The conversation in the office had concluded.
The desk was littered with an assortment of candies and biscuits, surrounded by a pile of unwrapped boxes. The young professor showed no hesitation in displaying his generosity. Under his hospitality, the exhausted and famished star reporter looked visibly revitalized, her fear and anger somewhat eased. The scene resembled a warm gathering of host and guest.
Rita Skeeter swallowed the last crumbs with a gulp of pumpkin juice, managing to sate her hunger halfway.
Truth be told, in moments like these, she craved something heartier—like meat or the apple pie in the box nearby. But as a recently freed prisoner of a bottle, she wasn't in a position to make demands.
The ouroboros tattoo on her inner arm still felt strange.
Across from her, the young professor sat with his eyes closed, seemingly attuned to the mark.
Melvin could sense Rita's scrutinizing gaze but paid it no mind, immersed in his own world. His magic extended toward an unknown direction, unbound by space or coordinates, less a physical place and more an abstract realm. His consciousness flowed with his magic, perceiving a boundless void filled with indistinct gray mist, devoid of tangible forms.
In some areas, silver light shimmered—some dim, others bright.
His consciousness drifted toward them, and familiar images surfaced in his mind: the foot of Mount Greylock, Broadway in New York, the entrance to the Woolworth Building—these were dim. The outskirts of Hogsmeade, the boundary between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, and Charing Cross Road—these glowed brightly.
"Apparition anchors?" Melvin murmured, a spark of understanding dawning.
In this misty magical perception, amidst scattered silver glimmers, one symbol stood out sharply: a constantly spinning ouroboros. Melvin's consciousness sank into its radiant light.
Rita felt the snake tattoo on her arm grow hot. Rolling up her sleeve, she saw the once-blurry pattern sharpening rapidly, its scales emerging vividly, as if a real snake were embedded in her arm, ready to slither out.
"You're panicking, Rita. I can feel it," Melvin said, his tone probing, eyes still closed. His question stemmed purely from magical curiosity. "We've already struck a deal. What are you afraid of?"
Rita's body tensed slightly. "The last person to do this was the Dark Lord."
As a seasoned reporter who'd covered Death Eater trials, Rita knew the purpose of the Dark Mark and had her suspicions about this strange snake tattoo.
The ouroboros wasn't just etched into her skin—it connected to her soul. Beyond sensing basic emotions, it could pinpoint her location. If the professor wished, he could summon her instantly or Apparate to her side.
Melvin opened his eyes, his unsettling black pupils glinting before softening into a smile. "I'm not some pure-blood supremacist plotting a bloody purge. My collaboration with a unique witch like you, Ms. Skeeter, just needed a little insurance. That's all."
Rita took a deep breath. "What do you want me to do?"
"For now, nothing. Return to your life, do your usual work," Melvin said softly. "Report the news, write your articles, attend banquets with high-ranking officials and pure-blood families, and gather any information you deem valuable."
"…"
"By the way, the Daily Prophet is planning a big story. If you head back now, you might snag a lead writer spot from Editor Cuffe," Melvin added with a slight smile.
"…"
Rita felt no relief. She sat silently for a moment, her arm with the tattoo tensing. "So… I can leave?"
"Non-staff staying for Christmas need to apply with the headmaster in advance."
With a wave of his hand, Melvin opened the window, letting clear daylight flood the room.
Rita stared at the snowy scene outside, dazed. She remembered transforming into a beetle that autumn night, only to emerge from the bottle now in late December.
After a moment of distraction, she stood, approached the window, turned back into a beetle, and plunged into the wintry white.
…
Following Madam Pomfrey's instructions, Hermione, Cho, and Marietta stood around the hospital bed with vials of potion.
Cho shook the Mandrake-draught potion to mix it evenly, uncorking it to release a yellowish-green mist that drifted from the bottle and dissipated into the ward.
It smelled earthy, not foul but far from pleasant.
Marietta wrinkled her nose. Hermione's gaze held curiosity, while Cho remained composed, glancing at the vial and then at Harry on the bed. She carefully brought the potion to his eyes.
