The performance had ended, and the audience dispersed.
The vast theater gradually fell silent.
Melvin returned to his office, leaning back against the sturdy wooden chair, his eyes closed in rest. A stream of ethereal magic flowed through his body like a brook, refreshing and soothing.
His mind cleared, and his thoughts drifted.
According to the Horned Serpent, emotions and beliefs connect the soul, and the secrets of magic lie deep within it. Thousands of years ago, ancient wizards began to study the soul and its bond with magic. Some, obsessed with power, were lost to the Dark Arts, while others—endowed with extraordinary talent—achieved brilliant success. The founders of Hogwarts were among the latter. Unfortunately, with the decline of ancient magic, their accomplishments were buried by history.
Influenced by centuries of immigration, Ilvermorny absorbed wizards from all over the world, becoming a place comparable to Hogwarts. Across generations, there were always exceptionally gifted teachers and students who left their mark on different fields of magic. Yet none ever uncovered the true essence of magic. Their legacies became the priceless knowledge stored in the library.
The Horned Serpent, nourished by the Serpentwood tree and carrying a millennium-long life, had absorbed this knowledge, combining it with its unique gifts to forge a new and untrodden path...
Melvin twisted the ring on his finger, reflecting silently.
While ordinary human emotions could indeed increase magical power, their effect was far too slow. Compared to his peers, six months had merely saved him several years of hard auror training.
For efficient magical power, wizards were more suitable sources—especially powerful ones.
The events of tonight had confirmed his suspicion.
"..."
Faint sounds still echoed in the hallway: actors removing their makeup, crew members tidying props. Passing near his office, everyone fell quiet and quickened their steps.
Despite his friendly manner, the young chief stage designer radiated a mysterious detachment.
Besides, the former chief designer had proven one thing beyond doubt: this young man was not to be trifled with.
That had happened five months ago. The previous designer had attempted to steal Melvin's ideas for stagecraft, submitting the stolen blueprints that very morning. By midday, the accidents began: struck by a car at an intersection, nearly hit by falling debris from a skyscraper, stumbling down the street barely escaping worse mishaps... From that day on, misfortune haunted him every time he set foot on Broadway.
The incident became an urban legend whispered around Broadway, its influence sweeping the theater world into a more disciplined atmosphere. Someday, this tale itself might be adapted for the stage.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
Melvin sat up, raising his head.
The door creaked open. Claire was at the threshold. Normally sharp and confident, the assistant seemed uncertain, blinking as if realizing something unusual.
"Sir, your guests have arrived."
"Guests?"
Melvin frowned slightly.
Before Claire could explain, the door swung fully open, revealing two elderly men with warm smiles. One had snow-white hair and a vigorous presence; the other, silver hair and eyes, radiating an air of mystery.
"I don't recall expecting visitors tonight, let alone the esteemed President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and member of the Order of Merlin's Council...
"What do you say, Mr. Dumbledore? Mr. Nicolas Flamel?"
Melvin arched an eyebrow, chuckling softly.
He was surprised, but not shocked. Famous figures often enjoyed disguising themselves, slipping into unassuming places, only to appear out of nowhere. That was written into their very legends.
Both were living legends of the wizarding world. Their names appeared countless times in works of alchemy, not to mention newspapers, magazines, and even the caricatures printed on Chocolate Frog cards.
But Melvin had other reasons for recognizing them.
Partly, they were distant memories that haunted him.
And partly, it was the International Confederation of Wizards' Convention the previous summer. From afar, he had observed the President dozing off in the guest of honor's chair, eyelids drooping, leaving an impression few could forget.
"Heh..."
Nicolas Flamel gave Dumbledore a playful smile before slipping something golden into Claire's pocket by way of apology.
It was not a wizard's Galleon, minted by Gringotts. Melvin saw clearly—it was a genuine gold coin. On one side was the Statue of Liberty, holding torch and olive branch; on the other, Saint-Gaudens' double-headed eagle. It was a Federal Reserve gold Eagle, issued five years ago, each weighing one ounce of pure gold.
A substantial apology, without doubt.
Claire, under the Confundus Charm, noticed nothing, turning and leaving on her own.
"My full name is long," Dumbledore said, blinking, "but it certainly doesn't include such an impressive list of titles."
He chuckled apologetically. "Forgive two old men for our discourtesy. I had planned to schedule a meeting with your lovely assistant tomorrow, but she mentioned you would not be available next week. I am terribly sorry.
"That coin will suffice for Claire's understanding."
"And you?"
