In the Great Hall, at the staff table, Melvin sat beside Madam Marchbanks, sharing a meal.
Madam Marchbanks, nearing three hundred years old, was a wealth of knowledge with progressive views. After two years of studying Muggle culture and technology, she was well-versed, but she'd never truly immersed herself in Muggle society or lived their lifestyle. It showed in her conversations, which always had an odd twist.
"Their trains run on the ground and through underground tunnels," she said, raising her voice. "So why can't they run in the sky? Their planes fly, don't they?"
"Is it because they don't have wings? But rockets fly without wings."
"Engines… fuel… alright, fine. So why not just put wings on the trains?"
Melvin felt like he was debating a folk scientist. She wasn't being difficult—she was genuinely curious, and her ideas weren't baseless. With magic, her whimsical notions could actually work.
"Technology isn't magic," he explained. "Every advancement is incredibly complex, with major limitations. It's not that Muggles don't want to—it's that physical laws hold them back, at least for now."
"So they might figure it out someday?" she pressed.
"Maybe," Melvin said, pausing. "Technology advances faster than we can imagine."
"Hmm, that's the strength of Muggle culture—and exactly why we study it," Madam Marchbanks nodded, her eyes brightening. "I heard from Professor McGonagall that the second-years have all signed up for your Muggle Studies again. Two years in a row, right?"
"Yeah, the kids love new stuff."
Madam Marchbanks' wrinkled face broke into a smile. "Have you considered my suggestion from last year? We could talk to the Hogwarts Board through the Wizarding Examinations Authority to make Muggle Studies a required course."
"The younger students would curse your name behind your back for that one, Madam," Melvin said with a grin, politely declining.
Professor McGonagall, overhearing, shot him a glance, lips pursed as if she wanted to say something but held back, her expression complex.
Madam Marchbanks' hearing wasn't great, so their raised voices carried to the other professors. McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all assumed Melvin was dodging extra work. He had a reputation as a professor who shirked responsibilities, even finding ways to slack off during substitute teaching.
Madam Marchbanks gave him a skeptical look.
Melvin shook his head, realizing the misunderstanding. "It's not about being lazy. Muggle Studies doesn't need to be mandatory. What would we teach first- and second-years? How to use basic appliances or ride public transport? That stuff's not that important."
"The real value of Muggle Studies," he continued, "is helping students understand Muggle technology, explore how their society functions, and adopt their logical thinking. That requires a certain level of maturity. Third year's a good starting point—first- and second-years are too young. Pushing those ideas on them early just burdens them."
He didn't spell out his bigger vision: encouraging wizards to integrate into modern society, fostering a mindset that transcends blood status, bridging the gap between Muggles and wizards, and redefining the Statute of Secrecy so it doesn't completely isolate the two worlds.
Madam Marchbanks nodded thoughtfully, her cloudy eyes flickering with consideration. The other professors and examiners from the Authority, listening in, also seemed to reflect on his words, gaining a deeper appreciation for Muggle Studies as an elective.
While the professors sat in contemplation, the students at the house tables were restless, especially the fifth- and seventh-years, nervously knocking over jam jars and salt shakers.
…
Professor McGonagall settled the examiners into an empty tower, and exam week kicked off. Fifth-years faced their O.W.L.s, seventh-years tackled their N.E.W.T.s, and the other years had their end-of-term exams.
After proctoring the Muggle Studies final, Melvin left the castle and wandered to the grounds near the greenhouses. Professor Kettleburn, in dragonhide gloves, was playing with two litters of plump rats, while sixth-years lined up for their Care of Magical Creatures exam.
The rats—Mortla Rats and Moke—were 3X-level magical creatures, harmless enough. The test required students to feed and calm them without hurting themselves or the animals.
Some students struggled, hesitant around the Mortla Rats' sharp claws or accidentally stepping on a tail. Panicked squeals from both students and rats sparked laughter. Kettleburn didn't scold them; he patiently demonstrated the proper calming techniques, helping the students—and the rats—settle down. By the end, everyone passed.
