It was May now, and summer was in full swing.
At some point, the bright sunshine had turned a bit too warm, though not scorching yet. The early spring flowers in the grounds and courtyards had vanished, and the tender leaves on the Forbidden Forest trees had deepened from light green to olive, lush and vibrant.
In such pleasant weather, students and professors passing over the tower bridges couldn't help slowing down, taking in the distant views.
Melvin came down the spiral staircase, arriving fifteen minutes early for the second-floor classroom. No other classes that morning—this was second-year Defense Against the Dark Arts.
He set the cup and textbook on the lectern, scanning the room. The students weren't all there yet; some were wandering the corridors outside, while others from the previous Herbology class were visible through the window, laughing and rushing back from the greenhouses.
Hermione in the front row was eyeing the cup closely, studying the badger-shaped engravings and the two ornate golden handles. It matched the descriptions in every school history book perfectly, making it hard not to suspect this was the legendary Hufflepuff Cup.
"Professor Levent, is Professor Gaunt teaching again today?" Hermione asked, looking up with a puzzled expression. "What exactly is Professor Gaunt? Is he still alive?"
"What do you think?"
"I don't know…" Hermione shook her head, hesitating. "Some of the slang he uses is outdated by decades, and he looks like a projection, but Professor Gaunt's different from Professor Binns. I think he's fundamentally not a ghost."
Strictly speaking, the Riddle in the cup was indeed a fifty-year-old wizard.
For a second-year, the young witch's insight far outshone her peers—she'd even picked up on his speech patterns. But without enough experience, she couldn't draw conclusions and had to ask the professor.
"You can think of Professor Gaunt as a unique memory vessel, similar to a magical portrait, but with far more detailed and extensive memories. Those memories shape his thoughts, creating this distinctive Professor Gaunt," Melvin replied with a smile. "You'll understand more in time."
So what was Professor Gaunt?
And was this really Hufflepuff's Cup?
"Can't the professor just tell me now?" Hermione grumbled from her seat, a bit frustrated.
But Melvin didn't dwell on it, turning to chat with other front-row students. They weren't shy around the young professor, chattering about final exams in a month, their study plans, and the recent inter-house Quidditch matches.
Soon, the second-years trickled in, and the bell rang right on time.
The lesson followed the usual routine: Professor Levent summoned the projection, and the one-of-a-kind Professor Gaunt took over. His knowledge was vast, his delivery witty, and he'd toss in tales of dark wizards—gruesome, sinister, even brutal, but thrilling enough to keep everyone hooked.
Hermione scribbled notes furiously, occasionally glancing up at the projection. Gaunt was thorough and seemed to genuinely enjoy teaching. Whenever students called him "Professor," he'd flash a satisfied smile.
"That wraps up the new material for the term," the projection announced, floating in the air.
With a month until finals, the remaining classes were for review, matching the pace of other subjects.
"Any questions? Discuss in groups and report back," Professor Gaunt said, starting the post-lesson Q&A.
Hermione turned around—Harry was right behind her, and the kids nearby were already teasing. Normally, at this point, Gaunt would field questions from others but never skipped Harry.
"Professor Gaunt's Harry's biggest fan," Seamus joked.
But today was different. Gaunt floated past Harry and over to the Slytherins, hovering by Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, patiently answering their queries.
"Professor Gaunt seems… different?" Hermione tilted her head, puzzled, then glanced at the lectern. Professor Levent was watching that side too.
Were they both focused on… Theodore Nott?
…
Evening, Westford, Southwest Suburbs
Old Nott stood on a busy street, glancing at Lucius Malfoy beside him before looking up at the grimy sign of the Oak Barrel Pub.
He clutched a sealed letter Lucius had passed him—barely an inch long, just a few sentences, but each one explosive enough to cripple the Nott family. If it reached the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the fines could bankrupt them, turning the Notts into something like the poverty-stricken Weasleys.
Once a Death Eater who'd dodged trial, a hypocrite skirting the edges of the law, an illicit trader in the black market, and head of the ancient Nott house among the twenty-eight pure-blood families—Old Nott approached this mysterious invitation with unease. Following Malfoy's lead, he entered the Oak Barrel Pub to meet the sender in a private room upstairs.
"I'd love to join you," Lucius said lightly, brushing his sleeve, "but I'll have a drink downstairs. Don't worry—that gentleman's reasonable. I'm sure you'll have a pleasant chat."
Lucius was an insufferable type, whether as a former Death Eater comrade, a fellow dodger of justice, or a business partner. Nott had always thought so.
He'd watched Nott's anxiety build all the way, but revealed nothing.
Inside the pub, no patrons noticed them. Lucius headed to the bar, where old, limping Will gave him a sour look but didn't approach. Still, Nott felt a few appraising stares.
"Second-floor corridor… Room 13… Not the luckiest number," Old Nott muttered, taking a deep breath as his nerves jangled.
The empty hallway led to a plain oak door with a brass plaque, the number 13 etched in twisting vine patterns like monstrous tentacles.
He knocked. No answer. Pushing it open, he saw a familiar figure.
"Professor Melvin Levent?"
The door shut on its own with a click, locking out the downstairs noise. Old Nott sat across from the young professor, his mind reeling. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting dim candlelight that hid the professor's face in shadow—only the white shirt collar and silver-trimmed black robes were clear.
