"Thank you for watching. The Daily Prophet news broadcast ends here…"
The young witch's voice, mimicking a Muggle newsreader's cadence, announced the close of the wizarding world's first news program.
The young students, still captivated, lingered on the Shadow Mirror, reluctant to look away, though only swirling silver mist and a starry, moonlit magical ceiling remained.
Dumbledore rose, smiling. "Before everyone heads to bed, let's conclude tonight with one final activity—singing the school song!"
With a gentle wave of his wand, a long, golden ribbon unfurled from its tip, weightless and twisting through the air above the tables, weaving into lines of lyrics.
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, teach us all you know,
Whether we're old and bald or young with scraped knees aglow…"
The cacophony of mismatched tunes was dreadful, but the chaotic chorus moved the Headmaster to tears. The students, finding Dumbledore's sentimentality excessive, scattered quickly after he dismissed them. First-years trailed their prefects in orderly lines, while older students ambled out of the Great Hall in small groups, climbing the familiar staircases after weeks away.
"That ended too soon! I wasn't done watching!"
"It's just news—heard the other programs are even better!"
"Blame Professor Levent!"
The complaints drifted from the Slytherin crowd. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances, quickening their pace to a quieter spot before diving into discussion.
Hermione said firmly, "The Prophet's broadcast was very professional. Their style definitely draws from Muggle TV news."
Harry nodded emphatically.
"TV, I know about that!" Ron chimed in. "My dad got one to study, but it wouldn't turn on. Said the bulb inside broke. He fiddled with it for months, but it ended up in the shed as junk." He grinned. "Mum nagged him to toss it, said it took up space. Got an earful for two weeks."
After a laugh, Ron's thoughts returned to the Shadow Mirror. As a pure-blood, he'd never seen TV, and the novelty lingered. "The Mirror's brilliant—Quidditch matches, films, news… Why didn't wizards make this sooner?"
"Because of the Statute of Secrecy?" Harry ventured, scratching his head.
"The Statute keeps magic hidden from Muggles, not Muggle ideas from wizards," Hermione corrected.
"It's the pure-bloods' resistance," she added. Harry and Ron looked puzzled, their casual chat turning serious as Hermione's lips pursed with conviction.
"There are two kinds of pure-bloods," she explained. "The cunning ones, like the Malfoys, push pure-blood supremacy for profit. Did you hear the Slytherins? Bet their families already have Mirrors, lounging on sofas watching right now." She huffed, indignant at Levent's slander. "Then there's the foolish, stubborn kind, like Umbridge and Fudge, who actually believe their own lies—that Muggle things are evil. They reject technology and stifle progress."
"There's a third kind…" Ron raised a hand timidly. "Like us Weasleys. We're open to Muggle stuff."
"Malfoy calls your family a disgrace to pure-bloods," Hermione shot back.
"His opinion doesn't count!" Ron retorted.
Their bickering faded as Harry, distracted, lowered his head. The mention of Malfoy stirred thoughts of a wretched house-elf. How's Dobby doing? Is he still being beaten by Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy?
---
Next Morning, Great Hall
For students, the first day of term was light. No formal lessons—professors were finalizing syllabi, and classes were more about casual chats than dense academics.
After breakfast, with lessons yet to start, the four Heads of House roamed the house tables, distributing timetables and addressing questions. Third-years, fresh from a half-year of electives, could swap courses if they felt mismatched. Sixth-years in advanced classes could drop out if the material was too tough. The hall buzzed with chatter.
Melvin, holding a silver fork, speared a boiled egg and fed it to Yorm. The young snake stretched its neck, jaws wide, swallowing the egg whole. It wriggled and thrashed, struggling to move the egg down its slender body—a challenge for its size.
Focused on its task, Yorm didn't notice its position. A clumsy twist sent it tumbling off the table. Fortunately, the staff table sat on a carpeted dais, and the lightweight snake was unharmed. The fall even helped dislodge the egg, letting it slide down.
Yorm shook its head, tongue flicking, tail sweeping energetically, almost smug, as if boasting. Melvin sighed, exasperated. If he wasn't mistaken, these were Fang's mannerisms—post-bone or rock-cake, the dog would act the same, begging Hagrid for praise. But why was a Horned Serpent mimicking a dog so naturally?
Scooping Yorm into an emerald-encrusted container, Melvin chatted briefly with other professors before heading to class as the bell neared. Trading quips with Sir Cadogan's portrait en route, he reached the classroom just as the bell rang.
His sixth-year Muggle Studies class was packed with nearly thirty students, seated neatly. Unlike other advanced courses with scattered seating and empty front rows, Muggle Studies drew eager students to the front, knowing Levent's lessons were engaging, often with fun activities. Percy Weasley sat right by the lectern.
