemed Tom Riddle's Horcrux in the diary hadn't yet learned of Harry Potter.
According to Mr. Malfoy, since Voldemort entrusted him with the diary, he'd kept it under lock and key in an attic chest, never probing its secrets. Even the house-elves were forbidden from touching it.
This caution left the soul fragment cut off from the outside world, stuck with the memories of a sixteen-year-old.
Tapping the quill's nib against the ink bottle to shake off excess ink, Melvin continued writing:
As an assistant for the Care of Magical Creatures course, this was my first time meeting Potter. He's not what I expected—scrawny, bespectacled, with magic only slightly above his peers. Nothing remarkable.
He even misused Floo Powder, stumbling into Knockturn Alley in a panic, nearly snatched by a dark wizard. It's hard to believe such an ordinary boy defeated You-Know-Who as a baby.
The ink spread slowly, still no reaction.
Melvin frowned slightly, noting the use of "You-Know-Who" and realizing why.
He didn't revise the term—it would seem too forced and might raise suspicion. Instead, he started a new line:
You-Know-Who, the Dark Lord, Voldemort, and the Death Eaters—such chilling names. When I was a student at Hogwarts, those words gave first-years nightmares. Hard to believe it's been twelve years since their downfall. Time flies.
The ink continued to spread normally, no sign of the soul fragment.
But looking closely, the earlier passages had dried completely, leaving only a faint surface trace. In London's mild, humid climate, ink shouldn't dry so fast—it would take days, or even months in the rainy season.
Some strange force seemed to be absorbing the ink, leaving just enough to maintain the text's shape.
A faint magical ripple pulsed outward.
A slight smile curved Melvin's lips. His Occlumency hummed steadily as he paused, then resumed writing:
There must be some hidden secret behind it—ancient magic, a powerful curse, perhaps. What force could defeat the most formidable dark wizard in history? It's intriguing.
Sadly, Harry's only in his second year, too young for Care of Magical Creatures. We'll rarely get to talk.
Melvin cast himself as a typical Hufflepuff assistant, curious about secrets, mildly ambitious for power, but too cautious to dig deeper—perfect bait for a mentor's guidance.
Yet the diary only dried the ink faster, showing no other response.
Melvin waited patiently, unruffled.
A sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle was cautious, rational, and skilled at reading people. If he took the bait too easily, he'd never have become the dark lord who terrorized Britain.
Once the ink was fully dry, Melvin closed the diary with a neutral expression and tucked it into a desk drawer.
There was plenty of time. He could afford to be patient.
---
August 31, 10:00 AM.
Melvin passed through Hogwarts' gates, strolling along the grounds' paths, taking in the school after two months away. His gaze lingered on the Whomping Willow, its branches swaying lazily as it basked in the sun.
Soon, he reached the greenhouses.
Professor Sprout, dressed in brown-green gardening robes, carried two buckets—one filled with fermented dragon dung, the other with clipped plant stems. Melvin's basic Herbology knowledge told him some were toxic enough to land you in the hospital wing with a single touch.
"Professor Sprout! Long time no see!" Melvin called warmly, taking the bucket of fertilizer from her.
The fermented dung had a sour, slightly pungent smell, but it was bearable.
Sprout chuckled. "Melvin, Minerva was just grumbling about you the other day. Said you'd show up on the last day of summer to dodge pre-term prep work."
"I'm just an elective professor," Melvin said with a grin, his tone unabashed. He wasn't like the heads of houses, returning early to send acceptance letters or guide parents through Diagon Alley.
Sprout dumped the clipped stems into a compost pit, then moved to the Mandrake beds, turning soil and burying dragon dung pellets.
Melvin watched, occasionally handing her tools. "Professor, I brought back some Serpentree branches from Ilvermorny. Think you can cultivate them?"
"Serpentree…" Sprout's eyes lit up. She'd heard of Ilvermorny's Serpentree and was instantly intrigued. "Let me see!"
The Serpentree, native to mysterious regions of the Far East or Eastern Europe, grew in damp valleys and deep forests, named for coexisting with venomous snakes it attracted.
The tree secreted sweet, aromatic sap that lured animals to lick it, lowering their guard. Hidden snakes in the canopy would strike, and the leftover flesh and blood nourished the tree's roots.
Symbolizing cunning and cruelty, its core was ideal for wands suited to vicious dark magic—hence Salazar Slytherin's choice of a snakewood wand.
Ilvermorny's Serpentree, however, was unique, born from Slytherin's lingering magic and Mount Greylock's soil. Nearly indestructible, it had potent healing properties.
Its lance-shaped leaves, 20 to 30 centimeters long and narrower than a hand, had wavy edges. In early autumn, they were greenish-blue with a cold sheen, their undersides a pale silver-gray. The bark, dark red to blackish-brown, was cracked with scale-like patterns, oozing silvery-white sap from the gaps.
