The sky was gradually brightening.
Unfortunately, Percy had stayed up too late, exhausted from overdoing it, and missed the morning edition of the Daily Prophet.
Under Editor-in-Chief Guffey's leadership, the Daily Prophet had learned to produce video newsreels, settling into a predictable format. They'd start with recent Ministry of Magic updates—new policies, personnel changes, and amusing anecdotes about certain officials. Then came local news from across Britain: some poor sod who botched a spell and landed in St. Mungo's, a magical creature breaking loose and causing a ruckus, and finally, the latest foreign vendors setting up shop in Diagon Alley.
The content wasn't exactly dull, but it wasn't riveting either. Some bits were useful, but most of it you'd forget as soon as you heard it.
In fact, many pure-blood wizarding families had made it a habit to switch on their enchanted mirrors during breakfast, listening to the news while eating to pass the quiet morning hours.
The enchanted mirror was still in its early days, and the programming was pretty basic—mostly the same few shows on repeat: Quidditch highlight reels, a Magical Creatures of the Wild segment, a new album from a witch songstress, and the Daily Prophet news.
If the enchanted mirror had one edge over a Muggle television, it was that alchemical creations were sturdier than Muggle tech. Even after days of continuous play, the mirror wouldn't overheat or break down.
In Hogwarts' common room, the enchanted mirror was just like that. After a full day and night of running, some young witches and wizards couldn't keep up, drifting off to their dorms in a sleepy haze. The mirror itself? It only burned through a bit of Floo powder.
When Percy finally opened his eyes, his younger brother Ron was sprawled on the sofa across from him, sleeping in a messy heap, a trail of drool dribbling from his mouth. His rat, Scabbers, was tucked in his arms, snoozing just as peacefully.
"Ugh…"
Percy felt utterly drained. Staying up so late left him short on sleep, his head spinning, eyes itchy and swollen, and his whole body aching.
Sure, he'd pulled all-nighters before during holiday feasts, but never this late—three or four in the morning, at least. Watching the enchanted mirror didn't feel taxing at the time, but it was surprisingly draining. He hadn't even washed up or rested properly, just crashed on the sofa for a few hours. No wonder he felt like rubbish.
Never staying up late again, he vowed.
Percy slowly hauled himself up, leaning on the sofa for support, his legs wobbly. As he headed upstairs, he glanced back at the enchanted mirror, still surrounded by a gaggle of students—either early risers or those who hadn't slept at all.
…
Lunchtime, Great Hall.
"Melvin, pass the jam, would you?" Professor Flitwick, perched on his stool, called out to Melvin, two seats away.
"Cranberry or orange?" Melvin asked casually.
"Both are lovely, but I'm partial to raspberry," Flitwick said, taking the jar with a smile. "Thank you kindly."
With a pop, the jam jar opened, and the part-goblin professor spread a few spoonfuls onto his bread before passing it to Minerva McGonagall. She took it without a word—decades of working together, from their student days to now, meant they knew each other's tastes well.
"I've been wondering since breakfast," Flitwick said, glancing around the Great Hall, "why are there so few students eating today? Is it because it's Sunday?"
McGonagall surveyed the hall, frowning slightly. "It shouldn't be this sparse. Usually, some students skip meals in the common room with snacks or picnic by the lake, but that's a small number. Today, at least half the students are missing."
Her eyes narrowed as a thought struck her, and she turned to Melvin, brow furrowing. "Is it the enchanted mirror?"
"…"
Melvin blinked, his face the picture of innocence.
What's that look for? he thought. You're the deputy headmistress who authorized connecting the mirrors to the Floo Network! He'd warned everyone beforehand, doing his duty as the Muggle Studies professor. If the mirrors were having a bad influence on students, you couldn't pin it on the bloke who invented them.
McGonagall's gaze lingered on the empty seats at the house tables, her expression growing stern.
…
"Harry, what should we grab for Ron? Beef pasty or apple pie?" Harry asked Hermione, sitting at the Gryffindor table.
"Is he that lazy now?" Hermione said, incredulous. "Staying up all night, refusing to go to the dorms, sleeping through breakfast, and now he can't even come to the Great Hall for lunch?"
"You know how it is," Harry said with a shrug. "It's their first time with the enchanted mirror. They'll get over it."
Harry didn't find it odd. Back at the Dursleys', when his aunt and uncle took Dudley out for his birthday, leaving Harry alone, he'd spend the whole day glued to the telly. Lunch was whatever pizza was left in the fridge, washed down with soda—pure bliss until he heard the car pulling into the garage.
"Oh, and something for Scabbers' lunch. A doughnut, maybe? Rats love those," Harry said, sounding like a proper delivery boy.
"Ugh, Scabbers…" Hermione grimaced.
Ever since Ron got that rat, he'd been inseparable from it—eating, sleeping, always clutching it. She couldn't wrap her head around it. A mangy, toe-missing rat like that—shouldn't it be kept in a cage?
"Don't be like that, Hermione," Harry said, pausing as he pictured the rat's scruffy appearance. "Ron's from a pure-blood family. Wizards keep all sorts of odd pets. Professor Levent even has a snake!"
Hermione glanced at the staff table and shook her head. "Yulm is way cuter than Scabbers."
…
Down the spiral staircase to the castle's basement, Melvin walked slowly through the quiet corridors. It was Sunday afternoon, and the lower levels were hushed.
