The copper hinge creaked as Draco, barely taller than the lock, pushed the door open.
Melvin glanced up, surprised by the sight.
Draco's hair was a messy tangle, his face bruised with faint purple marks, his left cheek slightly swollen with visible scrapes. He walked with an awkward limp.
Melvin chuckled lightly. "Someone at Hogwarts dared to rough up the Malfoy heir? What, did you duel Harry again?"
Draco, still hobbling, sat at the desk, his neck flushing slightly as if embarrassed by how his appearance might tarnish the Malfoy name. He avoided the question. "Good evening, Professor Lewent."
"Good evening."
Melvin nodded, amused that Draco still remembered his manners. The Malfoys did have a knack for politeness.
"It wasn't a duel. I fell on the pitch."
Draco, a second-year sitting just a head taller than the desk, tried to mimic an adult's composure. "My father says you and the Malfoy family are partners. If I run into trouble at school, I can come to you for help."
"Our partnership doesn't cover this sort of thing," Melvin said, his tone cool but not dismissive. "Still, as a professor, I'm obliged to help students with legitimate issues. Private duels don't count."
"It's not a duel—it's about Quidditch."
Draco paused. "It's been a week since term started, and the Quidditch team's selecting new players. I tried out for the starting Seeker position, competing fairly with the current one. We split into two groups for practice matches, but the other players, all older and closer to the current Seeker, kept blocking me on purpose."
So, it was a Quidditch scuffle.
Melvin leaned back, uninterested. "You should take this to Madam Hooch or your Head of House, Professor Snape. Elective professors don't meddle with team lineups."
Quidditch teams were student-run, and even the Heads of House rarely interfered. Last year, McGonagall hand-picking Harry was an exception—Gryffindor had lost seven years straight, their old Seeker graduated, and they couldn't find a replacement, nearly canceling matches.
With new brooms and graduating players last year, every house was fired up. Tryouts were cutthroat. Even someone like Cho Chang, who cared about her image, was practicing until she was drenched in sweat, rushing to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom to freshen up.
Slytherin's team played rough and aggressive, every player built like a tank. A scrawny kid like Draco, similar to Harry, was bound to get sidelined.
If the system hadn't changed, Draco could've bought his way onto the team with broom donations, but Melvin's influence had shut that door.
Melvin wasn't about to take responsibility for that.
"…"
Draco stared at the desk, silent for a long moment before muttering, "If you can't directly interfere with tryouts, then I'd like your advice, Professor, on how to turn the odds in my favor and get a fair shot."
"A fair shot?"
"Yes. For the Seeker position, if my teammates cooperated, I'd outshine the current one, Travers."
The office fell quiet.
Melvin studied Draco's expression. His young face carried traces of his father, but subtle differences stood out upon closer inspection.
After leaving Borgin and Burkes, Lucius must have said something to Draco, making him think the young professor was a school ally. Initially, Draco had clearly hoped Melvin would directly sway the tryouts.
When Melvin refused, Draco quickly pivoted, asking for a chance at fair competition, showing strong confidence.
His shift mirrored Lucius's business tactics, but the self-assured follow-up felt unlike the Malfoy style—more like a child's earnest determination.
If nudged in the right direction, would Draco still grow into that half-hearted, morally wavering character?
"Mr. Malfoy, we've had a few student-teacher talks. Your father and I do have some business dealings, but that doesn't mean I'll give you special treatment. I'm just doing my job as a professor."
Melvin looked at him steadily, his tone measured. "You shouldn't come to me with this—it's disrespectful to your Head of House. Professor Snape is who you should ask."
Draco peeked up, meeting Melvin's dark eyes, which seemed to pierce through his thoughts. Embarrassed, his cheeks paled further.
"But as Professor Snape's colleague, I can offer some advice."
Draco froze at the cool words, then his eyes lit up with joy. He stood, nodding eagerly. "Got it! Thank you, Professor!"
---
At nine o'clock, Harry and Hermione headed together to meet their tutor.
After climbing the stairs, crossing the corridor, and turning two corners, they saw the office door swing open before they reached it. Draco stepped out, beaming with unmasked delight, wincing as his smile tugged at his wounds.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a complicated look.
This wasn't the first time they'd seen Draco leave Professor Lewent's office, always looking thrilled, as if Lewent were his tutor too.
"Professor Lewent, we're here for tutoring," they said, knocking on the door.
Seeing the professor's surprised expression, they felt a strange mix of emotions—hard to pin down, but definitely not pleasant.
Did all the students coordinate to show up tonight?
Melvin, bemused, poured them pumpkin juice and set out some snacks.
Hermione, cradling a warm cup, recounted the past week. Classes had gotten slightly harder but were still foundational. Herbology involved tending Mandrakes, Transfiguration focused on turning objects into mice…
Theory was dull, but practical lessons involved repetition, with progress they could feel daily—fulfilling and rewarding.
"…Except for Professor Lockhart's Defense Against the Dark Arts class. We watched one farce and two plays."
"No!" Harry, who'd been a classroom prop, cut in sternly. "Three farces, to be exact!"
