Chapter 2: The Headmaster's Direct Recruitment
The performance ended, and the audience gradually dispersed.
The vast theater slowly fell silent.
Melvin returned to his office, leaning back against the sturdy wooden chair, eyes closed as he rested. A faint, ethereal magic flowed through his body like a gentle stream—refreshing, soothing.
His mind cleared, and his thoughts drifted away.
According to the Horned Serpent, emotions and beliefs connect the soul, and the secrets of magic lie deep within it. Thousands of years ago, ancient wizards began studying the soul and magic. Some, obsessed with the pursuit of power, lost themselves to dark arts; others, gifted with extraordinary talent, achieved dazzling success. The founders of Hogwarts were among the latter. Sadly, with the decline of ancient magic, all their accomplishments were lost to history.
Shaped by centuries of immigration, Ilvermorny absorbed wizards from across the world, becoming a place comparable to Hogwarts. Through the generations, there had always been brilliant teachers and students who left their marks in various branches of magic. Yet, no one had ever uncovered the true essence of it. Their achievements became the priceless knowledge now buried within the school's library.
The Horned Serpent, nourished by the serpentwood and living for a thousand years, had finally absorbed that knowledge, blending it with its own innate gifts to forge a new, unexplored path…
Melvin twisted the ring on his finger thoughtfully.
While ordinary human emotions could also strengthen one's magic, the effect was far too slow. Compared to his peers, six months had saved him years of hard Auror training.
To refine his power more efficiently, other wizards—especially strong ones—were more suitable.
What happened tonight had confirmed his suspicions.
"…"
There were still faint noises outside the office—the actors removing their makeup, the stage crew tidying up props. But as they passed near his door, everyone fell silent, stepping lightly.
Despite his mild demeanor, the young chief set designer carried an air of quiet indifference.
And besides, the last person who had tried to cross him had learned a painful lesson.
That had been five months ago. The previous head of stage design had stolen Melvin's ideas and submitted them as his own. By noon that same day, misfortunes began: hit by a car at a street corner, nearly struck by debris from a skyscraper, tripping repeatedly on his way home. From then on, every time he set foot on Broadway, disaster followed.
The story had become a local urban legend—one that, ironically, made the entire Broadway design scene much more… harmonious. Perhaps one day, someone would even adapt it into a play.
Knock, knock.
"Come in," Melvin said, sitting up.
The door creaked open. It was Claire. His usually sharp assistant looked strangely unsettled. She hesitated for a moment at the threshold, blinking as if realizing something.
"Sir, your guests have arrived."
"Guests?"
Melvin frowned slightly.
Before Claire could explain, the door swung open fully, revealing two elderly men with warm smiles. One had a mane of white hair and a lively presence; the other had silvery hair and eyes that shimmered with mystery.
"I don't recall inviting anyone tonight," Melvin said calmly, "let alone the renowned President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and member of the Order of Merlin... What do you think, Mr. Dumbledore? Mr. Nicolas Flamel?"
Melvin arched an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping him.
He was surprised, but not shocked. Such famous figures had a reputation for disguising themselves and slipping into quiet places, only to reveal themselves at the most dramatic moment. It was practically scripted behavior.
Both men were living legends in the wizarding world—frequent subjects of books, newspapers, and even the famous Chocolate Frog cards.
Of course, Melvin recognized them for other reasons too.
Partly because of old, haunting memories.
And partly because of the previous summer's International Confederation meeting, where he had spotted the President from afar—Dumbledore half-dozing in his honorary seat, leaving a lasting impression on everyone.
"Ha…"
Nicolas Flamel chuckled, glancing teasingly at Dumbledore as he slipped something golden into Claire's pocket by way of apology.
It wasn't a Gringotts Galleon. Melvin's sharp eyes caught the design—a genuine gold coin, with the Statue of Liberty engraved on one side and Saint-Gaudens' double-headed eagle on the other. An authentic Eagle coin issued by the U.S. Mint five years ago—one full ounce of gold.
A very tangible apology indeed.
Under the influence of a mild Confundus Charm, Claire failed to notice, nodded politely, and left.
"My full name is long," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye, "but it doesn't include quite so many titles."
He blinked amiably. "Forgive two old men for the intrusion. I had planned to request a meeting through your lovely assistant tomorrow, but she informed me that your schedule next week was full… My apologies."
"That gold coin should cover her understanding," Flamel added.
