Beside the greenhouse, just off the grounds.
Melvin, decked out in tan dragonhide gloves and a gardener's hat, was digging into a pile of compost with a small iron shovel.
Last week's late-night jaunt to the Chamber of Secrets had hit a few snags, but it all worked out in the end. His first encounter with the Basilisk? Let's just say they got off on the wrong foot, but after some tussling, they struck a deal. He'd keep the creature fed, and the Basilisk would help with the incubation process. A win-win for a bright future.
Gripping the shovel, Melvin worked the fermenting compost, stirring it evenly as waves of heat and a rather eye-watering stench hit him.
The main ingredient was imported dried dragon dung, mixed with some boiled-down potion dregs and a whole turkey—apparently a gourmet treat for Mandrakes. There was extra compost, which was perfect for the Snakewood cuttings.
Professor Sprout bustled nearby, covered in dirt, her round cheeks split with a warm, friendly smile.
The stout witch had the gentle, hardworking demeanor of a true gardener. Her flowing gray hair was barely tamed, tucked under a patchy, thick hat. You could always spot her tinkering in the greenhouses as you passed by the grounds.
From Dumbledore and McGonagall to the average student, Sprout had a knack for roping everyone into her projects.
Melvin had planned to swing by the Forbidden Forest to ask Hagrid for some fresh game to feed the Basilisk. But when he saw Sprout hard at work, he stopped to say hello—and somehow ended up conscripted into compost duty.
"Wonder if those cuttings will sprout," Professor Sprout muttered, half to herself. "Last time I did something this time-consuming, it was transplanting the Whomping Willow. Speaking of which, I'm still cross about that flying car crashing into it. No snow yet this year, and the poor thing's already bald."
"It'll grow back next year," Melvin replied without looking up, finding the task oddly fun. There was something satisfying about mucking around in the dirt, like playing in mud as a kid.
The smell, though? That was another story. Melvin snapped his fingers, casting a Bubble-Head Charm over himself and Sprout, instantly making the air easier to breathe.
Sprout sniffed, then chuckled. "Neville was supposed to help me turn this compost, but he said he had to handle something for your drama club. Lucky you showed up to take his place—especially since this batch is for the Snakewood."
"Longbottom, huh? That kid's still a bit shy. I taught him the Summoning Charm last week, and since he got his new wand, he's been doing better. He even says hi to me now, though he still doesn't quite stand tall or speak up."
Melvin paused, then added, "That's why I gave him some responsibilities in the drama club—to get him talking to others and speaking louder."
"He's come a long way already," Sprout said. "Second-years are like that, you know, all nervous around professors."
Just then, rapid footsteps approached.
"Professor Levent! Professor Sprout!"
Harry, Ron, and Hermione came barreling toward the greenhouse, looking ready to charge in. But the whiff of compost stopped them dead in their tracks. They hovered at the door, three heads poking in, eyes darting around.
Melvin stifled a laugh and exchanged a glance with Sprout.
She gave a helpless smile. "Just said second-years are shy, and here come these bold Gryffindors."
"It's almost dinnertime. What are you three doing out here instead of in the castle?" Sprout asked.
"We went to see Hagrid," Harry said. "We're asking about Myrtle, trying to find new clues."
The trio had been digging into this for weeks, even questioning old professors. Sprout wasn't surprised—kids will be kids, always chasing some mystery. A professor's job was to nudge them gently. "Back then, all those Aurors and even Dumbledore couldn't find anything. What makes you think you'll uncover new clues?"
Ron bristled. "We're going to ask about the eight-ey—"
Harry and Hermione, quick as a flash, clamped hands over his mouth, wrestling his flailing arms.
Hermione flashed her best good-student smile. "We're just going to talk to Hagrid again. We'll eat at his place and be back before curfew. See you, Professors!"
Harry and Hermione dragged a nearly suffocating Ron away.