Harry's gaze was frozen in the moment he faced the basilisk, his expression tinged with lingering terror, his green eyes dull and lifeless.
As the potion dripped into his eyes, they twitched shut, as if shifting from petrification to sleep.
"…"
Under the three witches' watchful eyes, Harry's eyelashes fluttered, and he finally opened his eyes.
His green eyes regained their spark.
Cho, acting as a mediwitch assistant, handed him a glass of water from the bedside table, asking gently, "Harry, how do you feel?"
Harry didn't respond right away. His body ached as if he'd endured two weeks of Quidditch training under Wood's relentless drills. His throat burned like he'd swallowed hot coals. The water soothed his parched body, slowly easing the pain.
Only then did he take in his surroundings.
The white decor marked this as the hospital wing—a place he knew well.
To his left was Hermione, watching him with concern. Next to her stood Marietta, the drama club leader Neville and Ron had mentioned. Closest to him was Cho Chang from Ravenclaw.
Her long, glossy black hair cascaded over her shoulders, its ends slightly curled. Her dark eyes were mysterious yet elegant, and her smile curved like the crescent moon seen in Astronomy class—gentle yet lively.
Despite his discomfort, Harry couldn't help but notice how strikingly pretty she was. When she handed him the empty glass, her slight smile sent his heart racing.
He was pretty sure that wasn't related to his injuries.
"Harry! We defeated the basilisk! And Lockhart too!" Hermione said brightly, assuming he'd want to hear what happened next. She rambled on.
"No one expected Lockhart to be a memory-stealing fraud. Thank goodness for Marietta."
"Professor McGonagall reached the Chamber and had us brought to the hospital wing. Professor Levent sourced Mandrakes from Budapest, and Madam Pomfrey and Snape are still brewing more potions."
"Madam Pomfrey planned to wait until all the potion was ready to revive the petrified students, but after we begged, she gave us a few vials early. Luckily, the application is simple."
"The other two vials are with George and Fred—they're using them to wake Percy and Ron. They didn't go home for Christmas either."
As Hermione spoke, cheers from the Weasley twins echoed nearby, followed by Percy's stern reprimand to keep it down in the hospital wing, then Ron's yelp and Ginny's faint sobs.
Cho and Marietta exchanged a glance and smiled. "You must have a lot to catch up on. We'll leave you to it," Cho said.
As they left, Cho's parting nod and radiant smile outshone the winter sun. "See you."
"See you…" Harry murmured, feeling a pang of loss as their lively chatter faded, leaving him with just the noise.
…
December 23rd, one day before Christmas.
Melvin woke in his bedroom. The air was warm and dry, the fireplace reduced to a pile of ash and embers. A white snake was coiled in a wizard's hat by the bedside, its head tucked under its tail.
He opened the window for fresh air, then washed up and changed.
As he stepped out of the bathroom, the young snake stirred, flicking its tongue rapidly to sense its surroundings. It raised half its body, head tilting toward him.
"Hiss…"
The sound came from air rushing through its throat and mouth.
Unlike other snakes, which lacked vocal organs and could only make such noises, Horned Serpents could speak human languages. This hatchling, nearly a week old, still only hissed, unable to form even basic sounds like "ah" or "oh."
Was it mute?
What a headache.
Melvin sighed, tucking the snake into his pocket.
"Hiss?" The white snake poked its head out, its expressionless face somehow conveying confusion.
"You wouldn't understand even if I told you," Melvin said, pressing it back down. "I'll ask Professors Kettleburn and Hagrid later. When do magical creatures start talking? Surely it's not a year or two? Wonder how Hagrid taught Aragog…"
"Hiss hiss…"
The snake, still clueless, mimicked his tone with airy hisses.
The room, warmed by the fire all night, was dry. The snake's scales felt cool and smooth. Melvin gave it an extra pat. "Once you learn to talk, in a couple of years, I'll send you to school. Can't have you ending up like your mum, hundreds of years old and still an illiterate snake who can't explain a single magical principle."
"Hiss!"
