The sky darkened as evening settled in.
The warm, glowing light from the Forbidden Forest cabin's window remained inviting, the sound of simmering mutton stew in the clay pot a constant, comforting hum.
The young witches and wizards still had room in their stomachs but couldn't stomach more of the rich, tender stew. They found it too greasy, preferring the fire-roasted treats: flatbreads, mushrooms, potatoes, even apple pie. Then there were the sweet potatoes Melvin had buried in the coals, their skins charred black like burnt cinders. A gentle tug revealed golden, soft flesh inside, fragrant and sweet enough to tease the nose.
Ron, unable to resist, grabbed one first, peeling it and popping it into his mouth. He yelped, scalded, waving his hands and making a racket.
Harry and Hermione, less impulsive, skewered a couple of mushrooms on roasting forks and crouched to observe Fang and Yorm, who were locked in an odd dynamic. Fang's eyes held a bewildered glaze, far from his usual demeanor. A cool, slithery creature was coiled around him, making even his beloved meat bone less appealing. The slender white snake, bizarrely, barked like a dog, leaving the seasoned hound questioning its existence.
Harry, eyes alight with curiosity, hissed in Parseltongue, "Who are you?"
The young snake jolted, responding with a startled, "Woof?"
"I said, who are you?"
"Woof~"
The snake's eyes seemed vacant, as if it couldn't understand Harry's Parseltongue.
Hearing a dog's bark from a snake's mouth again, Harry and Hermione fell silent.
"How's that possible? Parseltongue is a snake's innate language. Even non-magical snakes at the zoo understand it…" Harry scratched his head.
"Maybe Parseltongue has dialects," Hermione ventured. "The snakes at the London Zoo, you, and the basilisk are all British, so you share the same dialect. Yorm's from Ilvermorny—maybe it speaks a different one?"
Harry accepted this without much thought. Americans were just like that, after all. Professor Levent's accent had been odd when he first arrived at Hogwarts.
The two huddled near the animals, whispering and trying to tempt Yorm with their roasted food. The snake, uninterested, ignored their offerings. Its eyes gleamed, darting around, its head weaving across Fang's body, taking in the dog, the young wizards, and the cabin with boundless curiosity for its new surroundings.
Melvin bit into a roasted potato, its faint charred flavor giving way to a soft, melt-in-the-mouth texture. Plain, without seasoning, it carried the potato's natural sweetness. Watching the students and animals, he worried again about the snake's intelligence. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an owl swoop past the window, circle once, and glide inside.
It perched on a nearby chair.
The letter was likely meant for the Great Hall, but since Melvin had skipped dinner, it had been redirected here. He took the letter from the owl's claw, tossing it a piece of roasted meat as thanks, and opened the envelope, reading quietly by the firelight.
Hermione, after failing to get Yorm to eat, gave up and fed the mushrooms to Fang, freeing her hands. Noticing Melvin reading, she saw a complex expression on his face—a mix of unsurprised mockery and subtle disdain.
Setting her fork in a bucket, she sat beside him and asked softly, "Professor, what's happened?"
"My application was rejected," Melvin said. "Minister Fudge won't allow the Floo Network to integrate with the Mirror Club, despite Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Magical Transportation laying out the pros and cons."
"It's clearly beneficial for everyone. Why would Fudge say no?"
"Who knows?" Melvin gave a faint smile. "Maybe the application wasn't thorough or compelling enough. Perhaps he needs to hear more voices."
Hermione tilted her head, puzzled.
---
Mid-January arrived, and the students' holidays were nearing their end. Diagon Alley's shops reopened, publishers resumed operations, and reporters and editors returned from breaks, carrying resentment rivaling a Dementor's chill as they got back to work.
After weeks of overtime, The Daily Prophet had thoroughly covered Hogwarts' Chamber of Secrets saga, publishing ten special reports. They traced the feud between Slytherin and Gryffindor, examined the Gaunt family's legacy, explored basilisk breeding, and exposed Lockhart's fraudulent past, with experts from various fields weighing in. Top reporters interviewed Ministry officials, and photographers ventured to remote villages for controversial shots, ensuring maximum buzz.
The Prophet's sales doubled over the holidays, with morning and evening editions, plus weekend specials. Owls delivered papers to homes, letting wizards gossip over family dinners without leaving their armchairs. Pubs across the country buzzed with related chatter. Quick-reacting magazines like The Quibbler, known for its eccentric takes on bizarre creatures and wild theories, rode the Chamber wave to a modest sales bump.
Slower publishers like Obscurus and Wizhard, however, missed the boat. By the time they churned out tired rehashes, the hype had faded, leaving them to watch The Prophet's success with envy.
Inside The Prophet's offices, star reporter Rita Skeeter sifted through letters, her green quill scribbling furiously, thoughts flowing seamlessly onto parchment. Her latest piece, a routine holiday news roundup, was nearly done. In a peaceful era, Christmas break news was sparse: misfired Weasley fireworks setting kitchens ablaze, prank items landing hapless wizards in St. Mungo's, or fools cursing themselves without counter-spells.
The wizarding media was rough around the edges. Borrowing from rivals, cobbling together stories, and adding a dash of unique insight was enough for a decent article and some Galleons. "Reporting by Rita Skeeter, star journalist…" Her enchanted quill auto-corrected as she folded the parchment into a paper plane, which wobbled out the window toward the editor's office.
