Old schoolyard grudges die hard, but at least they were colleagues now. Snape kept his digs subtle—just a couple of sly hints. When Melvin didn't bite, he dropped it.
Lupin had spent over a decade drifting; he'd learned to let bar like water off a duck's back. He wasn't about to pick a fight, especially not with the guy brewing his Wolfsbane Potion.
Melvin ignored the whole pissing contest. Once McGonagall and the others finished handing out schedules and the head table settled, the vibe went back to normal.
"New term schedule…"
Melvin sipped hot pumpkin juice, mentally rearranging lessons. Muggle Studies was basically required now, and this third-year batch was… special. Content needed tweaking.
"Melvin!"
A booming voice snapped him out of it.
Hagrid—built like a brick shed—had slid into Snape's empty seat, grinning ear to ear. He shoved a rock-hard rock cake into Melvin's hand like it was a gift from the gods.
"Try this! Got time this morning? If your classes aren't packed, could you take a look at my lesson plan?"
"…"
Melvin stared at the petrified pastry and sighed. "Go ahead."
"Thanks a million!"
Hagrid's beard practically vibrled with excitement.
He'd been expelled as a student, spent decades as gamekeeper—no teaching experience. Kettleburn's style was "here's a dragon, figure it out," not exactly pedagogy. Rumor was Kettleburn himself had nearly been sacked a dozen times; only Dumbledore's soft spot kept him around.
Melvin was different. Two years in, he was already the most popular professor—funny, engaging, zero dropouts. Muggle Studies had become the hottest elective; two years running, every kid signed up.
Hagrid had a dream: teach Care of Magical Creatures into something great.
He topped off Melvin's juice. "Afternoon's the third-years' first class. I was gonna start with hippogriffs—nice day, let the kids fly a few loops. They'll love it."
Melvin eyed the half-giant's eager face. "You know hippogriffs are rated what—3X now?"
"Used to be 4X. Newt Scamander got 'em downgraded—says they're tame enough."
"Hogwarts caps classroom creatures at 4X for seventh-years, 3X for advanced. You're opening with hippogriffs?"
"They're gentle!"
"Backup plan?"
"…No."
Melvin turned to the deputy headmistress a few seats down. "Professor McGonagall, got a minute later? We'll need to send Kettleburn a re-hiring notice. Looks like we're swapping teachers."
Hagrid's eyes bugged. "It's my first day! You're firing me already?"
"To prevent a worse accident."
Melvin tapped the rock cake against his metal plate—clink clink—denting it like Hagrid's stubborn skull.
He gave Hagrid a full critique, chatted contingency plans with McGonagall, and breakfast wrapped. The castle—quiet for two months—buzzed back to life.
…
First day was slammed. Morning electives, then Transfiguration. The third-years finally got Divination—and Hermione clocked Trelawney as a total fraud, Loony Trelawney-style.
The North Tower classroom stank of burning incense; heads swam. The "professor" spouted doom: Neville and Lavender were cursed, Harry had "the Grim"…
By Transfiguration, McGonagall noticed the dazed looks. She sighed, then gently debunked the whole show.
"Sibyll Trelawney has predicted one student death every year since she arrived. None have died. It's her… unique way of welcoming new classes."
"I don't usually gossip," she added dryly, "but Divination is the flimsiest branch of magic. True Seers are rare. Trelawney is…"
"What do you think she was gonna say?" Ron whispered as they trudged across the grounds.
It was nearly two, sky washed pale gray after last night's storm. The grass was soft and damp. First Care of Magical Creatures.
"Definitely not a compliment."
Harry's boots squished. "Speaking of omens… I did see a big black dog. Night I left the Dursleys. Alley next to Florean Fortescue's."
Ron went white. "That's bad. My Uncle Bilius saw one—dead in under twenty-four hours."
"Coincidence," Hermione said calmly, hair fluttering in the breeze. "Tea leaves can look like sheep or squirrels. Divination's vague nonsense. Real wizards don't waste time on it."
