The kerosene lamp flickered softly, its light dancing in the bright eyes of the young witch, her long lashes casting delicate shadows. Hermione stood silently, staring at the professor before her, his wand gently pressed against her forehead.
"No need to worry," Melvin said, his voice slow and soothing. "This isn't Legilimency. I'm not prying into your private thoughts. I'm just borrowing your memories of investigating the Philosopher's Stone and navigating the trials. Just focus on recalling those moments clearly…"
Hermione's mind drifted to the key moments: Hagrid mentioning Nicolas Flamel; setting fire to a professor's robes during a Quidditch match; poring over books with her friends to piece together clues; reading about Dumbledore on a Chocolate Frog card; leaping through the trapdoor and facing the professors' challenges…
A silvery glow shimmered in her eyes. She felt a gentle wave of magic flow from Melvin's wand into her temple, warm and comforting, like the presence of a unicorn. A faint tug followed, as if something soft was being drawn out.
A wisp of silvery mist emerged, its edges indistinct. Guided by the wand, it floated into a glass vial, sealed with a rubber stopper. The mist swirled lightly inside, faintly revealing blurred figures.
Hermione watched his movements, blinking. "That's it?"
"Done," Melvin confirmed.
"But I can still remember everything."
"Extracting a memory isn't like an Obliviation Charm. Think of it as copying a film—the original stays in your head. If you lot had already learned to extract memories yourselves, I wouldn't have needed to step in."
"I see…" Hermione said, processing.
Melvin tucked the vial into his pocket. The other two students and Hagrid were lost in their own recollections, their expressions distant.
Hermione wasn't the only one whose memories were copied. Harry's included his first-person Quidditch perspective, a near brush with sabotage, discovering the Mirror of Erised during a nighttime roam, and observing Quirrell in class. Ron's were mostly about unwrapping Chocolate Frogs. Hagrid's centered on the attack at the Hog's Head and being deceived.
The memories would need editing later.
The room fell quiet. Unnoticed, the baby dragon, Norbert, cracked open an eye. Waking from its slumber, its gaze locked onto Melvin.
"Har!" Norbert spat a burst of flame straight at his face, but the fire dissipated midair.
Melvin tapped its head with his wand, and the groggy dragonling shut its eyes, slumping back into a daze.
The sudden commotion snapped the others out of their reverie.
Ron stared, stunned. Norbert's mischief used to be limited to biting—Ron had been nipped once, its venomous teeth causing a few days of swelling but no lasting harm, even excusing him from homework. Now, it was spitting fire. He couldn't imagine surviving a blast.
The others, too, were reminded of a dragon's danger, their hearts pounding.
"Professor, is there a way to make Norbert less dangerous?" Hermione asked, her voice clear but tense. "I read about the Undetectable Extension Charm. It could create a separate space for Norbert where it can breathe fire safely. Wizards like Newt Scamander used it to house animals, though he caused two incidents in New York."
"And that's why Newt Scamander's banned from multiple wizarding governments and was hunted by MACUSA for weeks," Melvin said sternly. "Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest aren't suited for raising dragons. The Extension Charm won't cut it either, and private individuals or unofficial groups aren't allowed to keep dragons. As a law-abiding wizard, I won't help Hagrid break the law."
"Then what do we do?" Hermione pressed.
"Send Norbert away," Melvin replied.
Hagrid choked back a sob, tears welling up. "Poor little fella…"
Melvin glanced at Hagrid, who towered over him even seated, and sighed. "Not to the wild—sent somewhere safe."
"Where?" Hagrid perked up, hopeful.
"The Carpathians," Melvin said, pausing for effect. "The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. The climate's perfect for dragons to grow and thrive. Professional keepers will look after Norbert, and other Norwegian Ridgebacks will teach it to hunt and fly."
"Romania? Charlie's there!" Ron's eyes widened, incredulous that his brother's involvement had circled back like this after everything.
No one paid him much mind. Hermione frowned. "Even if Romania can take Norbert, it's not registered with the Ministry. Transporting a dragon illegally is a crime, isn't it?"
Hagrid nodded. When it came to magical creatures, he knew the law—and that he was breaking it. Without registration, legal transport routes like the Floo Network, monitored by the Department of Magical Transportation, or official Portkeys were off-limits. Cross-country, let alone cross-continental, transport couldn't rely on wizards Apparating in stages.
"I've got a friend who owns a pub and has private Portkey channels," Melvin said. "From Hogsmeade via Birmingham, two jumps to Romania." He gestured as if lecturing, outlining smuggling logistics with unnerving detail. "If you're uneasy about Portkeys, there's a grocer's shipping route: Hogsmeade to London, then a ferry across the English Channel, through France and Belgium… Nice has an underground black-market port, and Brașov has a private magical trade hub. It avoids every European Ministry. No one will trace it back to you."
Hagrid mentally noted the market locations.
Hermione was floored. "Smuggling? The Dragon Sanctuary allows smuggling?"
"The Romanian trade network spans the globe," Melvin explained. "Some of it's legitimate, some isn't. Tons of dragon-related materials—dragon dung for disposal, blood from territorial fights that pollutes soil, shed scales, teeth—get traded yearly. As long as the dragons aren't harmed, Ministries turn a blind eye. The Sanctuary needs revenue too."
The three students were dumbfounded, barely believing it.
"If you're still worried, contact Charlie Weasley," Melvin added. "Easter holidays are coming. He can arrange for a colleague to handle transport."
"No need. We'll use the Portkey," Hermione decided firmly, channeling McGonagall's authority.
