Chapter 1: The Defector from Ilvermorny
New York, Broadway.
The Gershwin Theatre.
The final act of Faust.
Cellos, double basses, clarinets, horns, and pianos swelled together in a sonorous climax.
"Virgin! Mother! Goddess! Queen!"
"Bless us with your eternal mercy!"
From the dome above descended a sacred light, silver and radiant, flowing like a living substance. It pierced the haze of stage fog, drawing hushed gasps from the audience.
Security guards paced along the wings. Though they had seen this spectacle countless times, awe still softened their stride.
Below, the elegantly dressed audience sat transfixed. As the golden rotunda slowly dimmed, reverence etched itself onto shadowed faces.
Only two old men in the last row seemed different. Their expressions were calm, yet their eyes gleamed with amusement.
The man on the left wore a thick white beard. Behind his half-moon spectacles, his eyes shone a piercing sky-blue.
"Moonstone, liverwort... quite the stagecraft," he murmured, voice laced with quiet delight. "Thanks to him, we shall all sleep sweetly tonight."
His companion nodded, his voice gravelly and frail:
"Moonstone, born of June, symbolizes health, longevity, and prosperity. Its light soothes anxiety, lulling one into tranquil sleep."
He looked older still, beardless, with short silver hair and an aura of mystery.
The first man leaned closer.
"A question, Nico. This wizard... this so-called designer of effects—how did he gain approval from the Magical Congress of the United States?"
"You can't even wait for the curtain call, Albus," Nico chided softly, then added with a dry smile, "In truth, he never sought their approval."
"Oh?" Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with keen interest. "The Aurors at Woolworth would never allow such an open breach of the Statute of Secrecy."
"Arrogant Albus," Flamel countered. "Who said he broke it? That flowing moonlight... If any Auror were to file a complaint, the court would discover these were all crafted by Muggle technology. His Muggle assistants can reproduce them flawlessly."
Flamel's smile deepened.
"It is not the first time. The Phantom of New York made the front page just last week. I also recall a defector from Ilvermorny who once toppled a MACUSA judge with nothing but procedural law..."
Dumbledore's fingers drummed on the armrest. His eyes pierced the curtain as though seeing into the backstage.
"Melvin Levent."
...
The opera ended with a solemn chant. The actors lined up, joined by crew members, and bowed before thunderous applause.
Behind them, two stage designers exchanged quiet words.
"Melvin, your name is already famous on Broadway," whispered a young blonde woman in a navy jacket. "I hear Hollywood is offering you a fortune. Soon, the whole world will know your name."
Beside her stood Melvin, tall and dark-haired, a gray ring on his left hand. His deep eyes held a strange glimmer.
"Thank you," he answered absently, watching the audience—rows upon rows of faces, identical, like dolls arranged in perfect order.
"I'll step to the restroom, Claire. See you at the office after curtain call."
She chuckled softly. "Ever the boss. Enjoy your break."
Melvin turned calmly and slipped away.
The backstage restroom was empty, the theatre's roar muffled to a distant haze. A pungent mix of disinfectant and ammonia stung his nose. He frowned.
Then came the whistle of wind. A sudden, unseen vortex swept through the room, trapping the foul odor. With a flick of his hand, Melvin condensed it into a small black sphere—like a foul-smelling bomb.
"Stink pellet..." He chuckled lightly.
Wandless cleaning charms came easily now. Transfiguration, too, was second nature, and his silent casting had grown swift. Six months of growth had raised his magic to a level that could rival veteran MACUSA Aurors.
Pocketing the sphere, he looked into the mirror. His reflection stared back, inverted, its pupils glinting faintly with crystalline light—a sign of power swelling within.
Yes, this world held astonishing magic, and those who mastered it were called wizards.
Melvin Lewynter was one of them. He had once studied at Ilvermorny—the only wizarding school in the United States, perched atop Mount Greylock in Massachusetts.
But he had never finished his studies.
Six months earlier, during his seventh Christmas at school, he had taken a leave of absence. Soon after, he became a stage designer at the Gershwin Theatre, rising to fame in mere months. His rewards were generous pay—and magic that grew stronger every day.
As he rinsed his hands, memories of Ilvermorny stirred. Founded in the seventeenth century by Isolt Sayre, a collateral descendant of Salazar Slytherin, the school began as a humble stone cabin. Through inclusivity and waves of immigration, it grew into one of the world's most renowned magical academies.
Legends claimed Sayre had stolen Slytherin's treasures: gold, silver, a wand of serpentwood, and ancient manuscripts. Perhaps they lay hidden in Ilvermorny's vaults, or transformed into the horned serpent tree upon the cliffs of Greylock.
But Melvin's true gift came from elsewhere—from the Horned Serpent itself.
A magical creature crowned with sharp horns, it was said to exist across the world, though its home was in America. Some claimed a rare kind bore a jewel on its brow, granting invisibility, flight... and glimpses of the future.