Her work done, Rita stretched, ready to stroll Diagon Alley for fresh scoops. Before she could grab her handbag, editor Barnabas Cuffe barged in, holding a letter. "Rita, I need you on this. Urgent report for the evening edition. Make it quick."
"What's the rush?"
"Read it yourself. You're the star reporter—you'll know how to handle it." Cuffe dropped the letter on her desk, adding as he left, "Watch the tone. I'm reviewing it before it goes out."
Rita frowned, picking up the parchment—a photocopy of an application with Minister Cornelius Fudge's handwritten rejection.
"Department of Magical Transportation's proposal for Floo Network upgrades…"
Sitting at her desk, Rita scanned the details about the Shadow Mirror and Floo Network collaboration, inevitably mentioning the young professor, Melvin Levent. His name sparked a tingle in the serpent tattoo on her inner arm.
---
Evening in Hogsmeade
As usual, after dinner, Tucklot braved the snowy winds for a walk, ending up at The Three Broomsticks. The pub was a local haunt for drinks and chats, a perfect spot to kill time. Since the Shadow Mirror's installation, it had become a regular gathering place—ideal for watching Quidditch matches, sipping ale, and picking a fight to blow off steam. Sadly, no films had screened this Christmas, a small disappointment.
Pushing open the door, Tucklot found the bar unusually quiet. Madam Rosmerta polished glasses behind the counter, while a few patrons flipped through newspapers, brows furrowed, hesitating to speak. Malcolm, his old rival, looked constipated.
Tucklot plopped into a seat, snatching Malcolm's paper. "What's got you so grim? Scotland's team disbanded or something?"
Malcolm rolled his eyes, shooting him a withering look.
Ignoring it, Tucklot flipped to the front page. A Rita Skeeter article revealed the stalled progress of the Mirror Club. "Seriously? Fudge rejected this? Has he got dragon pox in his brain?"
The pub's candlelight flickered as patrons' eyes turned to Tucklot. Even Malcolm nodded in agreement. "That's what I'm saying—Fudge's head's not right!"
"It's not some massive project. Why say no?"
"It's good for the Floo Network, good for the Mirror Club, and we locals want to watch the Mirror at home. He's the only one against it!"
"Who elected that idiot Minister? Blind, the lot of them!"
The single article had the patrons riled up, united in cursing the foolish Minister. Rosmerta, behind the bar, polished glasses silently. If she recalled correctly, Dumbledore had backed Fudge's appointment.
"Merlin's beard! I'm sending the Ministry a Howler!"
"I'll stuff mine with stinking socks!"
"Dungbombs!"
With a shared target for their ire, the pub's atmosphere grew lively, beer sales rivaling those of a thrilling Quidditch match. It wasn't until midnight that Rosmerta ushered the last patrons out, instructing waiters to ensure no one collapsed drunk in the snow. They were locals, only a short walk away.
After cleaning, the night was late. Rosmerta retreated to her bedroom, but sleep wouldn't come. Her mind replayed the article and the patrons' outrage. The plan to link the Floo Network with smaller Shadow Mirrors, letting wizards watch from home, wasn't great for pub owners—it'd cut into business. But if even the patrons supported Levent, how could the Mirror Club back down?
Sitting up, Rosmerta pulled Howler materials from a drawer and got to work.
---
Next Morning, Ministry of Magic Atrium
Cornelius Fudge stepped out of a fireplace, glancing at the gleaming floor to admire his outfit—adjusting his dark green bowler hat, straightening his red tie, and smoothing his pinstriped suit. He felt dashing. A few years younger, and he'd rival that foreign Hogwarts professor.
Other fireplaces flared green as staff arrived, pausing to greet Fudge. He nodded back, his smile gracious. The morning rush brought a chorus of greetings, a rhythm he called the "Symphony of Power," intoxicating in its cadence.
He passed the fountain, rode the lift to his office, and settled in. Before he could start work, his assistant hurried in, looking uneasy. "Minister, you have mail."
Fudge frowned. "There's mail every day. You're not a new intern—handle it. Did the holidays scramble your brain?"
As Minister, overseeing the entire British wizarding world, Fudge received countless letters. His assistant filtered them: notable wizards, pure-blood patriarchs, or foreign Ministries got his attention; unknowns went straight to the fireplace.
"But…" the assistant whispered, placing a stack of red envelopes on the desk. "These are Howlers."
"Howlers!" Fudge's eyes widened, his expression shifting to panic as he leaned back, as if the envelopes might bite.
"Only the recipient can open them, Minister, or they'll explode…" the assistant warned, as some envelopes' corners began to smoke and tremble.
Fudge's lips and eyes twitched, but he forced his shaking hand to tear one open.
"Why? WHY?! Why reject the Mirror Club's proposal?! Why block the Floo Network upgrade?!"
A deafening roar filled the office, shaking dust from the ceiling and rattling the floor. "The Wizengamot should sack you! If someone chucks dragon dung in your face on the street, I wouldn't be surprised! You don't care about us ordinary wizards' opinions! Who do you think you are, Cornelius Fudge?!"
Fudge's ears rang, drowning out the rest. Stunned, he barely registered his assistant's moving lips. His mind blanked.
And on the desk, dozens more Howlers waited.