The window, not fully closed, left a narrow gap through which the glow of neon signs and scattered streetlamps seeped in.
The sounds of voices from the stage and the faint hum of music pressed through the walls, drifting down the corridor before softening inside the office.
A crystal chandelier, suspended from the ceiling, turned lazily on its chain, scattering shifting patterns of light and shadow across the room.
"I've been doing some research," Melvin began, speaking freely. "I discovered that the Hogwarts textbooks are all decades old. The Life and Social Habits of British Muggles was published in the 1970s, while Muggles Who Noticed dates back to the 1950s. Your so-called research into Muggles is still anchored in the steam-engine era—it's hopelessly outdated."
This was the fruit of his correspondence with Ilvermorny's No-Maj Studies professor:
"As Professor Fleming wrote in his paper, wizards diminish Muggles with their moral arrogance, seeing only the surface. Students should adapt to the present age instead of memorizing adventure tales written ten—or even fifty—years ago."
"Insight as deep as the Mark upon the Stone..."
Dumbledore studied Melvin with quiet admiration glinting in his blue eyes.
"Professor Burbage has voiced similar views. She often says that wizarding arrogance is weakening magic itself. Yet most of our kind still cling to ignorant notions of blood purity, unwilling even to leave the castle walls and behold the steel and concrete skies beyond."
"Professor Burbage?" Melvin asked at the right moment, uncertainty in his voice.
"A friend of mine," Dumbledore explained, "an expert on Muggle affairs."
"And a candidate for the post of Muggle Studies, perhaps?"
Dumbledore's lips curled into a knowing smile, though he neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead of remaining cloistered at Hogwarts, Burbage preferred to immerse herself in Muggle society. She planned to lock her wand in a suitcase and live in London for several years as though she were an ordinary person.
For a pure-blood witch to harbor such ideas—Melvin thought—was not unlike the naturalists of the Age of Exploration.
"Naturalists?" Dumbledore echoed, perplexed.
Nicolas Flamel, who had been listening in silence, supplied the answer. "The scholars who sailed with explorers in the Age of Discovery—men of noble birth, yet willing to risk their lives to understand the vast world."
Melvin nodded. "Their mission was to open the eyes of the ignorant and stagnant. I hope Hogwarts students may one day become naturalists of the magical world."
"I admire your aspirations," said Nicolas, raising his teacup—this time filled with genuine black tea.
"As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I give you my word," Dumbledore replied, his voice soft yet firm.
When at last he saw the two elders out, Melvin leaned back in his chair. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the turning chandelier above.
In their previous meeting, it had been Flamel who spoke most, while Dumbledore listened quietly. Tonight, the roles had reversed: Nicolas was the silent one. Yet both men had shared one unconscious gesture—they had glanced more than once at his ring.
No Legilimency was needed. Their knowledge, their accumulated insight over years, told them what he had only recently confirmed after six long months of study: the mark belonged to Slytherin.
Life was nothing if not a path of learning.
Melvin touched the ring with his fingertips, pondered a moment, then rose from his chair and stepped out into the night.
The negotiations had gone smoothly, without idle words. The main hall remained open, the stage awash in elaborate light, casting sharp silhouettes across the audience. Near the VIP entrance stood his young assistant, watching the performance with a slightly smug expression.
Turning toward the stage, Melvin caught the most dazzling moment.
The musical being performed was The Green Witch, their first production at the Gershwin Theatre—the show that had secured his and Claire's place on Broadway. Filled with magical spectacle, its stagecraft bore Melvin's designs: flawless in every detail, a perfect harmony of illusion and art.
The memory stirred a touch of nostalgia.
Moving quietly, Melvin lowered his voice. "Claire."
"Mr. Lewynter."
"I'm leaving."
"You're going to Hollywood?" she asked without surprise.
"No. To England. To study—and explore the market there."
"Ah..."
"But you," he said with a faint smile, "you're going to Hollywood."
"What?!"
...
It was night again.
Dumbledore walked slowly down the street, eyes fixed on the ground, curiosity flickering at the sights on either side. In his hand he held an icy can of Coca-Cola, condensation dripping down the aluminum.