Hagrid, like a scolded student eager to make amends, didn't object.
Night deepened as they left Hagrid's hut, walking along the path toward the castle, its candlelit windows glowing in the distance. Curfew was still a ways off.
"You could've waited for Easter," Melvin said with a soft chuckle. "Norbert wouldn't be exposed in the meantime, and Hagrid could've had more time with it."
Hermione shot him a look, ignoring his teasing.
In the entrance hall, the trio bid Melvin goodnight and huddled to discuss the evening.
"All that fuss, and it lands on Charlie," Ron grumbled. "If we'd figured this out sooner, we wouldn't have had to sign that agreement to let him use our memories for his film."
Harry and Hermione squinted at him, questioning his intelligence.
"What's with those looks?" Ron asked, defensive.
"Ron, think about Quidditch!" Harry said, exasperated. "Even without Norbert, if the professor had just asked, we'd have agreed. At least Hermione and I would've."
Hermione nodded.
"Then why make it a condition?" Ron pressed.
"To teach Hagrid a lesson," Harry said, frustrated. Ron was brilliant at chess but hopeless at exams or serious matters.
Realization dawned on Ron, who lowered his voice. "Speaking of, Levent said Hagrid got expelled when he was at Hogwarts. Harry, do you know why?"
"No idea," Harry said, shaking his head.
Hermione's eyes glinted thoughtfully. "We could get Hagrid drunk and ask him…"
Harry and Ron fell silent, exchanging complicated glances.
Melvin said goodnight and returned to his office. The new memory footage needed editing. The script had been polished weeks ago, and his own memories were mostly processed. Now, he'd splice in the trio's and Hagrid's memories. Since subtitles weren't common in wizarding films, the project was nearly complete.
Having worked on stage productions before, Melvin was adept at editing, making quick work of it. The only snag was the soundtrack. He selected simple symphonies from composers dead over fifty years to avoid copyright issues. The versions in his memory, from theater concerts and records, might still pose a risk, but Muggle record companies couldn't sue him.
Since this was his first film, he wrote to Wright, asking him to connect with Celestina Warbeck for help. Owl post was slow but reliable, fitting the leisurely pace of wizarding life.
By the next evening, Melvin received Wright's reply—a short, distinctive letter:
"Eager to see your work soon, fellow traveler in the wizarding arts. Celestina sends her regards."
The ink, still damp from recent rain, carried a faint lavender scent. The handwriting was messy, almost rakish.
Melvin read it several times before opening the attached parcel. Inside were glass vials filled with silvery mist—Celestina's memories.
Before coming to Hogwarts, he'd brought a portable record player, but the school's busyness had kept it untouched, gathering dust in his suitcase. Now, the first music he'd hear at Hogwarts would be Celestina's, played through the Shadow Mirror.
He drew the mist with his wand, feeding it into the Mirror. Silver light flickered.
"Hoo… woo…" The banshee-like wail, tuned lower, had a gritty, vintage-speaker quality.
"You said you loved me, swore we'd never part…"
It was You Stole My Cauldron, But You Can't Have My Heart. A new album recorded on modern equipment, its melodies varied: some light and soothing with piano, others tense with rapid drums, or lingering with interwoven violins. Celestina had adapted the songs for different scenes.
Compared to Muggle music, her songs felt dated, even a bit rustic, but Melvin was glad he'd written that letter—and thrilled with the reply.
"Point your wand at my heart, say you love me true, but your spells always miss…"
Three Broomsticks, Third-Floor Room
Melvin stood by the window, admiring Hogsmeade's streets. Behind him, Hagrid, the burly half-giant, sat on an oversized chair, nervously wringing his hands.
Footsteps approached, and the door swung open.
"Professor, everything's set," said the newcomer.
"When do they leave?" Melvin asked.
"An hour from now. Ten-minute transit."
"Is someone arranged to receive them?"
"Don't worry. We've got a backup if Charlie Weasley slips up."
"Can the Shadow Mirror be sold there?"
"Someone contacted me through Budapest's dark magic market, but they won't sign a contract."
"Budapest?"
"Wizard supremacist territory."
Hagrid scratched his head. He knew the retired Auror—Old Wil, a former colleague of Mad-Eye Moody, who'd fought Death Eaters fearlessly until injury forced his retirement. Who'd have thought he'd have smuggling connections?
As Melvin and Wil huddled, whispering about inscrutable topics—ticket pricing, distribution cuts, screening schedules—Hagrid struggled to follow. The words were familiar, but together, they were gibberish.
Hagrid stroked the suitcase before him, his mind drifting. Inside were rats and barrels of chicken-blood Firewhisky for Norbert's journey, plus its favorite teddy bear. It wouldn't feel alone. The Forbidden Forest wasn't right for Norbert's growth. Romania, with Charlie and other dragons, would teach it dragon ways, like young wizards at Hogwarts. Hagrid hoped Norbert would have a happy childhood there, growing strong and joyful.
Before he finished his silent prayer, Old Wil grabbed the suitcase's handle, hoisted it with a rough, strong arm, and limped out without looking back.
Hagrid's nose stung, tears welling up at the thought of being parted forever, unsure if he'd see Norbert again.
"Wuh…" he sobbed.
Melvin winced. A fifty-year-old half-giant crying like a child was hard to watch. "You're Hogwarts' gamekeeper, part of Dumbledore's circle. What's with bawling like a little girl?"
"I can't help it…" Hagrid sniffled.
"Stop crying. I'll take you to Romania to see Norbert this summer."
"Really!?"