Late February brought the promise of spring rain, the air heavy with dampness.
Percy hurried up the steps, pausing at the entrance hall to stomp the mud and grass from his shoes, leaving the mess outside the castle.
Inside, he slowed for a moment, his gaze instinctively drifting to the four house hourglasses. Each house's points were tallied with gemstones—rubies for Gryffindor, sapphires for Ravenclaw, emeralds for Slytherin, and yellow diamonds for Hufflepuff. At night, they sparkled under torchlight and candles, a dazzling display.
But now, the hourglasses stood empty, not a single gem in sight.
The notice board held the latest announcement: due to students sleeping in class and disrupting lessons, the four Heads of House and professors had jointly decided to deduct all 200-plus points earned last term. They'd also canceled weekend Floo Network access.
Percy could still picture Professor McGonagall's expression when she announced it—eyebrows knitted, lips pursed, her face stern but not angry. She'd admitted that Professor Lewitt had warned about this before the mirror network was introduced, and she hadn't heeded the advice. She took partial blame for the collective mistake and chose not to punish the students with detention, only deducting points for rule-breakers.
Percy could almost see Professor Lewitt's smug half-smile.
He shook his head. The mirror network itself wasn't the problem, he thought. Students like George and Fred, who broke rules, dragged others into their chaos, and flouted authority, deserved harsher punishment. Scrubbing bathrooms, handling dragon dung compost, or polishing Filch's trophies—make them regret it!
"Last week's essays got top marks; that should earn some points back…" Percy sighed at the empty hourglasses, then hurried upstairs.
He'd struggled with a few concepts in Potions and stayed late to ask Professor Sprout for clarification. Now, Muggle Studies was next, and the bell was about to ring. He couldn't be late—Professor Lewitt's public punishments were brutal, almost as bad as the Cruciatus Curse.
"Ahem… last week, we assigned a ten-foot essay on the negative impacts of the mirror network," Professor Lewitt's smooth voice filled the classroom. "I gave the same topic to fourth-years, and some of their insights were remarkable. Mr. Bosted, for instance—have you read his paper?"
Percy heard soft chuckles around him. The boys were joking about pureblood wizard fashion—vulture-stuffed hats and bizarre robes—lightening the mood. Somehow, the girls shifted the topic to Professor Lewitt's outfit: a light brown shirt with subtle white checks, a champagne-gold tie, and a perfectly placed bright blue pocket square.
The girl next to Percy flipped her notebook and jotted down the color combination: calm, intelligent, like Ravenclaw's sapphires. Percy thought of his girlfriend, Penelope, who'd made a similar comparison. When I work at the Ministry, I'll get an outfit like that, he mused.
"Enough laughing," Professor Lewitt said, tapping the desk to quiet the chatter. "Mr. Bosted's perspective was unique, exploring wizard and Muggle cultures through aesthetics. Magic shapes how wizards think, while Muggles try to dissect everything with science. The two clash yet connect. We could dive deeper into this another time."
He'd prepared a lesson plan for once, aiming to review the essays and explain the mirror network's purpose and proper use. "When Muggle society shifted from newspapers to moving images, it shook up their way of life. Publishing houses, newsrooms, and printing industries faced upheaval…"
Lewitt kept it simple, avoiding jargon. "For individuals, the flood of fast information overwhelms the mind. Young or immature people can't handle it—like a small boat lost at sea, drifting aimlessly or capsizing in the storm."
Muggle-born students nodded, following his logic, but some purebloods stared blankly, clearly lost.
Lewitt paused, then tried a new angle. "You're all sixth-years. Professor Flitwick has taught you the definition of Dark Magic. Who remembers it?"
Percy nodded, confused by the sudden topic shift.
"Magic meant to control, harm, or kill," Lewitt answered himself, scanning the room. "It's powerful but hard to control and can lead you to dark places. Who here thinks they could wield that power without being corrupted? Raise your hands."
Percy raised his hand, as did most of the class. Even Malfoy, Parkinson, Greengrass, and Nott—pureblood families often had forbidden spellbooks tucked away in attics. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs knew a few nasty curses too. Professors like Lewitt and Snape occasionally demonstrated Dark Magic in dueling lessons. Since Voldemort's fall, the wizarding world had been peaceful for over a decade, and to these students, Dark Magic didn't seem that evil.