Thud. Melvin set down his books, leaning against the desk. He greeted the front-row girls, teasing that their faces looked rounder from the holidays. "Alright, no nonsense. Let's talk this term's plan. You've covered household appliances and Muggle transport last year. Advanced classes dive into less common topics and introduce Muggle ideologies. This term, we'll explore large-scale machinery—natural sciences—then shift to end-of-term review. If there's extra time, we'll touch on Muggle social sciences. Any questions?"
Hands shot up, but not about the syllabus.
"Professor, did you invent the Shadow Mirror?"
"No, I just had the idea. Wright Monkstanley, descendant of the witch who created the Lumos Charm, brought it to life."
"What other programs will it have?"
"Currently, three: Magical Creatures, produced by Professors Kettleburn and Hagrid; Thrilling Quidditch, with footage curated by Ludo Bagman from the Sports Department; and the Prophet's news program."
"Will there be more?"
"Of course."
Melvin met Penelope Clearwater's bright gaze, mirrored by other students. Tapping the desk, he said, "First lesson of term is usually light—quizzing last term's material, checking your holiday revision, maybe making a few of you sing or dance. Fun for you, easy for me. But seeing your enthusiasm, I've changed my mind."
He waved his wand, magic scrawling words on the blackboard: "Television, Shadow Mirror, Pros and Cons"
Sweeping his gaze across the students, he said, "Few of you are pure-bloods. Most are half-bloods or Muggle-born, or at least have Muggle relatives. You've visited Muggle homes, seen TVs, and probably realized the Shadow Mirror is a crude imitation. It'll take time to match TV's variety."
The classroom buzzed.
"You grew up with TVs!"
"And gaming consoles and computers!"
"What're those?"
"Hard to explain—more fun than TV."
"Sounds amazing…"
Rarely, pure-blood students envied their Muggle-raised peers.
Melvin let the chatter settle before asking, "Everything has pros and cons. Muggle critics bash TV; the Mirror shares its flaws. Have you thought deeply about its impact? Noticed any downsides?"
The students exchanged glances, falling silent. After a few minutes, hands rose.
Some pointed out false information in programs, with media chasing ratings, spreading unverified or fabricated news, causing harm. Others disliked intrusive ads—obvious ones were fine, but covert ads in shows tricked parents into buying junk. Some hated the rise of violent content; others admitted a guilty pull toward risqué programs, knowing they were inappropriate yet prevalent.
Pure-blood students, new to these complexities, marveled at the Muggle world's depth, a realm they'd barely glimpsed.
Melvin listened without agreeing or disagreeing. "Those are content issues, manageable with regulation. I want you to consider the Mirror's broader impact on the wizarding world. Take Lockhart: he used books to deceive people. With the Mirror, could he fool more? The Prophet's fake news once spread via print; now, with the Mirror, will lies spread faster, wider?"
"Should we boycott the Mirror, then?" a student called out, confused.
"That's what I want you to think about," Melvin said, smiling at their puzzled faces. "Your essay topic: ten inches minimum, due Monday."
The classroom erupted in groans.
---
Winter of 1993 lingered, the North Sea's damp chill enveloping Azkaban. Dementors circled, exuding a heavy, icy mist, the fortress's walls like unmelting ice.
Scabbers the rat yawned, lazily rising from its bed. Scurrying along stone crevices to a window, it gazed out at the familiar, despairing view: thick fog rolling from the sky, merging with endless waves, devoid of light.
This was Azkaban's norm—a prison and a farm, its inmates livestock for Dementors to harvest souls and memories. Scabbers' nest, tucked in a remote crevice between rocks, was safe from discovery. Built from grimy rags and moldy straw, it was uncomfortable—far worse than Levent's glass jar—but Scabbers didn't mind. Compared to the Death Eater prisoners, it was cozy, free from Dementor harassment. Occasionally, it snuck into the Aurors' quarters, nabbing jam-smeared breadcrumbs or dropped cheese.
Pawing dew to rinse its mouth, Scabbers breakfasted on yesterday's cheese, its tiny nest brimming with life. After eating, it slipped through the stones to the fortress's depths. Weeks in Azkaban had taught it the guards' routines. The Aurors hadn't started patrols, and Bellatrix wasn't yet awake—perfect timing.
Slipping into Bellatrix's cell through the observation window, Scabbers hid in another corner. "Soon, I'll be out of this wretched place!" it squeaked, touching a glass vial around its neck, cunning glee in its eyes.
Today, Bellatrix would face Dementor torment. Scabbers only needed to wait, let her be broken into a stupor, then slip Veritaserum into her mouth to extract Gringotts vault secrets.
Huddled in the crevice, fur pressed against icy stone, a chill seeped into its bones. Time dragged until a colder, more piercing chill enveloped the cell.
Scabbers shivered, peeking out. Bellatrix sat up, leaning against the wall, her face a mix of indescribable emotions—lips trembling, pupils constricted, a blend of rage, numbness, and despair.
The cell door creaked open, and a cloaked, monstrous figure glided in.