The performance was over, and the audience had dispersed.
The grand theater gradually fell silent.
Melvin returned to his office, leaning back in his sturdy wooden chair, eyes closed, resting. The intangible magic flowed through him like a gentle stream, cool and refreshing.
His mind was clear, his thoughts drifting far.
According to the Horned Serpent, emotions and beliefs connected to the soul, and the secret of magic lay deep within it. Over a thousand years ago, ancient wizards began studying the soul and its ties to magic. Some, obsessed with power, lost themselves and fell into the realm of dark magic. Others, gifted with extraordinary talent, achieved great things. The founders of Hogwarts were among the latter. But as ancient magic faded, all their discoveries were lost to the river of time.
Due to centuries of immigration, Ilvermorny had welcomed wizards from across the globe, becoming a rival to Hogwarts. Over the years, its students and faculty included a few exceptionally gifted individuals who left their mark in various magical fields. Yet, none had truly touched the essence of magic itself. Their achievements became treasured knowledge, preserved in the school's library.
Nourished by the wood of the snakewood tree, the Horned Serpent lived for a millennium, absorbing this knowledge and combining it with its unique gifts to forge a new, uncharted path…
Melvin absently twisted the ring on his finger, silently calculating.
While ordinary human emotions could amplify magic, the process was slow. Compared to his peers, six months of effort had only saved him a few years of Auror training.
To draw magic more efficiently, wizards—especially powerful ones—were the ideal source.
Tonight's events had confirmed his theory.
The corridor outside his office echoed with faint sounds. Actors were removing their makeup, and stagehands were tidying props. Whenever they passed his door, they instinctively quieted, treading lightly.
Though the young chief stage designer was polite, there was an air of mysterious detachment about him.
And the former chief designer had learned the hard way: this young man was not to be crossed.
Five months ago, the previous designer tried to steal Melvin's stage concepts. That morning, he submitted the plagiarized proposal. By noon, accidents began. He narrowly avoided a car at a street corner, nearly got hit by an object falling from a high-rise, and stumbled through the day, barely making it out of the street.
From that day on, every time he set foot on Broadway, misfortune followed.
The incident became a Broadway urban legend, cleaning up the theater district's shady practices. Years later, it might even inspire a play.
Knock knock!
"Come in."
Melvin sat up, glancing toward the door.
The door creaked open halfway, revealing Claire, his usually sharp assistant, looking slightly dazed. She stood there for a moment, blinked, then seemed to snap out of it.
"Sir, your guests are here."
"Guests?"
Melvin frowned slightly.
Before Claire could explain, the door swung fully open, revealing two elderly figures with warm smiles. One had white hair and a sprightly demeanor; the other, silver hair and silver eyes, exuded an air of mystery.
"I don't recall scheduling any guests tonight, let alone ones as renowned as the President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and member of the Order of Merlin Council…"
Melvin raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly. "What do you say, Mr. Dumbledore? Mr. Flamel?"
He was surprised but not shocked. Famous wizards like these often disguised themselves to blend into unassuming places, only to pop up unexpectedly—just like in dramatic tales.
Both were living legends in the wizarding world, their names splashed across alchemy textbooks, newspapers, magazines, even Chocolate Frog cards.
Of course, Melvin recognized them for other reasons.
Part of it was the distant memories buried deep in his soul.
The other part was last summer's International Confederation of Wizards meeting, where he'd observed Dumbledore from afar. The old wizard had been dozing off in the guest of honor's seat, leaving a lasting impression.
"Ha…"
Nicolas Flamel shot Dumbledore a teasing glance, grinning as he slipped a gleaming gold coin into Claire's pocket as an apology.
It wasn't a Galleon from Gringotts, Melvin noted. It was a genuine gold coin, one side engraved with the Statue of Liberty holding a torch and olive branch, the other with the Saint-Gaudens double eagle—a coin issued by the Federal Reserve five years ago, one ounce of pure gold.
Quite the generous gesture.
Claire, under the effects of a Confundus Charm, didn't notice and wandered off.
"My full name is long, but it certainly doesn't include that many titles," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye, his tone apologetic. "Please forgive two old men for our rudeness. I intended to book a meeting with your lovely assistant for tomorrow, but she mentioned you're booked for the next week. My apologies."
"That gold coin should be enough for Claire to forgive you."
"And you?"
"Two legendary wizards visiting me late at night? I'm delighted. Please, have a seat."