Lewitt waved their hands down, his tone casual. "Durmstrang, the Nordic wizarding school, is known for its Dark Magic courses. The harsh environment builds strong wizards, but some become reclusive or extreme. Others can't resist the allure of power and fall into darkness. Durmstrang's been criticized since its founding as the darkest of the eleven major schools."
The room fell silent.
"The mirror network is like Dark Magic," Lewitt continued. "It delivers information instantly—news from London or Albania, images of magical creatures in Africa, all crystal-clear from your fireplace. It's exciting, effortless, like an omniscient spell. But it's deceptive. You see only what someone behind the scenes wants you to see. It creeps into your mind, wastes your time, and pulls you away from meaningful activities."
"Isn't that a bit dramatic?" someone muttered.
"Oliver Wood," Lewitt called out, spotting the Gryffindor Quidditch captain.
"Here, Professor."
"Your team trains every weekend, correct?"
"Yes."
"And last week?"
Wood hesitated. "We were watching Scotland's team tactics on the mirror network. George and Fred suggested postponing practice, and we all agreed."
"Can you use those tactics in school matches?"
Wood froze, stumped.
The class grew thoughtful, their eyes flickering with realization. Percy settled into the lesson, struggling to pin down its theme. It felt like a mix of discussing the mirror network's impact and correcting their misconceptions. Lewitt cleverly tied it to Dark Magic, using their essays to deepen their understanding. Muggle inventions, it seemed, could sap their energy and time just like a curse—willingly given.
It made some students wonder: if they couldn't resist the mirror network's pull, how could they resist Dark Magic?
---
After class, the room quieted.
Lewitt waved his wand, and the oak desks and chairs sprang to life, softening and hopping to the walls, stacking like a game of wizarding Jenga to clear the floor.
Soon, Neville and Marietta pushed open the door, surprised. "Professor Lewitt, you waited for us?"
"I heard your play rehearsal's going well. I'd like to see it," Lewitt said with a gentle smile.
Over the next half-hour, the drama club trickled in. After months of practice, they had a smooth routine: stagehands set up props, actors reviewed past issues and solutions.
"Cedric, slow down during the horse charge. Let the prop team make the dragon swallow you."
"Whoever's controlling the dragon's tongue needs to chill—it keeps whacking my head. Last time, it nearly knocked my helmet off. The armor's supposed to break, not my skull…"
"Got it, got it," Neville said, blushing with guilt.
Cedric sighed, knowing exactly who was behind the controls. Neville was reliable, always quick to fix mistakes, but as a second-year juggling Transfiguration and Levitation spells, he was stretched thin. Cedric just hoped he wouldn't mess up.
Lewitt's gaze lingered on Marietta, who moved confidently around the room, coordinating with everyone like a younger version of her mother, Madam Edgecombe. No one dismissed her authority.
After ten minutes of prep, Neville and Marietta approached. "Professor, we're ready!"
Lewitt's expression softened. He gestured for them to start and settled in to watch.
"Marietta, think you're ready for the stage?" he asked.
"Absolutely, Professor," she replied earnestly. "We consulted Sir Nicholas and studied the ghost troupe's past performances. The script's based on Sir Cadogan, tweaked by the group. Even Professor Dumbledore thinks it's brilliant!"
Lewitt didn't doubt it—that sounded like Dumbledore.
Onstage, the rehearsal began: villagers fled in mock panic, a knight in armor charged, and a fire-breathing wyvern roared. Compared to months ago, they'd improved, though the student-made props and effects were still rough. But their passion shone through, ready for a bigger stage.
---
The weekend arrived, bringing a gentle breeze and perfect Quidditch weather.
Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff was an hour away, and the stands were already packed. Unlike Slytherin and Ravenclaw games, where only house loyalists showed up, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff had star Seekers—Harry and Cedric—drawing fans from all houses. Their fame and charm fueled the electric atmosphere.
Lewitt stayed back, watching from a castle tower window. Even from afar, the crowd's cheers echoed. Madam Hooch's whistle sounded, and players soared—Gryffindor in scarlet, Hufflepuff in canary yellow, streaks of color zipping across the pitch. Beaters and Chasers clashed in a frenzy, while the Seekers circled the edges.
Harry's slight frame darted through the air, Cedric hot on his tail, their high-speed maneuvers and sharp turns a dazzling spectacle. A duel between top Seekers was always a thrill.
Lewitt turned away, glancing at the two house-elves beside him. "Let's go, Dobby, Squeaky."