Hogwarts' basement was once a chilly dungeon, its stone corridors branching off in different directions. The dimly lit middle path, flickering with candlelight, led to the Potions classroom and Snape's office—where Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party had been held. The left path wound down to the Black Lake, home to the Slytherin common room and dorms. The right path, the brightest, was Melvin's destination: the way to the Hufflepuff common room and the Hogwarts kitchens.
Footsteps echoed, and Melvin turned to see a blonde girl stepping into the torchlight, wearing Hufflepuff robes and carrying a fruit basket.
"Afternoon, Professor Levent," she said cheerfully.
"Afternoon, Hannah," Melvin replied with a smile. "The kitchen's this way, right? I heard you've got to tickle a fruit painting to get in."
"Just keep going, and you'll see it. Tickle the pear's armpit," Hannah said.
Hannah Abbott was a classic Hufflepuff—kind and warm. She was in the same year as Hermione, a second-year who'd take Muggle Studies next year. Melvin knew her fairly well; Tom from the Leaky Cauldron, also an Abbott, was close with Hannah's mum and often mentioned her in passing.
Melvin turned right, stepping into the bright torchlight. The walls were lined with ancient oil paintings—not the chatty wizard portraits upstairs, but warm, inviting images of food: golden roast turkeys, creamy cakes, mashed potatoes, and buttery biscuits.
The most striking was a massive silver bowl overflowing with fruit. Melvin studied it, then reached out to tickle the green pear. It squirmed, giggling, its shape morphing into a large green door handle.
He pulled it open, revealing the Hogwarts kitchens.
The kitchen was vast, nearly ten meters high, as grand as the Great Hall or the Slytherin Chamber. Gleaming pots sat on ornate stoves, and spotless plates and cutlery lined the counters, reflective as mirrors. A brick fireplace glowed at the far end.
Warm air hit him, carrying the sweet scent of bread and the savory aroma of stewed beans.
Quick footsteps approached—small, wiry figures in simple aprons, still holding kitchen tools.
"Professor Levent, you came yourself! Is there anything you need?" one house-elf squeaked.
"There's stew for tonight in the pot, and the pies and pasties are baked. If you want something else, we'll whip it up quick—no waiting!"
"No, no, I'm fine," Melvin said, smiling gently. "I'm working on some research, and the information is quite obscure. I was hoping one of you might know something useful."
"Professor Levent, anything you need, just ask!" the lead house-elf cried, the others nodding eagerly. "We're happy to help!"
House-elves were fiercely loyal. Since Helga Hufflepuff brought them to Hogwarts a thousand years ago, they'd lived here, tending to students' daily needs and handling the castle's chores.
It was a two-way bond. Hogwarts cared for the elves, ensuring they had work and were treated kindly. As the school grew, so did the number of elves, with headmasters following Hufflepuff's example by taking in homeless ones.
Melvin figured that when the Lestrange family fell, during Dumbledore's time as headmaster, he might've taken in their elves. It was worth a shot. "Any of you ever work for the Lestranges?" he asked.
"Lestranges? You mean Mr. Rabastan, Mr. Rodolphus, and Mrs. Bellatrix Lestrange?" a house-elf shivered, as if recalling something awful. "Screech! Screech! Professor Levent's looking for you!"
The bustling kitchen fell silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the bubbling stew. All eyes turned to the shadows by the fireplace.
A figure shuffled forward. Unlike the lean, spry elves, this one was old, with sagging skin, white fur sprouting from its ears, and cloudy eyes.
Melvin crouched to meet its gaze. "Are you Screech?"
"My old name was Sachi," the elf rasped, voice low and gravelly, unlike the others' high squeaks. "Screech is what the mistress renamed me after she married in. Said my screams when I was punished were too shrill."
Melvin paused, then said softly, "You know your former masters are in Azkaban now, don't you?"
"I know, I know…" Screech trembled, tears welling in its cloudy eyes. "They followed… him, the wizard whose name we can't say. They treated me like vermin until… until Mr. Potter defeated him."
The other elves murmured among themselves.
"Do you hate them?" Melvin asked.
"…"
Screech wiped its tears with its apron, silent for a long moment, then dodged the question. "Professor Levent, what can I do for you?"
"I need a favor, Screech. I want to know the exact location of the Lestrange manor."
"Sir, may I ask why?"
"It's been abandoned for twelve years," Melvin said, sidestepping the question with a sigh.
"I thought I'd escaped that place…" Screech's voice was low. "If my masters hadn't fallen, my head might've been chopped off and tossed in the rubbish. But I'm still a house-elf, sir, a Lestrange slave. We keep our masters' secrets, stay silent, uphold the family's honor, and never betray."
Melvin rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on.
House-elves could be stubborner than wizards. Wizards might bend for their own gain, open to bribes or threats, but a house-elf would rather die than break their loyalty.
He tried a different tack. "The Lestrange manor doesn't bar visitors. If I had an invitation from the family, that wouldn't be betrayal, right? You'd just be guiding me."
"The Lestrange wizards are all in Azkaban," Screech said quietly.
"Then the manor would pass to their kin."
"The Corvus and Cyril lines are extinct. There are no other heirs."
"Not from the Lestranges, maybe, but Bellatrix has sisters."
Screech's expression shifted, its cloudy eyes widening as it froze. "You mean… Narcissa Black?"
"Narcissa Malfoy, now."