The summer of 1991 was drawing to a close.
On the second-floor balcony of a modest home in Hampstead, London, a young girl with chestnut hair sat cross-legged on the floor. She held a children's encyclopedia in her lap, a thick dictionary resting by her side.
A few pale clouds drifted across the blue sky, carried lazily by the breeze. Sunlight edged the clouds with gold, and the glow fell across the pages in her hands, so bright that the words seemed almost to shimmer.
The only sound in the quiet afternoon was the turning of crisp, new paper.
Hermione Granger had loved reading from an early age. At first, she could only pore over pictures, but once she learned to read, the world of books opened fully to her—and she quickly became absorbed.
Unlike other children's entertainments, reading never interrupted her parents' work, nor did it require the company of peers. It was a pastime that asked nothing but time and curiosity, and so it never left her excluded.
Her parents ran a dental practice. Dentistry was a steady profession, with good pay and ample holidays, but summers always meant busier days. The telephone rang endlessly, records needed sorting, supplies had to be purchased, and insurance companies contacted. And every so often, there was a child with toothache to be seen.
Hermione flipped another page, but the telephone downstairs rang again.
"Just wait until the summer holidays are over," she muttered, her small face crinkling with impatience.
After the holidays, she would begin school.
"North London Collegiate... Westminster School..."
She whispered the names under her breath, then closed her books. Following her mother's advice to rest her eyes, she lifted her gaze upward every half hour.
The sky was dazzling, the clouds drifting in slow procession. A speck of black caught her attention.
Her eyes widened. "Is that... an owl?"
The hoot of an owl echoed over the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon. The sound was steady, the beat of its wings betraying an experienced courier bird.
The underbrush of Stoat Hill stirred as weasels and goblins scattered.
The Diggory household lay quiet under the summer sun, where even the smallest noises carried clearly. The owl folded its wings and settled upon a beech branch in the back garden, waiting.
Footsteps sounded on the stone path—a tall, handsome young man appeared, dressed in a bright yellow Quidditch robe. A broomstick rested easily in his hand, leather boots dusted from use, his brow damp with sweat.
"It's been a while, Nibs," Cedric greeted warmly.
The owl dipped its head and dropped a parchment envelope into his hand.
"Here's the supply list... let's see."
He broke the Hogwarts seal and scanned past the formal notices, heading straight to the list of textbooks. "Magical Drafts and Potions, Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3, Intermediate Transfiguration..."
Last year it had been Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and Elementary Transfiguration.
Cedric's interest lay more in the electives than the required subjects.
"Unfogging the Future, The Rune Dictionary, A Beginner's Guide to Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies..." His eyes lingered on the last line, brow arched in surprise. "The Muggle Studies textbook has not yet been completed and will be distributed by Professor Melvin Lewynter after the start of term."
"A new professor..."
Before he could finish, more wings beat overhead. The brush crackled as three or four more owls swept over Stoat Hill and disappeared toward the Burrow.
Cedric smiled faintly. With four of the Weasley children at Hogwarts this year, term promised to be lively indeed.
The Leaky Cauldron sat quietly on Charing Cross Road, its narrow frontage and faded sign easily overlooked by passing Muggles. Founded in the sixteenth century, the inn had served as a gateway between London's magical and non-magical worlds for nearly five centuries—longer even than the International Statute of Secrecy itself. For two hundred years, it had hosted both wizard and Muggle alike, and if its walls could speak, they would tell a thousand stories.
Of course, the current proprietor, Old Tom, bore no relation to Daisy Dodderidge, the witch who had opened the pub.
"Daisy Dodderidge..." Melvin Lewynter murmured, seated in a shadowed corner, studying the faded oil portraits on the walls. Their once-vibrant hues had dulled to gray, though the faint shimmer of enchantments lingered upon the canvas. Once, perhaps, the witch within had laughed and spoken with patrons.
He sipped his mojito. Refreshing, light, surprisingly good. Not at all what he expected here.
The food was the same—far better than stereotypes suggested. The fish and chips were crisp and flavorful, the soups hearty, and no ghastly experiments with eel or fish heads in sight.
The inn offered rooms upstairs as well—clean, spacious, with hot water around the clock. Tom was welcoming and well-informed, always eager to help.
And yet Melvin preferred a nearby chain hotel. The Leaky Cauldron's atmosphere carried a heaviness he could not quite shake. Its old furniture was cracked and worn, its wood darkened by years of grease and neglect. A peculiar, unshakable smell lingered in every corner.
At the bar, Old Tom leaned against the counter, a newspaper spread open, chatting idly with two elderly witches.
On the cover of the Daily Prophet, a bold headline blared:
"Superior Versus Subordinate: Dolores Umbridge, Head of the Office for Improper Use of Magic, Rebukes Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Wizengamot Vote on Muggle Studies Looms."
The article was already several days old.
