December 21, 1992, Winter Solstice
Thestral-drawn carriages waited below the entrance hall steps, their hooves leaving prints in the snow. Young witches and wizards lined up to board, heading toward Hogsmeade Station, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express puffed steam into the air. Today was the day students left for the Christmas holidays.
"Goodbye, Professor!"
"Happy Christmas in advance!"
"Merry Christmas…"
Students lugging suitcases passed by, calling out cheerful farewells to the professors. Their voices were light, faces beaming with bright smiles and anticipation for the break.
Even the usually stern Professor McGonagall's lips curved slightly as she bid the students goodbye, not forgetting to remind them of holiday precautions: no magic outside school, no dangerous antics.
"Lucky little bunch, going home for Christmas," Professor Flitwick said in his high-pitched voice. "The kids in the hospital wing are still stuck in bed, spending Christmas at school. This year's feast will be lively!"
The Visumirror Club's trade network was running smoothly. Old Will and Burke had delivered Mandrake roots from Budapest to Hogwarts in just two days.
The raw materials were secured, but brewing the potion took time.
Snape, Madam Pomfrey, and Sprout, assisting on the side, were working on antidotes for over thirty petrified students. Even without eating or sleeping, they couldn't keep up. The students remained petrified for now.
McGonagall's faint smile faded, her expression turning serious as she considered. "They should all be unpetrified by Christmas Eve. If any students don't want to stay at school, we'll arrange to escort them home."
"That's going to keep us busy," Flitwick muttered.
"I'll ask the headmaster to open the school's Floo network—it won't be too much trouble. These accidents happened at school, and as professors, we're responsible."
"Fine, fine, you're the deputy headmistress, after all!"
"…"
Melvin, standing nearby, waved off a group of fourth-year students with a gentle smile and a nod. He casually pressed a tiny snake back into his coat pocket, as if he hadn't heard McGonagall.
Responsibility?
What responsibility?
It's all Lockhart's fault.
As they chatted and saw off the departing students, a few clear voices rang out minutes later.
"Good morning, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Levent…"
Hermione, Marietta, and Cho approached, dressed in their house robes—similar in style but distinguished by their house colors and badges. Gryffindor's red and gold, Ravenclaw's blue and bronze.
At thirteen or fourteen, they radiated youthful vitality, if not outright beauty.
After the Chamber incident, the three seemed to have become friends, their bond visibly strong.
Melvin noticed they carried no luggage and raised an eyebrow. "Not going home for Christmas?"
"We were going to, but we asked Professor McGonagall to let us stay," Hermione said, flashing a grin that showed her front teeth. "We heard Harry, Neville, and the others will wake up before Christmas, so we want to stay and spend it with them."
"I see…"
Melvin instinctively reached into his pocket, paused, then withdrew his hand casually. "Professor Snape and the others are rushing to brew the antidote. It'll be ready in a day or two—won't take long."
"…"
Hermione caught the motion, expecting him to pull out candy or something, but nothing came. Curious, she glanced at his pocket.
His mid-length woolen coat, thickened for winter, resembled a standard wizarding robe with slanted pockets for hands or small items like keys.
From past observations, she knew Professor Levent carried a small object with an Undetectable Extension Charm—likely a pouch or wallet, perfect for holding things like candy.
Normally, his pockets lay flat due to the charm, but today, one pocket bulged slightly, as if holding something not stored in the charmed space.
What could he need to carry so close, yet not in the charmed container?
As Hermione studied it suspiciously, a tiny head poked out—no bigger than a thumb, with glossy black eyes and a short horn on its forehead.
Girl and snake locked eyes, staring blankly.
The tiny snake, flustered, slipped back into the pocket.
Hermione's eyes widened, her face full of disbelief.
"If you're bored at school, you can help Professor Flitwick decorate the Great Hall or assist Hagrid with the Christmas trees," Melvin said smoothly, changing the subject. "I've got a meeting at The Three Broomsticks, so I'll head off. See you."
As he strode out of the castle, Cho and Marietta exchanged puzzled looks. Why did the professor seem in such a hurry?
Hermione opened her mouth but said nothing.
…
With Christmas a few days away, Hogsmeade was steeped in festive cheer.
Aside from the Hog's Head, still sporting its grim pig-head sign, shops were decked with red ribbons, star-and-moon ornaments, and holly and mistletoe in their windows. The vibrant decorations contrasted beautifully with the snow blanketing the streets and rooftops.
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop had a massive bow on its sign, and the street near Honeydukes was filled with sweet aromas.
Melvin pushed open the door to The Three Broomsticks, a wave of warm air laced with alcohol hitting him. His coat pocket wiggled slightly—Ulm, the tiny snake, seemed unaccustomed to the sudden warmth.
Outside, snow swirled; inside, the fireplace blazed.
A few patrons chatted at the first-floor bar. With Christmas nearing, many wizards were on holiday with little to do, so they came to The Three Broomsticks to join the morning bustle.
On the second floor, the Visumirror was showing an England national team practice match, occasional cheers erupting after a goal.
After a year and a half, wizards had grown used to the Visumirror. The initial novelty had faded, and while it still drew crowds, without new content, only diehard Quidditch fans remained as enthusiastic as before.
"Mead and Firewhisky…"
Madam Rosmerta handed drinks to patrons, chatting briefly before spotting the young professor. She smiled brightly. "Professor Levent, what'll it be?"