Melvin smiled meaningfully, flicking his index finger. A drawer under the desk slid open, and papers and clutter on the desk sprang to life, hopping into the drawer to leave the surface clear.
With another wave, a set of teacups and a teapot adorned with lilac patterns flew from a cabinet, landing neatly on the desk with a soft clatter.
Dumbledore and Flamel sat across from him, watching with interest. The magic wasn't spectacular, but the fluidity of the spellwork, given Melvin's age, was impressive.
As they expected the teapot to pour tea, they were surprised to see a fizzy, caramel-colored liquid fill the cups, bubbling softly with a faint sizzle.
"No tea in the office, I'm afraid. This is my personal stash—Coca-Cola," Melvin said with a warm smile, gesturing for them to try it.
Dumbledore and Flamel exchanged a glance, each lifting a cup and taking a cautious sip.
Flamel's centuries-old teeth weren't fond of the carbonation. He winced slightly, setting the cup down discreetly.
Dumbledore, however, lit up. The sweet, refreshing fizz was like candy popping in his mouth—perfectly to his taste. He'd tried this Muggle drink a century ago, but back then, the bubbles were too harsh, and the blend of sweetness and herbs wasn't quite right.
Mindful of first impressions, Dumbledore sipped his drink in two polite portions, setting the cup down slowly, his eyes flicking to the teapot.
Before his fingers fully released the cup, it magically refilled with more Coca-Cola.
"…"
Melvin wasn't sure if he imagined it, but Dumbledore's smile seemed to grow even brighter.
Flamel nodded with a smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levent."
"The honor's mine."
Though curious about the sudden visit from two legendary wizards, Melvin didn't ask their purpose outright. True to British wizarding custom, he followed their lead, chatting about trivial topics.
As wizarding fables often said, a British wizard might mispronounce a Levitation Charm, summon a buffalo, and still argue their pronunciation was truer to proper Latin while dodging hooves.
For the next half hour, they discussed the evening's performance, Broadway's theaters, and everything from Goethe to Dante, Faust to Macbeth, and the evolution of stage effects over centuries.
Mostly, it was Melvin and Flamel talking. Dumbledore, engrossed in his "sweet fizzy water," listened quietly, stroking his beard and sipping his Cola.
"…Through the devil Mephistopheles, the author conveys a nihilistic force of absolute domination, suggesting all of Faust's achievements will crumble. He hears the clanging of shovels, thinking it's the people building, but it's really the devil digging his grave."
Melvin took a sip of his Cola, glancing at the old wizards with a hint of pride.
You may have centuries of experience, but I've got wisdom from the future.
Flamel pondered for a moment, then looked impressed. "I hadn't considered that interpretation. Truly, art belongs to its interpreters once it's created. Even Goethe himself didn't have such profound insights when he wrote it—and trust me, I was his neighbor back then."
"…"
Melvin opened his mouth, then closed it, reminded of Flamel's age and unable to counter.
He turned to the other wizard. "Mr. Dumbledore, may I ask why you're here?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly, looking between them. "Mr. Levent, I'd like to offer you a position as a professor at Hogwarts."
Ilvermorny: A School History
In 1620, Isolt Sayre met a Horned Serpent at Mount Greylock. Though a distant relative of the Gaunt family, Isolt didn't inherit Slytherin's Parseltongue ability. To her surprise, she could understand the Horned Serpent and communicate with it. They became friends, and when Isolt founded Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she named one of its houses after the creature.
On the eve of her adopted son Chadwick Boot's eleventh birthday, Isolt promised to craft him a wand but struggled to find a suitable core. That night, she dreamed of walking to a river where the Horned Serpent emerged, offering a sliver of its horn. Upon waking, Isolt went to the river, received the serpent's gift, and used its horn to create a wand of immense power.
One late autumn evening, the Horned Serpent warned Isolt: Danger approaches. Your family is in peril. Stay vigilant—friends on the mountain will aid you.
Thirteen days later, Isolt's aunt, the dark witch Gormlaith Gaunt, attacked Ilvermorny. With a powerful curse, she put Isolt and her husband James into a deep sleep, intending to kill them and kidnap their newborn twin daughters. As Gormlaith cast spells in Parseltongue, Chadwick, who was away, received a warning through his Horned Serpent wand. He rushed back and, with the help of William the Pukwudgie, a Wampus cat, and a young Thunderbird, defeated Gormlaith.