Early October, Hogwarts.
Melvin met Editor Goofy at the Three Broomsticks for a solid two-hour brainstorming session about the future of Daily Prophet coverage. Both of them walked away with a ton of new ideas.
Goofy's insights (coming from decades in magical journalism) were razor-sharp. They didn't just talk headlines; they dug into the wizarding world's weird historical baggage and where things might head next. Melvin ended up learning a ridiculous amount about how the Prophet actually runs day-to-day, and he got an even clearer picture of how the Mirror broadcasts were already changing wizarding life.
At this rate, witches and wizards might actually build their own real media system, something totally unique to them.
Out of every show currently running on the Mirror network, Prophet News is the only one that keeps growing without Melvin having to babysit it or feed the team constant notes. Goofy has his own brilliant vision for wizarding journalism, and the reporters and editors (even Rita) are genuinely top-tier when they're pointed in the right direction.
When he got back to the castle, a streak of scarlet robes was whipping through the air above the Quidditch pitch. A dozen Gryffindors on brooms, screaming past each other in practice loops.
There's something about watching a bunch of freezing-cold teenagers chase a Cup that just hits you right in the nostalgia.
"Hiss…" George and Fred shot past him, shivering dramatically, robes dripping with dew.
"Bloody freezing out here this early," George grumbled.
"Yeah, well, Fang's got a thick coat and Hagrid's pocket to hide in," Fred shot back. "He's not the one looking like a drowned rat."
Melvin pretended he hadn't heard and just kept watching the team drill. The kids were cursing the cold under their breath, but the way they moved (alive, fierce, bursting with energy) was gorgeous.
"This is our last Quidditch season at school," Oliver Wood announced, voice carrying over the wind. "My last season." The seventh-year Gryffindor captain and Keeper looked like he was carved out of sheer determination. "Gryffindor went five whole years without the Cup once. Darkest five years in house history. Then Harry showed up with that Seeker gift from Merlin himself, and the Cup came home… and I am not letting it leave again before I graduate. Come December I'm gone, I'll never play on this pitch again, and I'll never get another shot at winning it!"
George and Fred exchanged a long-suffering look and sighed. When Wood got like this, the only option was to train until your fingers fell off.
So the team threw themselves into it. Rain, frost, wind, early mornings, none of it mattered. They were taking that Cup, come hell or high water.
(Scotland being basically next door to the Arctic Circle didn't help. Throw in the Dementors lurking around the grounds turning every breeze into knives, and you've got yourself a very motivated Gryffindor squad.)
Melvin watched for a few minutes, then headed inside. The castle was quiet, just the low hum of students whispering in the Great Hall or library, portraits shushing them as they passed.
On the third-floor landing, he almost ran straight into Snape sweeping down the corridor like a particularly grumpy bat, black robes billowing.
"Professor Snape," Melvin greeted with a nod and a smile.
Snape didn't answer. He flicked one cold glance at Melvin, gave a soft, disdainful "hmph," and kept going.
Melvin blinked. Okay then.
Before he could wonder too much, a series of loud thumps echoed from the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, like someone kicking furniture or a particularly angry pixie throwing a tantrum.
Footsteps hurried to the door. Click. Remus Lupin poked his slightly disheveled head out, looking pale and relieved when he saw who it was.
"Melvin! Thank Merlin, get in here and help me with this mess."
"…?"
Lupin gave him the most betrayed look imaginable. "Healers are supposed to clean up after themselves, you know. Properly dispose of medical waste and all that. The night you used like fifteen Boggarts to treat Frank and Alice, great results, by the way, and very thoughtful of you to leave afterward so they could have family time. But you forgot to take the Boggarts with you. Professor Kettleburn just delivered the whole lot. The boxes got jostled on the way here, lids cracked open, and now I've got to wrestle them all back into containment one by one."
Melvin winced. Yeah… that was 100% on him. Guilty as charged. He stepped inside to pull an unpaid overtime shift.
The office was lined with about a dozen glossy black elm boxes, silver latches glinting in the candlelight, pretty enough to be decorative trunks. Only problem: every single lid had a quill-sized gap, and the Boggarts inside could smell wizard. Cue nonstop banging and rattling.
Melvin and Lupin took opposite sides of the room, wands flicking in unison. They popped the boxes open just long enough for a swirl of black smoke (Boggart!) to shoot out and get shoved into the narrow drawers of a massive old wardrobe.
The wardrobe was ancient Victorian, carvings worn smooth, all the shelves removed and replaced with rows of thin drawers like the Ollivander's wall kind. Boggarts love dark, cramped spaces; the second each one landed in a drawer and the front slammed shut, it calmed right down.
There was also a beat-up secondhand desk that definitely came from the Room of Requirement via Dumbledore's junk-shopping habits. On it: stacks of essays, books, quills, and one small black porcelain bottle with a pine-wood stopper, classic potion vial.
The moment Melvin spotted that bottle, everything clicked.
No wonder Snape had stalked past looking like he'd swallowed a lemon. No wonder Lupin was pale and moving like his bones ached.
Full moon was coming.
Snape had brewed the Wolfsbane Potion and personally delivered it, then stood there and watched Lupin drink the stuff. Given their… colorful… school history, that potion probably tasted extra special.
"How is it?" Melvin asked, leaning against the wardrobe while flicking another Boggart into its drawer.
"Bitter," Lupin said calmly, like he was describing tea. "The kind of bitter that goes straight to your soul. Feels like every muscle in your stomach is trying to turn itself inside out and spit the potion back up."
He said it so matter-of-factly that Melvin almost laughed.
Almost.