"I am most pleased to welcome two legendary wizards so late at night. Please, have a seat," Melvin replied with a meaningful smile.
At a flick of his finger, the drawer beneath the desk flew open; papers and trinkets leapt into it, clearing the desk surface.
Another gesture sent a tea set sailing out from the cabinet. A lilac-patterned teapot and three cups landed neatly upon the desk.
Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel sat opposite him, watching with interest. The magic was not dazzling, but the fluidity of his spellwork—at his young age—was remarkable.
Just as they expected tea to pour, a stream of bubbling, caramel-colored liquid filled the cups, fizzing softly with tiny bubbles.
"No tea in the office," Melvin said with a warm smile, "but here's my special Coca-Cola." He gestured invitingly.
Dumbledore and Flamel exchanged a glance, each lifting a cup.
Nicolas Flamel winced slightly; his centuries-old teeth could not endure the assault of carbonation. He set the cup down calmly, frowning faintly.
Dumbledore's eyes, however, lit up. The rich sweetness, refreshing fizz, and crackling bubbles bursting like candy on his tongue suited him perfectly.
This Muggle drink had been popular for a century. He had tasted it seventy years earlier, but the bubble-to-syrup ratio had been off—too sharp, too unbalanced.
Recalling his first encounter, he drank the entire cup in two gulps, setting it down slowly, gaze fixed on the teapot.
Before his fingers left the cup, it refilled instantly, brimming with more cola.
"..."
Melvin wasn't sure, but he thought Dumbledore's smile had grown even brighter.
Flamel also smiled, nodding. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levent."
"Likewise."
Though puzzled by the sudden visit of two legendary wizards, Melvin did not immediately ask their purpose. Instead, he followed their conversational lead, exchanging small talk.
Such was the way of British wizards.
A magical fable said: a British wizard once mispronounced a Levitation Charm and summoned a bison. As the beast's hoof nearly crushed his face, he still insisted his Latin pronunciation was the more proper form.
For half an hour they spoke of the night's performance, Broadway's theaters, Goethe and Dante, Faust and Macbeth, the evolution of stagecraft across centuries...
Melvin and Nicolas Flamel spoke the most, while Dumbledore—absorbed in his sweet drink—listened silently, stroking his beard between sips of cola.
"...Through the devil Mephistopheles, the author conveys the nihilistic pull of absolute power, arguing that all of Faust's achievements will be destroyed. Hearing the sound of shovels, he believes men are building, but in truth the devil is digging his grave," Melvin concluded, sipping his cola and meeting the old wizard's eyes with quiet satisfaction.
You may hold the weight of the past, but I carry the wisdom of the future.
Flamel pondered for a moment, then revealed a look of awe. "I had no idea such an interpretation existed. As expected, art, once complete, belongs to its interpreters. Not even Goethe himself had such depth when writing it. Trust me, I lived next door to him at the time."
"..."
Melvin opened his mouth, but considering the man's age, refrained from arguing.
He stayed silent a moment, then turned toward the wizard beside him. "Professor Dumbledore, how may I be of service?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"Mr. Lewynter, I would like to recruit you as a professor at Hogwarts."
Ilvermorny: A History
In 1620, Isolt Sayre encountered a strange Horned Serpent on Mount Greylock. As a descendant of the Gaunt family, Isolt had not inherited Slytherin's Parseltongue, yet he was astonished to discover that he could understand the words and thoughts of the Horned Serpent. The two became fast friends. After founding Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Isolt named one of its four houses after the creature: Horned Serpent.
On the eve of her adopted son Chadwick Boot's eleventh birthday, Isolt promised to craft him a wand—but she struggled to find a suitable core. One night, she dreamed of walking toward a brook, where a Horned Serpent rose from the waters and offered her a horn. Upon waking, Isolt returned to the brook and, as in her dream, received the Serpent's gift. Using the horn as a core, she created a wand of extraordinary magical power.
One late-autumn afternoon, the Serpent warned Isolt: "Danger approaches. Your family is doomed. Be vigilant. Your friends in the mountains will aid you."
Thirteen days later, Isolt's aunt, the Dark witch Gormlaith Gaunt, attacked Ilvermorny. She unleashed a powerful curse upon Isolt and James, attempting to kill them and kidnap their newborn twin daughters. As she chanted the spell in Parseltongue, Chadwick—then away from home—was suddenly alerted by the Horned Serpent wand. He hurried back, and with the help of William the Pukwudgie, a panther, and a young Thunderbird, they defeated Gormlaith Gaunt