"Dear Harry, I'm thrilled to hear about your heroic deeds at Hogwarts. You may not know me, but I was a classmate of your parents—yes, James and Lily. I must say, you've inherited all their best qualities: a knack for Quidditch, fearless bravery, and a sharp mind that picks up on things others miss…"
Harry sat on his bed, buried in a sea of envelopes, reading a letter from Wiltshire with a grin he couldn't suppress.
Too bad his dorm mates weren't awake to share the excitement.
If it was just praise for him, he'd heard plenty lately and was almost tired of it. But this letter mentioned his mum and dad, saying he was like them, carrying all their strengths…
When it came to anything about his parents, Harry had no defenses. He read the letter over and over, piecing together glimpses of what James and Lily were like at school from someone else's words.
His dad, James, was incredibly brave, dazzling everyone with fancy Quidditch moves that sparked cheers from the crowd.
His mum, Lily, was a top student, her keen observation and skillful hands shining in Potions and Herbology, always earning professors' praise.
Guess I didn't inherit Mum's knack for Potions, Harry thought.
He carefully folded the letter, slipping it back into its envelope, when he noticed something else inside. Digging it out, he found a developed photo from their school days.
It looked old, taken in the Gryffindor Tower. Dozens of students were crammed together, surrounding the champion Quidditch team. The Seeker in the center held up a medal, face smeared with cream cake. In the corner stood a witch with thick, dark red hair, pale skin, and deep green eyes.
She looked a bit annoyed—probably Dad's fault, Harry mused, a warm feeling spreading through him, like his parents were right there with him.
"Whose letter is that?" Seamus called out from the next bed, spotting the sender and recipient details. "Harry! Fan mail!"
Dean perked up instantly. "Can I see?"
"Sure," Harry said. "Help me check if there are any photos of my parents in these. I've got too many letters to go through alone."
"Let me see, let me see!"
Ron started to climb over to join the fun but stopped when he noticed a letter by his own bed, addressed to him.
"…"
A few minutes later, Ron was sprawled on his back, feet propped on the bedframe, grinning like an idiot as he read praise about his bravery and quick thinking. He wiggled on the bed like a giddy worm.
This witch was a Gryffindor too!
She played wizard chess!
Probably a smart, gentle young witch—wonder if she's pretty, Ron thought, chuckling to himself.
Too bad these witches had already graduated, and he was just a first-year with no chance to meet them face-to-face. Maybe that was for the best. Once he grew taller and his freckles faded a bit, he could hold a fan meet-up.
He imagined wizards idolizing him, a world-famous wizard chess club recruiting him, Charlie's Chudley Cannons coach begging him to join, and the Diagon Alley ice cream shop owner treating him to free sundaes… Ron buried his face in his pillow, unable to stop giggling.
His stomach was starting to ache from it.
Then he pictured upper-year witches admiring him, greeting him warmly in the corridors, inviting him to study in the library or play chess. It was like the vision in the Mirror of Erised coming true—a perfect school life.
"Heh heh…"
Ron wiggled again, lost in his daydream.
But mid-laugh, his face froze. He sat up, schooling his expression, and glanced at his dorm mates.
He was a celebrity now—had to watch his behavior. If his mates blabbed and ruined his brave, clever image, that'd be a disaster.
Neville wasn't in the dorm.
Seamus and Dean were helping Harry open letters, making more noise than him with their gasps and shouts.
Harry was sorting through gifts.
His pile of letters and gifts dwarfed Ron's. After all, Harry was the star.
A tiny pang of jealousy hit Ron.
Just a little. For months at the Burrow—and the ten years before that—he'd been the overlooked one, outshone by his brothers' achievements and his sister's charm. Now, at least, he was a recognized wizard.
Even if he wasn't Harry.
The sun slowly rose.
Back in his office, Melvin set aside regular letters and newspapers, gathering up the Howlers and noting the senders before destroying them all.
He wasn't planning revenge. Many wizards were just terrified of Voldemort, jumping at any hint of his name. For years, they'd lived under the shadow of the skull-and-snake mark. After a few peaceful years, hearing that Voldemort might return sent them into a panic—understandable.
Wizards were human, too. Few had iron wills; most were ordinary folk, unwilling to face harsh truths, venting their fear and frustration wherever they could.
Sweeping the ashes into the bin, Melvin opened his notebook to draft final exam questions. He uncapped his fountain pen but paused.
If even he, a behind-the-scenes worker, got this many Howlers, how many were Harry and the others getting?
"…"
After a moment's thought, Melvin put away his pen and paper, deciding to talk to the headmaster about the students' mental health.
In the headmaster's office, Dumbledore sat behind a round table, sipping chilled pumpkin juice slowly.
Across from him was a short, stout figure in a bright red tie, black cloak, purple pointed boots, and a dark green top hat. His outfit mimicked Muggle fashion but missed the mark, looking a bit absurd.
His face wasn't bad, though—sparse hair carefully styled, graying at the edges, with a kindly smile like a friendly middle-aged wizard.
"Good morning, Cornelius," Dumbledore greeted softly.
"Honestly, not great, Albus," Fudge replied in a crisp, rapid tone. "It's complicated. I had to come talk in person. The films playing in pubs are causing a stir. Clueless folks are writing to ask about You-Know-Who. My assistants had to cancel their holidays to respond to baseless rumors."
"Is that so?" A faint disappointment flickered in Dumbledore's eyes. "What did you want to discuss?"