Sprout frowned slightly. She'd thought it was just a student detective game, but their sneaky behavior made her uneasy. She glanced at Melvin. "Those three…"
"I was heading to Hagrid's anyway," Melvin said, shoveling the last of the compost into the soil. "I'll check on them." He pulled off his gloves, taking his time.
"Don't go adventuring with them," Sprout warned, her tone serious. This young wizard wasn't much older than the students.
---
Hagrid had spent last night debating beehive-raiding techniques with the centaurs, staying up far too late. This morning, with the weather clear, he and Firenze had gone for it, earning him a few nasty stings and a jar of honey.
At noon, he'd munched on some rock cakes, smeared some poorly brewed healing salve on his face, and planned to roast meat with the honey tonight, paired with a couple of drinks.
He was trying to cut back on alcohol, sticking to Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks—student-friendly, non-alcoholic stuff.
"Sigh…"
Butterbeer was tasty, sure, but it lacked that kick.
Hagrid winced as he applied the salve, then grabbed Fang for a playful wrestle. The dog's yowls eased both his physical pain and his mental grumpiness.
Bang bang bang!
Urgent knocking interrupted, followed by Harry's voice. "Hagrid! Hagrid! Open the door! We're here to hang out!"
Hagrid groaned, the stings throbbing again, now joined by a creeping headache. "Stop knocking! I don't want to talk about the past. Go back!"
The knocking paused for a few seconds, then resumed even louder, this time with Hermione's voice. "We're not here for that! We just want to hang out! It's almost the weekend, remember?"
Hagrid's face twitched, aggravating the stings. Two weeks ago, Hermione had pulled the same trick, getting him tipsy at dinner, coaxing and prodding until he spilled about the past. His eyes had been swollen from crying, and his throat hurt the next day.
"I'm not in the mood!" he bellowed. "Got stung by bees, I'm not feeling great!"
No knocking this time. Instead, Hermione's voice rang out: "Alohomora!" The lock clicked, and the door swung open.
The trio surged in, crowding around him, inspecting his bee stings with a chorus of concerned chatter.
"You okay? Is it bad?" Harry asked, sounding genuinely worried.
"An old hunter like you, getting stung? Didn't you wear a veil? I'll have Mum knit you one for Christmas," Ron said, clearly holding back a laugh.
"Your salve's all wrong," Hermione said. "Too much water—it should be thick, not runny like this."
Hagrid sucked in a breath, pushing them back with his burly arms, glaring. "What do you three want? You got everything out of me last time—tricked me into talking! What now?"
Hermione looked guilty, hands behind her back, eyes darting from the room's furnishings to her shoes.
Harry studied Hagrid's face, then sighed. "Hagrid, we're looking into Myrtle's death to clear your name. Don't you want your reputation back?"
"That's not for kids to worry about."
"Fine, fine, we won't ask," Harry said.
"Really?"
"Really. We're just here for the weekend, to hang out, hear about what's new in the Forbidden Forest."
"I don't believe you."
"Come on, what's not to believe? I've got a Quidditch match tomorrow, and I want you there cheering for me."
Quidditch talk made it sound more convincing. Hagrid's guard lowered, and he waved them to sit. He lit the fire, pulled out the morning's honey, and started prepping meat while chatting.
He stuck to water this time—no Butterbeer, just to be safe.
After a bite of meat, Hagrid stood. "Hold on, I'm gonna roast a couple of rock cakes for Fang to chew on."
Hermione glanced at him, then subtly aimed her wand at the water jug, whispering, "Bunny eyes gleam, harp strings dream, water to wine, make it divine."
Harry and Ron blocked Fang's view.
Hagrid tossed two rock-hard cakes into the fire, took a bite of meat, and gulped from the jug. He frowned. "This tastes off."
"Probably the meat—too salty," Harry said.
"Yeah?"
"Try it again."
"Still tastes weird."
"Take another sip…"
"Hic!"
After that, Hagrid's memory got fuzzy.
---
The sun sank behind the castle's hills, and dusk settled in.