"Ugh…"
Hermione sighed wistfully. As a Muggle-born, she'd revered the wizarding world. After reading Lockhart's thrilling adventure books, she'd nearly idolized him.
A few classes shattered that. The adventurer from her imagination turned into a comical actor, her rose-tinted glasses smashed to bits.
When her friends grumbled about Lockhart, she'd tried defending him, thinking he just needed time to adjust to teaching. But compared to Professor Lewent's performance last year, the contrast was stark, and her excuses felt hollow.
Hermione had to accept it: Lockhart was an empty-headed fraud.
Recalling dorm chats where she'd gushed about him, her expression soured.
She took a deep breath, perking up, and pulled Percy's notes from her bag, handing them to Melvin. "Professor, these are Percy's notes. We want to study Defense Against the Dark Arts properly, learn something useful, and ace the final exam."
"Grades don't matter as much as learning," Harry added quietly.
"…"
Hermione stayed silent, sitting up straight, staring at her cup's pattern without commenting.
Melvin smirked, flipping through the notes. "Defense Against the Dark Arts… Let me take a look."
Hogwarts' lower-year Defense classes were more like "Dangerous Creatures Defense." They covered 3X-level magical creatures—habitats, behaviors, and specific counter-spells—with little focus on actual dark magic or dueling practice.
This was the result of multiple factors.
Hogwarts hadn't had a stable Defense professor in years. Each new teacher brought a different style, leading to inconsistent learning and poor exam results.
To accommodate students, the Exam Authority lowered the difficulty, and over time, Defense Against the Dark Arts became what it was now.
For exams, Melvin could drill them on key topics and spell techniques.
But these were the chosen ones, stars of the enchanted mirror, their names celebrated across wizarding Britain since their first year.
Melvin closed the notes, a plan forming.
"I've gone through the notes…
"You've got two tutoring options. First, we focus on exams, using Percy's notes and some materials from Professor McGonagall and the Exam Authority to ensure top marks.
"Second, we prioritize practical skills. The curriculum's knowledge is just an appetizer; the main course is real Defense Against the Dark Arts.
"Which do you choose?"
Hermione's eyes sparkled.
Harry swallowed his macaron hard.
Without hesitation, they said in unison, "The second one!"
Melvin's lips curved. Smart students made things easier. "Last time I saw you cast was during the Defense practical exam—results weren't great. Three months later, let's see your progress. Show me your current level."
"…"
Hermione shot him a resentful glance. She'd aced every other subject, and he knew why the Defense exam was a flop.
Melvin ignored her look. "You've both mastered the Lumos Charm, right?"
"Yup!"
"Cast it, but stress the last syllable and rotate your wand tip a third of a circle clockwise before casting."
Harry scratched his head, standing with Hermione to cast the spell as instructed:
"Lumos!"
A bright light burst in the office—not soft silver, but intense milky white.
Unlike Flitwick's gentle, steady Lumos, this basic charm became fiercer than a fire spell. If a normal Lumos was a candle, slowly burning wax, this enhanced version was like gunpowder, craving an instant blaze.
Both felt their magic pour out at an unprecedented rate.
Hermione soon felt drained, her wand's glow dimming.
Noticing the fading light, Harry squinted through the blinding white, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead. He glanced at the professor, seeing only a blurry figure.
"That's enough," Melvin's calm voice said.
They stopped casting, lowering their wands.
"Have some chocolate—it'll help."
Melvin studied them. Hermione's face was pale, her front teeth visible as she panted, strands of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. Harry was only slightly winded, breathing fast but not gasping.
Hermione's lips tightened. She saw the gap between her and Harry, and the competitive witch felt a pang.
Harry was quietly savoring the rush of casting at full power.
Once they'd recovered, Melvin smiled. "As I expected, your magic's stronger than your peers'. That means our tutoring can dive into more powerful spells…"
Hermione gripped her wand tightly, still breathing heavily.
"That's it for today. I need time to tailor a training plan based on your magical strength and pick suitable spells." Melvin handed back the notes. "Same time next week—I'll be here."
"Okay, Professor."
They stood to leave.
At the door, Hermione paused, turning back. "Professor Lewent, can I see your enhanced Lumos?"
Melvin raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "Sure."
Hogwarts was quiet at night. The enhanced Lumos' white light poured from the Muggle Studies office window, bathing the grounds' creatures in brilliance. Goblins lounging on the field, owls in the owlery, and Bowtruckles dozing on treetops were all startled, eyes watering.
---
Late at night, Melvin sat at his desk, eyes narrowed, fingers tapping lightly.
Judging by magic alone, Hermione slightly surpassed her peers—a result of talent and diligent practice, still within normal bounds.
Harry's magic, however, far exceeded his age group, rivaling some adult wizards.
Melvin had theories about this anomaly.
A wizard's soul was the source of their magic. The scar on Harry's forehead housed Voldemort's soul fragment, possibly fueling his extraordinary power.
Another possibility: the fragment acted like a Horned Serpent's gift, letting Harry draw extra magic. Famed since infancy, years of buildup could explain his rapid growth.
Melvin didn't know the answer, but he was eager to find out.
His open journal lay on the desk. Picking up a quill, he wrote casually: "Tom, got any quick ways to boost magic?"