Neville did not know this professor well; he only knew that he taught elective subjects.
First-year students did not take elective subjects until the end of their second year, but his grandmother had already planned Neville's future courses. They were ambitious, demanding, and did not include Muggle Studies options.
Ten years earlier, Alice and Frank Longbottom had been captured by deranged Death Eaters and forced to reveal the whereabouts of Voldemort. Tortured until they lost their minds, they could not care for themselves and were confined to the locked wards of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, cared for by healers. The Longbottom family lost a famous pair of Aurors, and Neville lost his parents.
Since then, his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, had become his guardian.
For almost a decade, the elderly witch had constantly planned and dreamed of training him to become the most outstanding heir of the Longbottom family.
Neville clearly perceived this expectation, but could not meet it.
His talents were not exceptional, his magical powers had not awakened, and he showed no signs of magic. Neighbors and friends even suspected he was a squib.
This suspicion persisted until 1988.
On the summer solstice eve of that year, a month before Neville's birthday, Uncle Argyle accidentally threw eight-year-old Neville out of a window. In the moment of crisis, magical power erupted, and Neville bounced back like rubber, unharmed.
Grandmother Augusta rejoiced for months at his magical awakening, but only for a few months.
Neville's talent was mediocre, and he could barely cast spells correctly. The wand he inherited from his father, Frank, felt like a piece of dead wood in his hand, offering no response no matter how he waved it.
The Longbottom family's magical training proved ineffective, and Neville performed little better than a squib.
Finally, Augusta pinned her hopes on Hogwarts, hoping that this millennia-old school of magic could illuminate the Longbottom boy and guide him to become a great wizard who would restore the family's honor.
A week after starting school, Neville no longer saw such a possibility.
Professor McGonagall taught them to transmute matches into silver needles in their first class, but Neville still could not make them transmute. Professor Flitwick taught them the Fire Charm, but his wand did not even produce a spark, let alone the Potions class that almost burned him to the bone...
Neville felt he lacked Harry's talent and Hermione's intelligence. He was not interested in Transfiguration, Charms, or Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in the more mundane art of Herbology, finding comfort in caring for plants.
His grandmother and Uncle Argyle had urged him to write home weekly to report on school. That week's letter was already written and now lay in his desk drawer. Neville wrote about some interesting school events, telling them he had been sorted into Gryffindor and that his roommate was Harry Potter. He described dinner in the Great Hall and the castle stairs in detail but skipped over class details.
Perhaps he would never meet his grandmother's expectations, and with this realization, Neville simply wanted to spend his seven school years in peace.
"It turns out I know a very suitable spell for finding lost objects."
When Neville heard Professor Lewynter say this, he hesitated for a few seconds and asked quietly, "Is it the Summoning Charm?"
Born into the Twenty-Eight Pure-Blood families, Neville had been exposed to these spells since childhood. Although he did not master them, he understood their effects.
He hesitated to tell the professor that the Summoning Charm could be used to find the list, but it had a distance limit of about ten meters. If the professor cast it, it could extend hundreds of meters, probably reaching several adjacent classrooms.
But Neville no longer remembered where he had left the list. It could be in the infirmary, only a few dozen meters away, or it could be in the hallway stairs, the first-floor courtyard, the Potions classroom, the grounds outside the castle... thousands of meters or more.
"You also know this spell?"
Melvin raised an eyebrow. "Then cast the spell."
"I... don't know how." Neville was on the verge of tears again.
"You can learn if you don't know. I am the professor and you are the student." Melvin demonstrated the spell, speaking slowly, like a patient teacher. "Wave your wand, visualize your list mentally, point the tip of your wand where your intuition leads, and then chant: Summon the List."
On a night like this, in a situation like this, Neville suddenly found himself unable to refuse. He instinctively followed the professor's instructions, preparing to cast the spell.
He took his wand from his pocket. It was old, black-tung colored, inherited from his father. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, pointed the wand tip down the corridor, and shouted with determination:
[Summon the List].
Half a minute passed, and nothing happened.
Neville was even more frustrated, about to cry. After a week of failing to learn magic, he didn't blame the professor's teaching but his own magical aptitude. Disappointed, he even blamed himself for not telling the professor directly, wasting his time.
Melvin took two steps, came behind him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Neville's voice trembled again. "Professor, don't waste your time with me. I can't learn anything. I'm a squib."
Melvin did not comfort him but spoke calmly and gently: "Try again."
Neville wanted to refuse, but the words failed him. He raised his wand again and shouted: "Summon Manifestation!"
In an instant,
the evening breeze swept through the corridor stronger than ever, rattling windows and robes. It was as if all the air around the castle rushed into the hallway, threatening to collapse it.
Standing in the eye of the storm, Neville's first thought was that he had miscast the spell and gotten into trouble. His second thought was that he would be expelled from Hogwarts. This thought brought him a sense of relief. After all, he had no magical talent and shouldn't even have been at Hogwarts...
Absurd thoughts swirled, but in the end, a glimmer of joy took hold:
at least the spell had worked.
Neville quickly noticed the unusual force of the wind. The wind howled down the corridor, threatening to blow out windows. Professor Lewynter, standing beside him, showed no reaction. He waved his hand, and the fierce gust became soft and gentle.
Melvin even patted him on the shoulder, signaling him to wait.
Neville was unsure if it had calmed. His heart swirled with panic at the thought of expulsion and euphoria at the spell's success. He couldn't identify which emotion dominated, but his heart raced, and his face was red.
The magical wind whipped the corridor, swaying torches and oil lamps along the brick walls.
Dumbledore watched silently from behind the staircase, sipping his hot chocolate, oblivious to the movement of his silver beard, even feeling a bit of coolness.
The hallway wind suddenly subsided, and a crumpled, torn parchment floated toward him in an arc, landing in Neville's outstretched palm.