"Beer, champagne, or whisky?" Melvin asked politely. A teapot sat before him.
"Red tea, if you have it?" Old Nott said.
"Of course."
Steaming tea poured into the porcelain cup with a soft splash. Nott knew that teapot could produce anything he asked for.
Nott took a sip, setting the cup down as his nerves settled. "Mr. Levent, why all this trouble to get me here?"
"No need to overthink it," Melvin said calmly, observing him. "Sorry for the dramatic invitation. The Mirror Club is delicate, and with some past misunderstandings, certain folks at the Ministry aren't fans of me. If they saw pure-blood families getting too chummy, it'd complicate things."
"Complicate what?" Old Nott's guard stayed up. "What things?"
"Mr. Nott, relax—I'm not here to blackmail you. I want to arrange a partnership. One between you and Lucius." Melvin slid over a few sheets of parchment.
Faced with excerpts from Lucius's correspondence with the young professor, Old Nott was puzzled but started reading. Pleasantries were cut, sensitive bits redacted, leaving only their discussions about producing films.
Using films to whitewash family histories, restore reputations, even build better images… That was the path Professor Levent had suggested to Lucius?
Old Nott read it twice carefully before putting the papers down. "Professor, what are you getting at?"
"Films are uncharted territory for wizards, and Mr. Malfoy's new to it. I suggested he start prepping two months ago, but there's been no progress. He might need help, so I'm inviting you to join."
Old Nott got it immediately. Lucius and he went way back.
That guy had been scheming since their school days, always following the Malfoy creed: Stir the pot from the sidelines, never take the spotlight. During Slytherin-Gryffindor clashes, Lucius was involved but always escaped heavy punishment.
After graduation, joining the Death Eaters, his skills and wealth made him a key aide to the Dark Lord, outranking even Bellatrix. But in the aftermath, he slipped trial again.
Since then, Lucius had grown even cagier, playing the reformed penitent—donating everywhere, quietly bowing out of shady deals. For the lucrative ones he couldn't quit, he found partners.
After the scrying mirror's debut, it caused a stir, landing in court multiple times. The new Senior Undersecretary Umbridge, Fudge's right-hand witch, opposed it repeatedly. Pure-bloods couldn't ignore her.
A shrewd, cautious type like Lucius, burned by the Death Eater fallout, wouldn't dive headfirst into Levent's plan.
What if he ended up as a core Mirror Club member and got swept up in another purge?
So the professor needed a third party to speed things up and keep Lucius in line.
"Is this an order or a suggestion?" Old Nott asked after thinking it over.
The invitation letter full of leverage left no room for refusal, but he needed to gauge the man for future moves.
Melvin smiled. "A suggestion, of course."
Old Nott's interest piqued. "Why the Nott family?"
"Because of your son, Theodore Nott."
Melvin explained, "As Hogwarts' Muggle Studies professor, I follow Muggle educational ideas—judging family from a student's behavior. Theodore's a unique kid."
Old Nott paused, then said quietly, "Theodore… he's ordinary. A bit talented in Potions, maybe."
Melvin shook his head. "In Slytherin's cutthroat environment, he keeps to himself. From a pure-blood twenty-eight family, he buys into blood purity, but he doesn't join cliques. He's deliberately low-key—not shying from group mockery, but never starting trouble…"
"He's a bit withdrawn," Old Nott admitted.
"A family that raises a wizard like that? The Notts outshine the Goyles or Crabbes."
"Thanks for the compliment, Professor."
"Plus, Theodore's smart. With a little nurturing, he could shine brightly," Melvin paused. "Whether in the Ministry or Potions, he could make the Nott name famous across Britain."
If the leverage was a threat, this was temptation.
Few fathers could resist someone offering to groom their son. Old Nott knew Professor Levent had the chops—he'd proven it before.
A year ago, the Philosopher's Stone saga put the spotlight on poor little Ron Weasley and the Muggle-born Granger, elevating them to the Boy Who Lived's level.
Around Christmas, reports of battling the Basilisk gave the entire Dramatics Club their moment.
Agree to cooperate, and Theodore could hit the papers and mirrors too—become a household hero, lifting the Notts with him.
But Old Nott shook his head. "Professor, if you promise to keep Theodore out of it, I'll agree."
"Oh?"
Melvin was mildly surprised but got it quickly. The Mirror Club's future was uncertain; Old Nott didn't want his son tied to the ship. Smart survival instinct.
It confirmed Melvin's choice was right—Old Nott was sharp.
"My promise stands."
Melvin nodded. "You can call Lucius in now. Let's talk scripts."
Footsteps approached, and the waiting Lucius knocked and entered, not asking about their chat. He placed a thick stack of parchment before them.
Melvin and Old Nott flipped through it, a silent agreement forming among the three.
Half an hour later.
Melvin set the parchment down, rubbing his temples. "This is the story you spent months writing?"
Old Nott eyed Lucius too, looking conflicted, words caught in his throat.
Dozens of pages pieced together a detailed tale: Ancestors arriving with William the Conqueror, fighting bravely for lands and manors; building wealth through hard work and smarts, buying estates.
Over a millennium, every Malfoy shunned fame and politics, backed the Statute of Secrecy, supported the Ministry. Only in recent decades were they controlled—now atoning with donations and a spotless record of remorse.
This wasn't a script; it was a dazzling Malfoy family history, so shiny it hurt to look at.