A sliver of light slipped through the slightly ajar window, revealing a scattering of neon signs and streetlights outside.
The sound of stage chanting and music filtered through the walls, softened by the journey down the corridor, reaching the office with a muted hum.
A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, slowly spinning, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the room.
"I've done some research," Melvin began, "and found that Hogwarts' textbooks are woefully outdated. The Life and Social Habits of British Muggle, published in the 70s. Muggle Discoveries, from the 50s… The wizarding world's study of Muggle—no, No-Maj—culture is stuck in the steam engine era. It's completely out of touch."
Melvin spoke confidently, the result of his correspondence with an Ilvermorny professor of No-Maj studies. "As Professor Fleming wrote in her paper, wizards look down on Muggle with a smug, superior attitude, only scratching the surface of their world. Students should be learning to adapt to the modern age, not memorizing adventure novels from decades ago like they're gospel…"
"A perspective as sharp as the etchings on the Sword of Gryffindor," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling with admiration as he looked at Melvin. "Professor Burbage has shared similar thoughts. She often says wizarding arrogance is letting magic wither, yet most wizards cling to their ignorant pure-blood ideals, refusing to step outside their castles to see the steel and concrete skies of the Muggle world."
"Professor Burbage?" Melvin asked, feigning curiosity at just the right moment.
"A friend of mine," Dumbledore replied, "an expert in Muggle studies."
"And a candidate for the Muggle Studies post at Hogwarts, I presume?" Melvin ventured.
Dumbledore's lips curled into a smile, not denying it. "Rather than stay at the school to teach, she prefers to immerse herself in Muggle society. She plans to lock her wand away and live as an ordinary person in London for a few years."
"A pure-blood wizard with such progressive ideas," Melvin remarked. "She reminds me of the naturalists from the Age of Sail."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Naturalists?"
Nicolas Flamel, sitting nearby, chimed in. "Scholars on exploration ships during the Age of Sail. Often from privileged backgrounds, highly educated, yet willing to risk their lives to explore the wider world."
Melvin nodded. "Their mission was to open the eyes of the ignorant to the wonders of the world. I hope Hogwarts students can become the naturalists of the wizarding world."
"A noble aspiration," Flamel said, raising his teacup—this time filled with proper black tea.
"In my capacity as Headmaster of Hogwarts," Dumbledore said, his voice warm but firm, "I accept your proposal."
After seeing the two elderly wizards off, Melvin leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he gazed at the spinning chandelier.
During their last meeting, Flamel had done most of the talking while Dumbledore listened quietly. This time, Flamel had been the silent one. If there was a common thread, it was that both men's eyes had repeatedly flicked to the ring on Melvin's finger.
No trace of Legilimency, just the sharp insight honed by centuries of experience.
It had taken Melvin nearly six months to confirm the ring's markings belonged to Slytherin.
You learn until you're old, and you live until you're wise.
Melvin rubbed the ring thoughtfully, then stood and left the office.
The meeting had been brief and productive, leaving the main hall still buzzing. Carefully designed stage lights illuminated the performance, while the audience sat cloaked in shadow. His assistant stood near the VIP entrance, watching the stage with a hint of pride on her face.
Melvin turned to the stage, catching the climax of the performance.
The musical The Green Witch was playing, the first show he'd designed for the Gershwin Theatre. It was this production that had cemented his and his assistant's reputation on Broadway.
The show featured plenty of magical scenes, with stage effects designed by Melvin—perfectly suited to his, ahem, particular expertise.
Looking back now, he felt a twinge of nostalgia.
Stepping lightly, he approached and said softly, "Claire."
"Mr. Levent," she replied.
"I'm planning to leave."
"Off to Hollywood?" she asked, unsurprised.
"No, I'm heading to Britain for further studies—and to explore new opportunities."
"Oh…"
"But you're going to Hollywood."
"What?!"
Later that night, Dumbledore strolled leisurely down the street, his eyes darting curiously from side to side, taking in the sights. In his hand was a can of cola, fresh from a cooler, beads of condensation sliding down the aluminum.
This blue sugary drink was sweeter than the red one he'd tried last time.