"Mead, please."
"Here to see Mr. Cuffe?"
"He's here already?"
"Been here a while, waiting on the third floor." Rosmerta set the mead on a tray and led Melvin upstairs, not because he didn't know the way, but to fish for gossip. "I heard Slytherin's Chamber opened again, with heavy student casualties. Is it true?"
Melvin laughed, shaking his head. "Where'd you hear that nonsense? They'll all recover in a couple of days and have a happy Christmas."
"So the Chamber did open!" Rosmerta's eyes widened, excited.
"Yes, I'm meeting Mr. Cuffe to discuss it. It might hit the papers tonight."
"It must've been a thrilling adventure!"
"Something like that."
"Will it be shown on the Visumirror this holiday?"
"No plans for that," Melvin said, dousing her hopes. "No time, and some things still need sorting."
Rosmerta's face fell. The last screening had been unforgettable, earning her years' worth of profits in one holiday.
She wanted to pry more, but they'd reached the third floor, where the publisher's representative waited. Reluctantly, she handed over the mead and returned to the bar.
Melvin turned to the middle-aged wizard who'd been waiting, offering a polite smile. "Mr. Cuffe, it's been a while."
Barnabas Cuffe, editor of The Daily Prophet, looked much as he had at their last meeting. His light brown eyes, set in deep sockets, gave his gaze a cryptic depth. His prominent hooked nose stood out, and his peaked-lapel robe was impeccably pressed, its collar crisp, adorned with subtle quill patterns.
Wizards, sustained by magic, aged slowly. Powerful ones could live two or three centuries, and even average wizards, barring ailments like Dragon Pox, often reached over a hundred. Aging showed mostly in graying hair and beards.
Cuffe stood to shake hands. "Professor Levent, good to see you."
"You look a bit tired, Mr. Cuffe."
"It's a long story…"
Cuffe sat back down, sighing. "One of our top journalists has gone missing for months—no word, no drafts. She's a signed author with our publishing house, but her manuscript's stalled too."
"…"
Melvin sipped his mead. Tasty.
"If it were just a breach of contract, fine, but we're worried something's happened to her."
"Maybe she's off chasing inspiration, cutting contact. Lockhart treks to remote places, doesn't he? Writers do that," Melvin offered sincerely. "Don't worry too much—she'll probably turn up soon."
"Merlin willing, let's hope so."
Cuffe sighed, setting aside his gloom to get to business. "Speaking of Lockhart, I heard he's in a locked ward at St. Mungo's. Your letter mentioned Slytherin's Chamber reopening—what happened at Hogwarts?"
Melvin began recounting a carefully edited version of events.
The story started fifty years ago with an old case. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and a friend of the gamekeeper, learned of the incident. Despite evidence against Hagrid, Harry believed in his friend and rallied a few classmates to uncover the truth.
After twists and turns, with help from a ghost and an Acromantula, they found Slytherin's Chamber.
"They knew that telling a professor would bring a perfect end to their adventure, clearing Hagrid's name and ensuring a happy Christmas…
"But no one expected they'd first turn to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—a famed adventurer who, in truth, was a fraud who stole others' memories and claimed their glory.
"Lockhart, wanting to hog the credit but fearing he couldn't handle the Basilisk, tricked dozens of young witches and wizards into the Chamber as bait."
With embellishments and omissions, Melvin left out his own guidance and the Parseltongue detail, pinning everything on Lockhart.
"The students showed incredible courage and wit, uniting to defeat both the Basilisk and Lockhart."
"…"
Cuffe listened quietly, his expression growing serious as he sifted through key details: Slytherin's Chamber, a thousand-year-old monster, a fifty-year-old mystery, and Drama Club students vanquishing the Basilisk.
Each was headline-worthy.
A series of features could keep The Daily Prophet's sales soaring for a year.
As editor, Cuffe was seasoned, quickly spotting gaps in Melvin's vague account. He knew some details were deliberately withheld but pressed anyway.
"Professor Levent, I have a few questions."
"Go ahead."
Cuffe paused, choosing his words. "What was Salazar Slytherin's purpose in building the Chamber?"
"He's been gone a millennium—who knows?" Melvin shook his head, echoing his line to Dumbledore. "No one's died in a thousand years. Myrtle's death was an accident."
"How was the Chamber opened?"
"That… can't be disclosed yet."
"Who opened it fifty years ago?"
"Can't say that either."
"Was the Basilisk killed?"
"…"
Cuffe got answers, yet none at all.
A shrewd editor, he understood the art of journalism and had once been the Ministry's mouthpiece. He recognized this as a nudge to control the narrative's slant.
So he asked directly, "Professor Levent, how do you want us to report this?"
"First, no negative impact on the school. Parents shouldn't blame Hogwarts—it was an accident, and no students died," Melvin said, having planned this. "Second, protect Salazar Slytherin's image. The Chamber and Basilisk exist, but the idea of targeting Muggle-born students is baseless rumor. They're a valuable legacy, misused by a misguided dark wizard fifty years ago, causing that tragedy.
"Report it objectively, without bias, so wizards don't misunderstand the founder.
"Finally, Gilderoy Lockhart—he used despicable, deceitful means to steal others' adventures for fame and fortune. He bears primary responsibility for this incident."
"…"
Melvin's face was stern. "This isn't just my stance—it's Hogwarts' position."
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