Melvin gripped the old walking stick tightly. A faint tremor pulsed through its core, and its surface shimmered with a soft blue glow. Suddenly, a powerful suction force locked his palm to the middle of the stick. In an instant, the surrounding space quivered.
Everything before his eyes stretched and blurred, impossible to discern. A fierce pulling sensation gripped him, as if a cold iron hook had latched onto the back of his navel.
Seconds later, he arrived in another country, under another wizarding government—the British Ministry of Magic.
Still dizzy from the journey, Melvin steadied himself and found he was standing in a small, square room. The walls were lined with glossy, dark wood panels, unlit by any lamps. Faint metallic glints—possibly gilded trim—flickered from the seams.
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day."
A cold, clear female voice echoed through the air, its source impossible to pinpoint, as if an invisible woman stood just behind him.
"Classic London accent…" Melvin muttered under his breath.
The door in front of him swung open, revealing a familiar face framed by white hair and a flowing beard.
"Dumbledore."
"Many wizards find that voice a bit too chilly—makes the Ministry and Wizengamot seem rather unwelcoming, don't you think? I agree, but changing it is such a hassle, so it's stayed the same all these years…"
Dumbledore's face lit up with a warm smile as he handed over a badge. "In any case, welcome to London, Professor Lewent."
Melvin took the coin-shaped silver badge, which bore the details from his entry application: Melvin Lewent, Employment.
"The Headmaster himself coming to greet me? Hogwarts' onboarding process is more thoughtful than I expected."
"There are a few extra formalities when hiring a foreign professor, plus the review I mentioned in my letter. We'll discuss the details on the way—let's head over there now."
"…"
Melvin caught a peculiar note in his tone, as if he were hinting at something unspoken.
Pinning the badge to his chest, he grabbed his suitcase and stepped out of the room.
His first time in the world-renowned headquarters of the British wizarding government, Melvin curiously surveyed his surroundings, his dark eyes catching the glow of the lights.
Before him stretched a wide, straight corridor with polished dark wood floors gleaming like new. Dozens of fireplaces lined the walls, wizards stepping in and out as Floo powder sparked blue-green flames. The vaulted ceiling, crafted with magic and alchemy, shimmered with golden symbols that swayed and shifted lightly.
Following the Headmaster, Melvin crossed the corridor into the Atrium.
The famous Fountain of Magical Brethren came into view—a circular pool with a cluster of golden statues at its center. Various intelligent magical creatures surrounded a wizard and witch, gazing up at them with reverent expressions.
Blatant speciesism, Melvin thought. Decades from now, statues like this would be torn down and criticized.
His gaze shifted to the left, where a security desk stood nearby. A scruffy-bearded wizard sat behind it, next to a sign reading Security Check. A brass balance scale sat on the table; when a wand was placed in its tray, it clattered and spat out a thin strip of parchment from its base.
"Ten inches, core of… Horned Serpent horn? In use for… two years?"
The rare wand core and its oddly short usage history caught the middle-aged wizard by surprise.
"Yes," Melvin said with a nod and a smile, passing through smoothly.
The process felt a bit perfunctory, and Melvin knew why. His answers hardly mattered—not with the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot standing beside him. If Dumbledore couldn't vouch for the Ministry's security, no amount of rigorous checks would make a difference.
As they stepped through the doorway, Melvin remembered to ask, "Headmaster, about those extra formalities you mentioned—what exactly are they?"
"I owe you an apology," Dumbledore said.
"What do you mean?" A sinking feeling crept into Melvin's chest.
"The Board of Governors can't directly interfere with school affairs, and faculty appointments don't require their approval. The original plan was to have you start immediately…"
Instead of heading for the crowded lifts, Dumbledore led him deeper inside, stopping before a black wooden door. "But Mr. Malfoy caught wind of changes to the curriculum and requested a review from the Wizarding Examinations Authority."
Melvin understood—this was the "meeting with senior wizards" mentioned in the letter. "So?"
"Madam Marchbanks has organized a meeting to discuss whether the curriculum changes are warranted. After careful consideration, I believe the best person to convince the committee is the new Muggle Studies professor."
Dumbledore pushed open the door, stepping aside with a twinkle in his eye.
"…"
The letter hadn't mentioned this meeting would be an ambush.
Melvin shot the Headmaster a flat look, already half-tempted to quit before his first day.
But he held his tongue.
Stepping into the room, the wooden door closed softly behind him.
The meeting room was modest, dimly lit, with a round table at its center. Several elderly wizards sat around it, including Griselda Marchbanks. She was hunched, her face etched with fine wrinkles, her eyes cloudy with age. In Melvin's mind, only Nicolas Flamel could rival her ancient appearance.
The group sat in silence, chests rising and falling slowly, their stillness so profound they could have been mistaken for wax figures. No questions, no greetings—just an air of quiet solemnity.
Melvin took a seat, setting his suitcase down. Seeing no one inclined to introduce themselves, he cleared his throat.
"Melvin Lewent. Pleased to meet you all."
His tone was calm and courteous, neither servile nor arrogant.
"Louder!"
"What?" Melvin looked up to see the elderly witch who'd spoken—Madam Marchbanks.
"I said, louder, young man!"
Her first impression of Professor Lewent was his youth—far younger than the old fogies around the table.
But Griselda Marchbanks never underestimated youth.
In this ancient wizarding nation, the Wizarding Examinations Authority was a relatively young institution, only five hundred years old, compared to the Ministry of Magic, the International Confederation of Wizards, or the Quidditch Regulatory Board.
Back in the last century, Marchbanks had served as an examiner, personally overseeing Albus Dumbledore's exams. From the time of his N.E.W.T.s a hundred years ago, she had held great respect for that young man.
"Alright," Melvin said, his mind racing.
No questions from the committee meant he'd have to take the lead. He mentally reviewed a familiar speech, quickly outlining his thoughts: I Have a Dream: Wizards and Muggles.
With a subtle charm to amplify his voice, his words carried clearly across the room.
"Five hundred years ago, a great British wizard founded the Wizards' Council, uniting magical beings worldwide. Three hundred years ago, Britain established the Ministry of Magic, a beacon of hope for thousands of wizards suffering in conflicts with Muggles…
"Britain was the first to create the Wizarding Examinations Authority! But many have forgotten its original purpose—to select and train exceptional wizarding talent, to prepare for looming magical crises…"
His words felt a touch strange but carried an oddly compelling force.
Madam Marchbanks, slouched in her chair, slowly straightened, her cloudy eyes locking onto the young man. A spark of clarity gleamed in them, growing brighter by the moment.
She saw in him the shadow of a young man from a century ago.
From Famous Witches and Wizards
Griselda Marchbanks: Derived from the Germanic elements gris (gray) and hild (battle). In medieval tales by Boccaccio and Chaucer, a patient wife bore this name.