Melvin headed toward Hagrid's hut, delayed a bit by helping Professor Trelawney with some compost. It hadn't been long—half an hour, tops. Surely Hermione and the others couldn't have caused too much trouble.
He wondered how their investigation was going. Maybe he'd ask later.
Speeding them up to uncover the truth before the Christmas holidays would be good. Harry could translate. Right now, communicating with the Basilisk was a guessing game, and asking about incubation progress was impossible. Plus, the way the creature looked at him—like he was some dim-witted beast—was grating. I don't complain about you not speaking human, and you're judging me for not knowing Parseltongue?
Lost in thought, Melvin reached Hagrid's door and caught a snippet of sneaky voices.
"Hagrid, where's the Acromantula nest?" Harry asked, voice low, like he was up to no good.
Hagrid hiccupped, clearly out of it. "Professor Kettleburn said… mostly in the Far East, in the mountains."
"Oh, come on!" Hermione sighed, taking over. "Hagrid, where's Aragog's nest?"
"Hic!" "Can't say… dangerous for little wizards."
Melvin nodded to himself. Hagrid's gotten reliable after all these years.
But then Hermione switched tactics. "Isn't Aragog your friend? He's a sweet, fuzzy guy—how could he be dangerous?"
"Well…"
"And he didn't kill Myrtle, right?"
"No way it was him!"
"So his nest isn't dangerous. Tell me, where is it?"
"In the hollow in the Forbidden Forest."
"How do we get there?"
"Follow the path in, turn left at the fork, then left again at the crooked-necked Sikamore fig tree. Follow the spiders…"
Hagrid's voice was slurred, but under Hermione's coaxing, he gave clear directions—every turn, every landmark, as if he were guiding them himself.
They jotted down the route, poured a bit more "water" into Hagrid, and let him drift off.
Rustling came from inside—probably the trio moving Hagrid and cleaning up their tracks.
"Let's go, quick in, quick out. We can make it back before curfew," Harry said.
"Yeah, I've got Quidditch tomorrow," Ron added.
Hermione and Harry lagged behind, chatting, while Ron pushed open the door—and froze. The other two peeked out, equally stunned.
"Good evening," Melvin said, standing in the silvery moonlight, his handsome face lit with a gentle smile.
---
What's worse than getting caught by a professor while doing something naughty?
The professor joining in.
Harry and Ron's brains short-circuited, trailing behind Hermione, who led the way. They kept stealing glances at Professor Levent, their expressions a mix of shock and suspicion.
Hermione, quicker on the uptake, adapted fast. She chatted with him as they walked. "Professor, are you investigating the truth about Myrtle too?"
Melvin scanned the autumnal Forbidden Forest. "Why do you think that?"
"You gave us the Pensieve to see past memories, you've been keeping tabs on our progress, and now you're coming with us to the Acromantula nest…" Hermione watched his face for any telltale signs. "Normally, wouldn't you drag us back to the castle and give us detention?"
Melvin smirked at her cleverness. "My teaching style's different. I could stop you from breaking rules tonight, but what about next time? Forcing you back won't work as well as guiding you. I'll take you there once, and maybe you'll stop chasing these adventures."
He glanced at the trio, thinking it was a good chance to teach them a lesson.
Acromantulas—5X-rated dangerous creatures. Did they really think they were Hagrid's cuddly pets? Sure, they could talk and had some intelligence, but that didn't make them less beastly. Three second-years waltzing into their nest? They'd be dinner.
"Intelligent creatures…" Melvin muttered, a thought sparking.
They ventured deeper into the autumn forest, following Hagrid's route for about twenty minutes, veering off the path. A strange stillness settled over them. Gradually, all sounds—owls, sparrows, crickets, cicadas, mosquitoes, moths—faded away.
Only the snap of twigs and rustle of leaves remained.
The trees grew denser, the stars above vanishing behind branches, shadows swallowing the light.
Hermione raised her wand, its silvery glow catching the gnarled roots of a crooked tree ahead. From the darkness beneath its leaves, two massive, glistening black pincers emerged.