Compared to the red can he had tried before, this blue-labeled syrup seemed sweeter.
Behind him, Nicolas Flamel followed, his step frail and hesitant. "Unless I've gone senile, changes to the curriculum must be submitted in writing to the school board and the Examinations Authority, correct?"
"Madam Marchbanks will approve," Dumbledore said lightly, ignoring the board altogether. He took a sip of his soda, then changed the subject abruptly: "Is the Stone prepared?"
"If all is well, it rests in the vaults beneath Gringotts. But..." Flamel hesitated. "Are you truly certain? There's been no sign of You-Know-Who for more than ten years."
Dumbledore's smile faded, his gaze turning shadowed and grave. "If Voldemort hides in Albania, he will not overlook Quirrell. Souls like his are precisely what he craves. And if Voldemort returns to Britain, he will not overlook the Philosopher's Stone either."
Flamel frowned. "Could you not stop that young man?"
"I tried."
Dumbledore's sigh was heavy. "I spoke with Quirrell before leaving the castle. He is already lost in the pursuit of dark power. His soul is sunk deep into shadow—beyond even the purifying fire of Fawkes."
"Alas..."
"Nicolas, even the Imperius Curse cannot change a person's heart. Nor can I change Quirrell's choice."
"Then I fear our peace will not last much longer."
...
...
"Professor Lewynter,
I must apologize for sending you such an informal letter so shortly before your appointment, but life often brings the unexpected. I've encountered a few obstacles in my work.
You are a gifted wizard, but the world clings more to hollow reputations than to substance—especially the older professors of our world. Having heard of our meeting, they now wish to meet you themselves and may pose vague and general questions. I trust you will prepare accordingly.
Do not be overly concerned. Though others may not understand your ideas, Madam Marchbanks is open-minded, and I believe all will turn out well.
A torrential rain has come to Scotland at summer's end, falling upon the castle towers like a flood. I sit in my office listening to the storm, while Hogwarts waits for its new professor.
Your future colleague,
Albus Dumbledore"
The next morning, outside the Woolworth Building, Melvin folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.
He wore the traditional traveling garb of a wizard—his wand concealed in his coat, a brown suitcase in hand. Modest, unremarkable.
The neo-Gothic skyscraper rose fifty-seven stories, nearly two hundred forty meters high. Built in 1910 and finished in just three years, its construction speed alone suggested that MACUSA's hand had guided it.
Surprisingly, the man awaiting him was a familiar face.
Mr. Graves, Auror, hailed from wealth. His mother, Seraphina Picquery, had once presided over MACUSA itself. Perhaps her influence had instilled in him noble ideals. Upon graduation, he joined the Department, rejecting family support and vowing to restore his family's honor by his own merit.
Yet his career had faltered. After twenty years he had risen only to Deputy Director of the Auror Office—before being demoted once again.
Melvin entered the building quietly.
He had crossed swords with Graves before. Six months earlier, when his stagecraft designs had taken New York by storm—celebrated in both the wizarding and No-Maj press—the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had taken notice.
An ambitious Auror on the verge of promotion had filed a complaint after Easter break. Melvin had won. Graves had fallen.
Who could have predicted it?
The middle-aged Auror now trailed him, watching silently as Melvin completed his paperwork: wand registration, Hogwarts appointment, final travel clearance.
"The Portkey from New York to London will activate shortly. Passengers, prepare yourselves. Ten seconds..."
"I'll miss you, Mr. Graves," Melvin said lightly.
"Shut up."
"Seven, six, five..."
—
MACUSA: A History
Since its founding, the Magical Congress of the United States has moved its headquarters five times.
In 1693, following its establishment, MACUSA built a vast magical stronghold in the Appalachian Mountains.
In 1760, the Congress moved to Williamsburg, Virginia, home of President Thornton Harkaway.
After Harkaway's resignation, headquarters shifted to Baltimore under President Amber Fleming.
When the Revolutionary War broke out, MACUSA relocated again—to Washington, D.C.—to avoid the No-Maj government's interference.
Finally, in 1892, after the Great Sasquatch Rebellion, the Congress left Washington for the Woolworth Building in New York City.