Convincing the Examinations Authority had been one hurdle, but things had not gone as smoothly afterward. Dolores Umbridge had appeared suddenly, leading a faction of pure-blood traditionalists who insisted that curriculum changes required Ministry sanction.
Marchbanks, unmoved, had referred the matter to a Wizengamot vote.
Now, the Prophet reported that Dumbledore himself had spoken first in support of reform, followed by Madam Marchbanks, with many members in agreement. Umbridge's protests were dismissed. Amelia Bones had formally announced the issue settled, and Minister Fudge, as usual, had refrained from comment.
"Dumbledore supports it, yet Umbridge dares oppose him? That pink toad doesn't know what she's about," Old Tom snorted.
"That's right!" one of the old witches at his elbow agreed. "Since when does the Ministry meddle in Hogwarts' business?"
"That's right!" echoed the other.
Tom chuckled, his face creased like a walnut, and turned the page. His eyes lit with sudden interest as he began to read aloud.
"Why Do Witches War Among Themselves? The Roots of Wizengamot Division. Rita Skeeter Reports: The Stirring Words of New Muggle Studies Professor Melvin Lewynter—'I Have a Dream.'"
The journalist had transcribed his speech word for word:
"A thousand years ago, four great wizards founded Hogwarts. Today, we gather here in their legacy. The castle has stood as a beacon, guiding countless young witches and wizards lost in shadow. Its light was a dawn that ended the long night of ignorance. And yet, two millennia on, we face the truth: ignorance endures..."
Old Tom leaned closer, fascinated.
From his corner, Melvin listened quietly, unseen. It was no great surprise that Skeeter had infiltrated the Ministry meeting. Still, the publication was useful—it confirmed his suspicions, and it gave him something he could use.
"The soul of a wizard..." he mused, draining the last of his glass.
By the time Tom finished reading, the young professor had slipped away unnoticed.
Melvin passed through the rear of the pub, pausing at a shabby bin that concealed an oddly warm brick. The enchantments were simple—Muggle-Repelling and mild Confundus layered over an Extension Charm and minor transfiguration. Effective, if not subtle.
He tapped the brick with his wand. The wall stirred, bricks folding away to reveal a widening archway. Beyond stretched the bustling artery of wizarding London—Diagon Alley.
He wandered into Flourish and Blotts, shelves stacked high with magical tomes. The manager greeted him eagerly.
"Professor Lewynter! At last. I read your speech—so earnest, so well-reasoned, truly inspiring. Our shop has long supplied Hogwarts. Whatever texts you select, rare or common, we can guarantee steady stock and annual replenishment."
Melvin remained unreadable. His instincts told him the man's emotions were not quite as genuine as his smile suggested.
He lifted a book from the shelf—a finely bound volume.
"Mundane Philosophy: Why Muggles Do Not Seek the Truth," the manager supplied quickly. "An insightful work by Modix Egger, once a professor of Muggle Studies here. It explores the curious phenomenon of Muggles ignoring the evidence of magic, blind and deaf as the three monkeys upon the cover."
Melvin flipped to the final page.
Publisher: Dust and Mold Press.
Date of Publication: 1 September, 1969.
The manager faltered, eyes sliding away.
"Twenty years in your storeroom," Melvin observed quietly. "Gathering dust and mold, as the publisher's name suggests."
"It is their way, sir. Dust and Mold does not chase bestsellers. They seek only truth."
Melvin's mouth twitched faintly. "Indeed? And their most recent publication?"
"They... went bankrupt."
"...I see."
He leafed through the rest. Books on Muggles were sparse—outdated science texts, shallow cultural studies, or dry autobiographies. A handful of journals offered quality research, but not enough for coursework. The war had left British magical society cautious, inward-looking.
The manager hesitated. "If you've not found suitable material, we keep additional stock in the basement—"
"No need."
Melvin set aside a recent magazine. Its headline read: "Preparing Witches for Life in the Muggle World," by Kerrydee Burbage.
After a moment's thought, he turned back. "Can you acquire Muggle publications?"
"...Yes, of course."
"Then tell me—have you heard of the Children's Encyclopedia?"
The Leaky Cauldron in History
The Leaky Cauldron was founded by Daisy Dodderidge in the early sixteenth century at Number 1, Diagon Alley.
When the International Statute of Secrecy was enacted in 1692, Minister Ulric Gamp permitted the inn to remain open. In gratitude, the Leaky Cauldron introduced a new brew: Gamp's Old Social Ale. It tasted so foul that, even with a reward of one hundred Galleons, no witch or wizard could finish a pint.
By the late nineteenth century, the Muggle government planned to rebuild Charing Cross Road. Then-Minister Faris Spavin, honoring the Statute, refused to intervene. But the wizards of Diagon Alley acted themselves, casting mass Memory Charms upon all involved, even infiltrating the Prime Minister's residence to alter blueprints.
Thus, the Leaky Cauldron was saved.