"Very vibrant. Perfect for cuttings this season," Sprout said, peeling back the bark. "This Serpentree's healing properties are impressive. The sap treats wounds, and the leaves counter poisons. Poppy and Severus will be thrilled."
"Leave it to you, Professor," Melvin said, pleased. Professionals should handle professional tasks.
Madam Pomfrey, the school matron, could use it for free to treat students. Snape, the wealthy Potions Master, could pay a hefty price if he wanted some.
"Praise Hogwarts…"
In the Great Hall, Melvin spotted Professor Flitwick setting up decorations.
As a proactive elective professor, Melvin hurried over to "help," handing over banners and checking ribbon placements—slowing Flitwick's progress considerably.
"A bit to the left. Yes, more… left…"
"No, too far. A touch to the right."
"Maybe just put it back where it was."
"…"
Flitwick was exasperated. After hanging the ribbons, he ignored Melvin's input, arranging candles his own way, efficiency soaring.
"Melvin, have you seen the student Wizarding Exam results?" Flitwick asked.
"Just got back two days ago. Haven't had time."
"You should. All seventh-year Muggle Studies students passed, and every fifth-year elective student passed too—at least half with Outstanding!" Flitwick beamed, unable to keep the suspense.
"Only half?" Melvin shook his head, feigning disappointment.
Flitwick's smile faltered, annoyed. He changed the subject. "Got plans for third-year electives? Split the four houses into two classes or one big classroom?"
"One big classroom. Easier that way."
"Tell Minerva at dinner—she's sorting the schedule."
"Remind me later…"
"Silvanus and Hagrid are back this afternoon. Heard Hagrid broke his leg. Wonder how he's doing?"
"At least Professor Kettleburn's remaining limbs are fine."
"…"
Flitwick paused, then nodded, finding the logic oddly sound.
---
The sunset bathed the castle towers in orange, casting long shadows across the grounds and Forbidden Forest.
Dinner was lavish, with professors gathered in the Great Hall, split into two groups. Flitwick and others swapped holiday stories, while McGonagall, head tilted, discussed term preparations with Dumbledore.
Dumbledore seemed distracted, more interested in the other conversation.
Hagrid sat at the high table, clad in his moleskin coat, bruises lingering on his cheeks and eye sockets. His right arm, bandaged and slung around his neck, bore faint bloodstains and scorch marks.
A plump, glossy-coated hound lay at his feet, sniffing happily.
Hagrid tore into a turkey leg with his good hand, chewing eagerly. Eating left-handed was awkward, requiring him to lean forward to bite.
"Phew…"
After demolishing the leg, he exhaled, half-full but with a sore neck. Time for a break before eating more.
He tuned into Melvin's chat with the professors.
Melvin sat with Kettleburn, catching up on events since his departure. The Shadow Mirrors were booming, and Wright had become a darling of local wizarding elites.
The Floo Network upgrades weren't finished, but small-scale mirrors were already selling.
"Romanian pub owners leaned into local flavor, offering dragon-themed footage bundled with Quidditch matches. Tourists are snapping them up as souvenirs," Kettleburn said, his tone wistful.
Between Floo upgrades and mirror production, Wright was swamped, and demand outstripped supply. Knowing Melvin and Wright, wizards sought Kettleburn's help. After a few times, Wright enlisted him for sales, sending him to banquets and balls to secure orders with commissions.
In two months, Kettleburn earned more than in the past decade, multiplying his retirement savings. Sudden wealth left him dazed.
And he hadn't even gotten injured this summer.
"How's the magical creatures footage coming?" Melvin asked.
"The visuals are nearly done, but the narration…" Kettleburn trailed off.
"No rush. Take your time."
Melvin nodded, then asked, "How'd Hagrid break his arm?"
"You left those jars of blue flames, right? Hagrid had a blast with Norbert using them," Kettleburn said, pausing as if recalling his own youth. "Then he got bored with juvenile dragons and took the jars to play with adult Hebridean Blacks—a mating pair, at that…"
"…"
Hagrid ducked his head, embarrassed, sneaking glances around. Every professor was staring, even McGonagall, who wore a teasing smile. Hagrid's face burned, and he locked eyes with Fang, avoiding everyone else.
"Merlin's grace, Hagrid's tough. Took a dozen tail swipes from two blacks—only broke an arm. Just some flesh wounds otherwise. His body resists standard healing spells, so he's recovering slowly," Kettleburn said.
Laughter erupted.
The night before term began, the Great Hall buzzed with cheerful energy.
---
After a couple of extra drinks, Melvin headed to his office, sobered by the evening breeze.
The corridors were quiet, moonlight streaming through windows, casting a soft glow. The sound of flushing toilets echoed from Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Melvin lingered, listening.
He knew the Chamber of Secrets entrance was a sink tap, but without Parseltongue, he couldn't open it.
A new school year loomed. With the diary in his possession, Hogwarts might be calmer this time.
Back in his familiar office, Melvin sat at his desk, waiting for the wine to wear off. He pulled out the diary and began writing:
August 31, 1992. Sunny…