The snake didn't understand but, with its prophetic Horned Serpent instincts, hissed a warning.
During the holidays, Melvin was a bit lazy, dawdling through his morning routine. Delayed further by Yorm, he left his bedroom late. The house-elves, assuming he'd skipped the Great Hall, had sent breakfast to his office.
Hogwarts' holiday breakfast was hearty. The elves, knowing his preferences, prepared milk, eggs, bread, bacon, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, and a jar of raspberry jam.
Melvin sat at the desk as Yorm slithered out of his pocket, climbing up his arm to the table.
Seeing its curious gaze, Melvin grabbed a teacup, tore off half a strip of bacon, peeled an egg, and—considering the snake's size—cut a small piece with a spoon, offering it to Yorm.
Horned Serpents didn't eat much in their first days, likely sustained by nutrients from their egg. But now, it seemed ready to try food. It buried its head in the cup, tongue flicking to explore.
When it touched the bacon, it recoiled in distaste, turning to the egg instead.
Melvin chuckled, using breakfast time to check his mail.
International letters and parcels, especially from far-off places, sometimes arrived a day or two early for Christmas. With many friends overseas, early deliveries were common.
The first letter bore the seal of the Magical Congress of the USA, from Principal Fontana. The front page carried Christmas greetings.
It asked about his well-being and mentioned the Triwizard Tournament. At a recent New York wizarding gathering, Fontana had spoken with Madame Maxime from Beauxbatons, who showed no interest in reviving the tournament. Durmstrang's Headmaster Karkaroff was more open but wanted to wait two years until their star athlete, Viktor Krum, came of age.
Melvin's smile widened. Who said champions had to be of age?
The next letter was from his assistant, Claire.
Ignoring two pages of complaints and rants, the final half-page got to the point:
"…Paris Disneyland opened on April 12. I applied some of your theater magic techniques to the park, and the effects were a hit—guest feedback was phenomenal. I've been promoted to Vice President and Creative Director of Imagineering.
The pay and benefits are beyond my wildest dreams!
Boss! My boss! If I stay here any longer, I might actually have to resign!"
Melvin sipped his milk, grinning as he set the letter aside to reply later.
Creative Director, Vice President—perfect. Let Disney's environment and salary nurture his subordinate.
As he reached for the next letter, a pat pat sound interrupted him. Turning, he saw Yorm slapping the table with its tail.
The snake lay sprawled, its midsection bulging.
Judging by the shape, it had swallowed the rest of the egg.
Melvin stifled a laugh. He'd cut a small piece for the snake's size, but the greedy Horned Serpent had gulped down the remaining half while he was distracted.
Yorm lay limp, its mouth agape, revealing pink gums. It probably wanted to groan, but its stuffed stomach made even hissing difficult.
Melvin felt a pang of sympathy but had no solution. He couldn't exactly rub its belly. All he could do was watch, his lips curving with concern.
He had a digestion potion in his drawer, but he wasn't sure it'd work on a Horned Serpent—or how to administer it if it did.
"Hiss hiss," Melvin mimicked, voicing its distress.
Yorm's black eyes rolled, exuding resignation.
"…"
Melvin shook his head and opened the next letter.
Seeing the name and address, he was mildly surprised. The third letter was from Mr. Graves.
Melvin Levent,
Hey, it's me, your old friend, Auror Graves. I can picture your shocked face right now—I debated a long time before writing this, but I figured you ought to know.
Before Halloween, we uncovered clues and raided a New Salemers hideout in Mexico. We rescued three young wizards, but it's not looking good. After illegally using Veritaserum on Muggle captives, we learned this was just one base. The New Salemers aren't only in Mexico—they've got traces in other countries too…
Melvin flipped through the pages.
Graves believed Melvin, who'd first raised the alarm, deserved to know the case's progress. Limited by MACUSA's confidentiality rules, he couldn't say much, only that Madame Maxime had spotted their activity in the Pyrenees.
It seemed Graves had attended that New York wizarding gathering too.
I'll track them down, I swear it on the Graves name.
Lastly, Merry Christmas.