Melvin gripped the old staff tightly. A faint tremor ran through it, and its surface shimmered with a pale blue glow. Suddenly, a violent suction pulled at him, fixing his palm to the staff's shaft. In an instant, the very air around him quivered.
The world before his eyes warped and stretched, blurring into obscurity. The pull was like an icy iron hook digging into his navel.
Moments later, he emerged in another land—another magical government—the British Ministry of Magic.
Still reeling from the landing, Melvin steadied himself and found he stood in a narrow, square chamber. The walls gleamed with polished dark wood. There were no lamps, only golden threads of light glimmering in the carved seams between panels.
"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day,"
a cold, disembodied female voice rang out—clear, precise, with no discernible source. It was as though an invisible woman were standing behind him.
"A classic Cockney accent..." Melvin murmured under his breath.
The door before him swung open, and a familiar figure appeared, silver-haired and bearded.
"Dumbledore."
"Many wizards find that voice too cold," Dumbledore remarked kindly. "It suggests that the Ministry and the Wizengamot are unfriendly. I agree, but changing it is far too complicated, so it remains as it is..."
He smiled and handed Melvin a small silver badge. "In any case, welcome to London, Professor Lewynter."
Melvin accepted it. The badge, shaped like a coin, bore his entry details: Melvin Lewynter, Employee.
"To be greeted personally by the Headmaster himself—Hogwarts' orientation is more thorough than I expected."
"There are additional procedures for hiring foreign professors," Dumbledore replied. "Beyond the evaluation I mentioned in my letter. I'll explain the details on the way. Let us be off."
...
Melvin sensed something beneath his words, a faint weight unspoken. Still, he pinned the badge to his chest, picked up his suitcase, and followed.
It was his first time within this storied institution of magic. His dark pupils gleamed with quiet curiosity as he took it all in.
A wide corridor stretched before him, polished floors of dark wood shining under faint enchantments. Dozens of fireplaces lined the walls, flames flickering with green Floo powder as witches and wizards stepped in and out. Overhead, a vaulted dome, wrought with alchemy and gilded symbols, drifted and shifted in a slow, ceaseless motion.
Melvin followed the Headmaster into the grand atrium.
At its center, he saw the famous Fountain of Magical Brethren: towering statues of wizards and witches in gleaming gold, surrounded by magical creatures gazing upward with reverence.
To Melvin, the sight reeked of arrogance. In another age, these very effigies would have been denounced as symbols of prejudice.
To the left stood a security station, where a bearded wizard sat behind a square desk. Upon it rested a brass scale with a single shallow pan. A sign read: Security Inspection.
Placing one's wand upon the tray caused it to click, releasing a thin strip of parchment below.
"Twenty-five centimeters," the guard read aloud. "Core: water-serpent horn. Lifespan... two years?"
An unusual core, and far too short a lifespan for the wand's appearance. The middle-aged wizard glanced at him, mildly startled.
"Yes," Melvin answered with a calm nod and a faint smile. He passed without difficulty.
The process was careless, perfunctory even, but Melvin knew it mattered little. With the Chief Warlock himself present, the Ministry's security checks were a formality at best.
Crossing the threshold, he finally asked, "Headmaster, what exactly did you mean by those additional procedures?"
"I must apologize," Dumbledore said.
"For what?" Melvin asked, his unease sharpening.
"The Board of Governors cannot interfere directly in school affairs. Faculty appointments do not require their approval. The plan was for you to begin teaching at once. However..."
Instead of leading him to the lifts, Dumbledore turned and stopped before a black wooden door.
"Mr. Malfoy caught wind of the curriculum revisions and petitioned the Examinations Authority for review."
Melvin understood at once: this was the gathering of elder wizards mentioned in the Headmaster's letter. "And?"
"Madam Marchbanks has convened a session to decide whether the curriculum should be altered. After careful thought, I believe the new Muggle Studies professor is best suited to persuade the committee."
With a gentle push, Dumbledore opened the door and stepped aside, giving him a conspiratorial wink.
...
The letter had not mentioned the meeting would be so sudden.
Expressionless, Melvin glanced at the Headmaster. A faint resignation stirred within him—before his work had even begun. Yet he suppressed it.
He entered. The door shut quietly behind him.
The meeting room was small, dimly lit. At its center stood a round table, and around it sat several elderly witches and wizards.
Among them was Griselda Marchbanks. Her frame was slightly stooped, her face heavily lined, her gaze clouded. She seemed impossibly old—comparable, Melvin thought, only to Nicolas Flamel.
The elder magicians sat silent, statuesque in their seats. Not a greeting passed their lips. Their stillness was so heavy, one might have mistaken them for wax figures, if not for the slow rise and fall of their chests.
Melvin found a chair, set down his suitcase, and, noting their silence, cleared his throat.
"Melvin Lewynter. Greetings," he said, with a tone neither obsequious nor arrogant—gentle, courteous.
"Louder."
"...What?" Melvin looked up. It was the old witch who had spoken.
"LOUDER, young man!"
The first impression Madam Marchbanks had of Professor Lewynter was his youth—at least compared with the ancients gathered there.
But Marchbanks had never despised youth.
In this land of long magical tradition, the Examinations Authority was, by contrast, a strikingly young institution—founded a little over five centuries ago, newer than the Ministry itself, the International Confederation of Wizards, or even the Quidditch Association.
Marchbanks had served as an examiner there for over a century. She had personally supervised Albus Dumbledore's final exams and held him in high esteem ever since.
"Very well," Melvin thought quickly.
Since none of the elders spoke further, he could not tell what was expected of him. It seemed he was to address them alone. Searching his mind, he called upon a familiar cadence, crafting a speech on the spot:
"I have a dream—for wizards and Muggles alike."
A subtle charm carried his voice, natural yet resonant, to every ear in the chamber.
"Five hundred years ago, a great British wizard founded the Wizarding Council, uniting magical minds across the world. Three hundred years ago, Britain established its Ministry of Magic—a beacon of light, bringing hope to thousands of witches and wizards caught in Muggle conflicts.
Britain was the first nation to establish the Examinations Authority! Yet many have forgotten its original purpose... to seek out and train those of exceptional magical talent, to prepare for the looming crises that threaten us all."
Strange though the words were, they carried an inexplicable inspiration.
In her chair, Madam Marchbanks slowly straightened. The clouded veil over her eyes lifted, and a sharp clarity shone through, brightening with every moment.
As she looked upon the young man, it was as though she glimpsed another youth—one she had examined a century ago.
—
Griselda Marchbanks
Famous Wizard
Griselda, from the Old Germanic "gris" (gray) and "hild" (battle), appears as the long-suffering wife in medieval tales by Boccaccio and Chaucer.