As the students dispersed, Melvin helped Kettleburn clean up. "This isn't like you, Professor. Back in the day, you'd chew out anyone who got spooked by a rat."
Kettleburn chuckled softly. "I used to give them an earful and fail their assignments. But I'm retiring soon. Gotta leave them with some good memories so they don't hold a grudge for decades."
Melvin watched as Kettleburn, despite his missing limbs, deftly handled the rats, scooping them into a basket with one arm and covering it with linen to keep them quiet.
"Any plans for retirement? You've saved up enough to buy that house in Hogsmeade—you're not gonna let it sit empty, are you?"
"When I'm too old to walk or hold a cane, I'll move in," Kettleburn said.
Melvin got the hint. "Where're you traveling this summer?"
"Romania, of course. I made plans with Charlie last summer. A few Hebridean Blacks are about to lay eggs, and I'm gonna be there for the whole hatching process."
"Watch your arms and legs. Lose any more, and you won't be able to hold a wand."
"Don't worry. I spent two months with them last year—they know my scent by now," Kettleburn said, laughing as he limped toward the castle. "When I'm back from Romania, I'll compile the footage of the dragons laying and hatching into a special Magical Creatures episode. It'll be a public screening—they won't be able to look away."
Melvin, carrying the Moke-filled basket, followed. The Magical Mirror had made its way into most British wizarding homes, airing a handful of programs: Daily Prophet news, Quidditch matches, and Magical Creatures. Fans preferred watching matches at pubs, and news aired only morning and evening, leaving Magical Creatures as the mainstay.
Last summer, Kettleburn produced an episode to mentor Hagrid, but its limited content was already being rerun, and some wizards were grumbling about boredom in pubs.
Kettleburn's Romania trip wasn't just for personal interest—it was to create new content for the Magical Mirror club.
The rats in the basket started squirming. Melvin discreetly cast a few Stunning Spells and caught up with Kettleburn. "Tending to dragons and filming? You can't handle that alone."
"Got any ideas?"
"Buy memories from the dragon keepers. One person's memory might not cut it, but stitch together a few, and you've got a show," Melvin said with a grin. "Don't worry about the cost—I'll cover it."
Kettleburn shook his head. "The Magical Mirror club's paying plenty. The Daily Prophet started running ads months ago, and with Quidditch and Magical Creatures, I'm getting a cut that's bigger than my decades of pension."
Melvin couldn't sway him and dropped it.
The Magical Mirror ads had been coordinated by Editor Cuffe, finalized with Wright, and approved by Melvin for profit splits. Not just Kettleburn—the Ministry's Sports and Transport Departments were also getting a share, forming the early stages of a shared-interest network.
The bookkeeping, though, was a mess—personal funds, collective funds, production costs, and profit shares all tangled up. It was manageable now, in the early days, but as the numbers grew, this chaos could spell trouble.
"We need a reliable accountant," Melvin muttered, shaking the basket thoughtfully.
Exam "week" was a misnomer at Hogwarts—it stretched over two weeks due to staggered testing across grades.
After seeing off the examiners and wrapping up the final Quidditch match, students got a few days to unwind. Professors graded papers, and McGonagall began tallying rooms for the end-of-year feast.
…
As night fell, the Great Hall glowed. From the entrance hall, it looked like a magical palace from a dream—candles sparkling, the ceiling enchanted with a midsummer night's galaxy, stars and moonlight dotting the sky. Torches flickered on the walls, transparent ghosts glided above, and the floor was draped in velvet carpets.
Professors donned elegant dress robes, while students wore black wizarding robes, some mimicking the staff with white handkerchiefs tucked into breast pockets, others pinning freshly picked roses from the gardens.
"Merlin's beard, is Percy still wearing his prefect badge?" Ron muttered from the back of a long table. "Does he ever take it off? Summer's coming—no more chances to show off, huh?"
"You forgot, dear Ronnie," Fred teased, "he took it off at Christmas."
"Yeah, swapped it for a dunce badge," George added.
The twins' laughter echoed, drawing chuckles from nearby students. Percy's face flushed red, teeth gritted, chasing his brothers down the aisle as if ready to commit fratricide at the year-end feast, determined to stain the night with blood.