"We're friends; I wouldn't trouble the school," Fudge said, fidgeting with his teacup, his tone uneasy. "I'd like Professor Levent to take responsibility, make a public statement in the papers, clarify that the film's just fiction—that Quirrell was just an ordinary dark wizard, nothing to do with You-Know-Who."
"Is that all?" Dumbledore met his gaze.
Fudge shifted uncomfortably, looking away from those piercing blue eyes. "Last time, when Dolores sued you, I was visiting Ireland and didn't hear about it in time. If I had, I'd never have allowed it."
"No matter, Cornelius. Some wizards struggle to accept new things—it's normal."
"Yes, Dolores is one of those," Fudge agreed.
Perhaps encouraged by the headmaster's easygoing tone, Fudge pressed on. "If you could also make a public statement, it might reassure people more, Albus. What do you think?"
Dumbledore's expression remained neutral, but his disappointment deepened.
Two years ago, during the Minister election, Fudge wasn't a top contender. Besides Crouch, whose reputation was tarnished, Fudge couldn't match hardliners like Scrimgeour or Bones. Their ruthless tactics against Death Eaters had angered many pure-blood families.
To ensure a smooth power transition and maintain stability, Dumbledore had backed Cornelius Fudge. A former Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes worker, he hadn't fought in the war and had a mild temperament…
Early in his term, Fudge handled matters well, even writing to consult Dumbledore on tricky issues.
Dumbledore had heard the rumors calling Fudge his puppet. To counter them, he'd stepped back, offering analysis instead of direct advice, hoping to help Fudge grow.
But in just two years, power had corrupted Fudge's soft heart.
"With the Easter holidays, you know—final exams to prepare, second-year course selections, fifth-year advanced classes to plan—Melvin's swamped," Dumbledore said gently, deflecting. "The film already notes it's fictional. A serious response in the papers might make people more suspicious."
"Well…" Fudge faltered.
"Wizards aren't fools. They'll see the truth."
"But Madam Bones and Director Scrimgeour are overreacting. They're planning a sweep of former Death Eater families."
"What's wrong with that?"
"…"
Fudge had no reply.
A sweep wasn't bad. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement should stay vigilant. Even if they didn't find Voldemort, they'd likely uncover some dark wizard schemes.
But Fudge didn't want Dumbledore to get his way.
"What about the boy—Harry, I mean. Could he do an interview?"
"Cornelius, students' main job is studying. With exams coming, he shouldn't be disturbed."
"What about that centaur? He doesn't need to revise, does he?"
"You're welcome to try the Forbidden Forest."
"…"
Fudge left in a foul mood, every suggestion shot down with airtight reasoning he couldn't argue against.
Melvin stood outside the office, hearing footsteps. He stepped behind a stone pillar until Fudge stormed off, then casually pushed the door open.
Dumbledore watched him approach, pour himself half a glass of chilled pumpkin juice, and sit with an ease unlike their first, more formal meeting.
Melvin sipped the juice, not mentioning Fudge. "The owls brought heaps of letters—some praising, some critical. I even got Howlers. Harry and the others must be getting more. They're young; it could affect them badly."
"Could?" Dumbledore echoed softly.
"Praise makes them cocky; criticism makes them anxious." Melvin set down his cup. "First-years' worldviews aren't set. They need a wise old headmaster to guide them."
"Worldviews…"
"Worldview, values, outlook on life."
"A concise yet profound breakdown." Dumbledore mused. "Sounds like psychology. A Muggle Studies professor might be better suited for counseling."
"Easter holidays, you know—final exams, second-year courses, fifth-year classes to prep. I'm swamped."
Dumbledore gave a wry smile as Melvin mimicked his earlier excuse to Fudge. After a moment's thought, he said, "Perhaps we can divide the work."
"?"
Hermione sat alone under a beech tree, a letter in hand. Two stacks of fan mail sat before her: one from pure-blood wizards, one from Muggle-borns.
And some news clippings.
In a quiet corner by the Black Lake, the stone path was silent. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting a golden carpet on the ground, warm and cozy.
The lake's surface churned, bubbles gurgling as if the water were boiling, though no steam rose—it wasn't hot. The Howlers, submerged at the lake's bottom, caused the ripples, looking a bit eerie.
Those were from pure-bloods too.
Hermione knew some wizards clung to pure-blood supremacy—many Slytherins did. At first, she thought it was just a clique, like groups at Muggle schools who ate lunch together and shunned outsiders.
Slytherins had their clique; Gryffindors had theirs. She hadn't thought much of it, nor did she believe people really judged others by blood status.
Then pure-blood Malfoy mocked pure-blood Neville, reinforcing her view.
So she hadn't expected that, after the film, some would insult her for her Muggle-born roots, even sending Howlers just to call her a Mudblood.
Pure-bloods didn't seem very bright.
"Hiss…"
Hermione opened a parchment envelope, a sound like a lit firecracker sparking inside.
Expressionless, she tucked a pebble into the envelope and tossed it into the lake with a plop. The Howler sank, bubbling away. Kind of fun, actually.
The next letter was normal. From its tone, it was from a half-blood Ravenclaw graduate, enthusiastically praising Hermione's performance in the trials.
"Miss Granger, the Sorting Hat must've slipped up. Your brilliant mind belongs in Ravenclaw, not with Gryffindor's reckless fist-swingers. But trust me, that mistake led to this story…"
Hermione read carefully, her tight lips curving into a faint smile. She folded the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and placed it in the right stack.
She'd already planned to take her parents to the Leaky Cauldron over summer to see Professor Levent's film and share these letters with her mum.
She kept sorting.
Soon, footsteps approached.
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