Flamel trailed behind, his steps slow and slightly unsteady. "If my old mind hasn't failed me, changing the curriculum requires a formal report to the Board of Governors and the Wizarding Examinations Authority, doesn't it?"
"Professor Marchbanks will approve," Dumbledore said, conveniently ignoring the Board of Governors. He took a sip of cola, then shifted topics. "Is everything arranged with the Philosopher's Stone?"
"If all goes well, it's already secured in Gringotts' underground vaults," Flamel replied, pausing. "But… are you sure? There's been no word of You-Know-Who for over a decade."
Dumbledore's smile faded, his gaze darkening. "If Voldemort is hiding in Albania, he won't miss Quirrell. He's always drawn to souls like that. And if Voldemort returns to Britain, he won't pass up the Stone."
Flamel frowned. "You couldn't stop the boy?"
"I tried," Dumbledore sighed. "Before he left Hogwarts, I spoke with Quirrell. He's lost himself in the pursuit of dark power, his soul steeped in the shadows of Dark Magic. Even Fawkes' flames couldn't purify him."
"Such a shame," Flamel murmured.
"Nicolas, we must accept that even the Imperius Curse can't fully change a person's mind. I couldn't change Quirrell's choices either."
"I just regret that the peace we've had hasn't lasted longer."
Dear Professor Levent,
Apologies for sending this informal letter so close to your start date, but life, as always, brings surprises alongside tomorrow. There's been a slight hiccup with your appointment.
You're an exceptional wizard, but the world often values hollow reputations over true merit—especially the old codgers at the Wizarding Examinations Authority, who are even older than me. After hearing about our discussions, some of these professors want to meet you in person. They might ask vague, pointless questions, so I suggest you prepare accordingly.
Don't worry too much. Others may not grasp your insights, but Professor Marchbanks is open-minded, and I'm confident things will work out.
Summer's end has brought torrential rain to Scotland, with flood-like curtains of water pouring from the castle towers. As I sit in my office listening to the rain, Hogwarts awaits its new professor.
Your future colleague,
Albus Dumbledore
At dawn, outside the Woolworth Building, Melvin slipped the morning's letter into his pocket.
Dressed in classic wizarding travel attire, wand tucked into his robes and carrying a plain brown suitcase, he blended in easily.
The neo-Gothic skyscraper loomed 57 stories high, roughly 792 feet, built between 1910 and 1913. Considering American construction efficiency, it wouldn't be surprising if the Magical Congress of the United States had a hand in it.
To his surprise, a familiar face awaited among the staff handling his departure.
Auror Graves, from a prominent family, son of former MACUSA President Seraphina Picquery. Perhaps influenced by his mother, Graves had joined the Magical Congress straight out of Ilvermorny, driven by lofty ideals and a desire to restore his family's prestige without their help.
Twenty years later, he was still just the Deputy Director of the Auror Office.
Melvin entered the building without a flicker of expression.
He and Graves had a history.
Six months ago, when Melvin first arrived in New York, his stage designs had caused a stir, even making headlines in both No-Maj and wizarding newspapers.
Word spread quickly, catching the attention of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A certain Deputy Director, eager for a promotion, had seized the opportunity to file a complaint right after the Easter holidays.
Melvin had won the case, and Graves had been demoted.
Who could've seen that coming?
The middle-aged Auror trailed silently beside him as Melvin registered his wand, presented Hogwarts' appointment letter, and smoothly completed the exit procedures.
"The Portkey from New York to London is about to activate. Travelers, please prepare. Ten…"
"I'll miss you, Mr. Graves," Melvin said.
"Shut it."
"Seven, six, five…"
Excerpt from A History of the Magical Congress of the United States
Since its founding, MACUSA's headquarters has relocated five times.
In 1693, after stabilizing, MACUSA constructed a grand magical building in the Appalachian Mountains as its headquarters.
In 1760, it moved to Williamsburg, Virginia, the hometown of then-President Thornton Harkaway.
After Harkaway's term, MACUSA relocated to Baltimore, home of President Abel Fleming.
During the Revolutionary War, to avoid conflict and No-Maj authorities, MACUSA moved again to Washington.
In 1892, due to the Sasquatch Uprising, MACUSA left Washington and settled in New York's Woolworth Building.