"What a disgrace!" Ginny sighed, covering her face but peeking through her fingers. She noticed Harry brooding too.
Colin Creevey, stationed by the table, snapped photos, the camera's magnesium flash flaring with each click. The avid fan mumbled about getting more shots—signed ones, ideally—for his Harry-worshipping younger brother as gifts.
Flashes mingled with candlelight and torch glow, the hall shimmering.
"Brings back memories of my younger days," came the warm voice of the headmaster.
From his seat at the staff table, Melvin heard a clear, melodious chime. Turning, he saw Dumbledore, in gold-and-red dress robes, tapping a silver spoon against a goblet, the sound ringing like a copper bell. His radiant smile drew every eye in the hall.
"Attention, please. Before the feast begins, this old man has a few words to say."
The hall hushed, students gazing at the headmaster, their eyes reflecting candles and starlight.
"It's been an exhilarating year. Your minds are far richer than they were nine months ago, filled with more than just books and lessons."
"The Magical Mirror!" George shouted from below.
Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, the Mirror, but that's not what I mean. You defeated a Basilisk, protecting Hogwarts' safety. You exposed Professor Lockhart's true nature, safeguarding our school's honor."
The four house tables fell silent, anticipation rising.
"Now, let's check the hourglasses. The house points stand as follows: Ravenclaw, 330; Hufflepuff, 340; Gryffindor and Slytherin, tied at 370."
Slytherin and Gryffindor students' hearts raced, some stomping and cheering, though they quieted, knowing more points were coming, exchanging taunting glares.
Snape's face darkened. The houses had started with zero points, on equal footing. Slytherin had pulled ahead through hard work, with Melvin's help widening the gap. But Gryffindor's Quidditch win added 150 points, catching up instantly.
Now came Dumbledore's "special adjustments"—Slytherin's chance at the House Cup was slipping away again.
Snape glared at Harry and the Weasley fools banging their goblets on the table, their smugness infuriating.
"Such remarkable deeds shouldn't go unnoticed, so let's account for some additional points," Dumbledore said, clearing his throat. "First, the champions who faced the Basilisk. Let me recall their names… Mr. Neville Longbottom…"
Neville's face turned as red as the wine in his goblet.
"Stepping forward in a crisis—what better display of Gryffindor courage? That's worth 50 points."
Cheers erupted, George and Fred trying—and failing—to hoist Neville into the air, settling for dragging him into excited jumps.
"Cedric Diggory, embodying both wisdom and courage, with inspiring leadership. Hufflepuff earns 50 points."
"And the seventeen who charged the Basilisk—Roger Davies, Percy Weasley, Marcus Flint… Not the first, but their relentless bravery deserves 30 points each."
The hall roared, students nearly flipping the tables. Some, overcome, stood on tabletops, reaching as if to pluck stars from the ceiling.
"Then, Hermione Granger, Cho Chang, and Miss Marietta Edgecombe. Facing Lockhart, the memory thief, they stayed calm, bided their time, supported the charge, and uncovered the truth. 50 points each!"
The girls blushed like a sunset. Marietta buried her face in her arms, while Hermione and Cho, after a moment, bowed their heads under the admiring gazes.
The noise was deafening, some shouting themselves hoarse. As it quieted, the clinking of gems in the entrance hall's hourglasses echoed like flowing water.
Quick mental math revealed a shift: Slytherin, with the fewest champions, fell behind. Hufflepuff took third, Ravenclaw—boosted by Cho and Marietta—hit second, and Gryffindor, with the most heroes, stayed in the lead.
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students didn't mind; they relished the honor. Slytherin students, led by Marcus, looked grim. Some drama club members tried to laugh it off but froze under their peers' glares, shoulders shaking as they stifled giggles.
Dumbledore raised a hand. "Congratulations to Gryffindor! Let's applaud wisdom and courage!"
Crimson banners fluttered, the Gryffindor lion roaring majestically, basking in glory.
McGonagall beamed, repeatedly toasting Melvin. Snape seethed, both realizing the point shift was all because of this young professor.