She glanced at Harry. "If you want real prediction, try Arithmancy. Math doesn't lie."
Laughter drifted from ahead—Malfoy and his goons. Great. Joint class with Slytherin.
Near the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid waited by his hut, grinning and waving. Fang bounded around like a hyper sheepdog.
"C'mon, hurry up!"
Hermione waved back, picking up the pace.
"She's just bad at Divination," Ron muttered.
Harry laughed, dragging him along.
"Everyone here? Follow me!"
Hagrid led the way, Fang herding stragglers to a paddock.
"I wanted to kick off with something flashy," he boomed, "but Professor Lewent warned me—you lot are still third-year lambs. Or foals, if you ask the centaurs. One injury and the Daily Prophet runs a 'Help Wanted' ad tonight."
Groans and giggles. Gryffindors heckled him to ignore Melvin; Slytherins sneered—loudest from Malfoy.
"We're not first-years! How bad can it be—5X? We've seen lethifolds, dragons, a basilisk on the Mirror!"
"Yeah!"
Hagrid just grinned. "I know you're tough. And I'll keep you safe. But animals got moods. Scratch or scrape's hard to avoid."
He rolled up his moleskin sleeve, revealing scars. A few girls squeaked.
"I'm used to the Forest. You lot—soft city skin. One nick and you'll run crying to Mummy."
Thirteen-year-olds, cooped up all summer, full of bravado—Hagrid's warm, teasing tone hit every button.
"Who's crying to Mummy?"
"Scratches worse than Quidditch?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. That reverse-psychology reeked of Melvin.
"Alright, alright," Hagrid chuckled, clearly loving it. "Textbooks out—Monster Book of Monsters. Tame that 2X beast, and I'll believe you can handle bigger."
A few kids showed off: ropes, belts, metal boxes, clamps.
Harry just stroked the spine. The book shivered, then lay open quietly in his hand.
"Five points to Gryffindor," Hagrid beamed.
"How'd you know that?" Hermione hissed.
"Professor Lewent taught me at the Leaky Cauldron."
…
September 3, Friday—second day.
First period: Charms. Flitwick looked younger—trimmed beard, dyed hair. Same Standard Book of Spells, slightly harder. Most kept up.
Ten a.m.—Muggle Studies.
Hermione sat front-center, a bulging bag on her desk like a brick fortress. Books poked out in perfect rectangles—heavy enough to knock someone out.
Harry and Ron tiptoed in. She was… napping on the bag.
They exchanged a look, slid into the row behind, and stared.
"Am I dreaming? Hermione's sleeping between classes?"
"Maybe she didn't sleep last night?"
She stirred, turned, and fixed them with a blank stare.
"You okay, Hermione?"
"Stayed up too late on homework," she said lightly. "What time is it? Professor Lewent here yet?"
"Bell's about to ring."
"You've got a watch."
They answered in unison, watching her unpack quill and ink. Another shared glance.
"She seems… off."
"Still half-asleep. Asked us the time."
The bell rang. Melvin walked in right on cue—simple Muggle jacket, colors already being scribbled down by fashion-conscious witches.
"Morning, everyone." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.
"Morning, Professor."
"Before we start, a quick note." He leaned on the desk, scanning the room. "Normally we do intros, but you lot are… infamous. Fights, detentions, front-page news. I hear you pre-gamed anyway, so we'll skip it."
Smiles rippled. A few kids were school celebrities.
"Instead, first lesson: Muggle society. Beyond fridges and radios—tech, yes, but also social science."
He paused. "This morning, Professor McGonagall complained about Trelawney cursing students, death predictions, kids too scared to focus. Sound familiar?"
Laughter. All eyes swiveled to Harry and Neville, who grinned sheepishly.
"Muggles have prophecy too."
He turned, chalk flying across the board:
Pygmalion Effect
Golem Effect
Murphy's Law
Placebo…