Melvin smiled faintly. "Well then, I'm delighted to receive two legendary wizards at this hour. Please, have a seat."
With a flick of his finger, the drawer under his desk popped open, and papers and trinkets scattered across the table suddenly jumped back inside, leaving the desk spotless.
With another gesture, a tea set floated out from a cabinet—a lilac-patterned teapot and three cups landing neatly on the desk with a gentle clink.
Dumbledore and Flamel took their seats, watching him with interest. The magic was not flamboyant, but the precision and ease of his control—especially at such a young age—was impressive.
Just as they expected tea to pour from the spout, a stream of dark, fizzy liquid filled the cups instead, bubbling and hissing softly.
"There's no tea in the office," Melvin said with a genial smile, "but this is my special Coca-Cola. Please, help yourselves."
The two wizards exchanged glances before taking cautious sips.
Flamel frowned slightly; his centuries-old teeth did not take kindly to carbonation. He set the cup down with grace, though his lips tightened.
Dumbledore's eyes, however, lit up. The rich sweetness, the refreshing fizz, the popping bubbles like tiny sweets exploding on his tongue—it was delightful.
This Muggle drink had been around for over a century. He'd tasted it some seventy years earlier, but back then, the ratio of fizz to syrup was all wrong—too sharp, too unbalanced.
Remembering that, Dumbledore drained the cup in two swallows, set it gently on the desk, and fixed his gaze on the teapot.
Before his fingers even left the cup, it refilled itself with more Coke.
"…"
Melvin wasn't sure, but he could swear Dumbledore's smile grew even brighter.
Flamel smiled too, inclining his head. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levent."
"The pleasure's mine."
Though still puzzled by their visit, Melvin did not press for answers. Instead, he kept the conversation flowing lightly.
That was, after all, the British way.
There's an old magical fable: a British wizard once mispronounced a Levitation Charm and accidentally summoned a bison. Just as the beast's hoof was about to crush him, he shouted that his pronunciation was grammatically more accurate Latin.
For the next half-hour, they discussed the night's performance, Broadway theaters, Goethe and Dante, Faust and Macbeth, and the evolution of stagecraft over the centuries.
Melvin and Flamel did most of the talking, while Dumbledore—content with his sweet beverage—listened quietly, stroking his beard and sipping Coke.
"…Through Mephistopheles' words, the author conveys the nihilism of absolute power," Melvin said at last. "Faust believes the clinking of shovels is the sound of construction, but in truth, the devil is digging his grave."
Taking another sip of Coke, he looked calmly at the elder wizard before him, a faint hint of satisfaction in his expression.
You have the wisdom of the past, he thought. I have the understanding of the future.
Flamel pondered for a moment, then exclaimed in admiration. "I had no idea such an interpretation existed! Indeed, art—once completed—belongs to the interpreter. Even Goethe himself didn't grasp it so deeply when he wrote it. Believe me, I lived next door to him at the time."
"…"
Melvin opened his mouth, but after considering the man's age, decided not to argue.
He fell silent for a moment, then turned to Dumbledore. "Professor Dumbledore, what brings you here?"
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"Mr. Lewynter," he said, "I would like to recruit you as a professor at Hogwarts."
"Ilvermorny: A Brief History"
In 1620, Isolt Sayre encountered a peculiar Horned Serpent on Mount Greylock. As a descendant of the Gaunt family, she did not inherit Slytherin's Parseltongue, yet she was astonished to find that she could understand the serpent's speech and thoughts. The two became close friends. After founding Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Isolt named one of its four houses after the Horned Serpent.
On the eve of her adopted son Chadwick Boot's eleventh birthday, Isolt promised to craft him a wand, but she couldn't find a suitable core. One night, she dreamed she was walking by a stream, where a Horned Serpent emerged and offered her a horn. Upon waking, she returned to the stream and found it to be true—the Serpent had gifted her its horn. With it, she made a wand of great power.
One late autumn evening, the Serpent warned Isolt:
"Danger approaches. Your family is doomed. Be vigilant. Your friends in the mountains will aid you."
Thirteen days later, Isolt's aunt, the dark witch Gormlaith Gaunt, attacked Ilvermorny, cursing Isolt and James and trying to kidnap their twin daughters. While casting a Parseltongue curse, Chadwick—away at the time—was suddenly warned by the Horned Serpent's wand. He rushed home, and with the help of William the Pukwudgie, a panther, and a young thunderbird, defeated Gormlaith Gaunt.
(End of Chapter 2)