Chapter 112: Headmaster, I’m Doing It All For The School!
The light rain continued intermittently until the next morning.
When the first Portkey to New York activated in the morning, the Reserve had not yet begun admitting tourists, the tired Fire Dragons had quieted down, and the entire mountain range was very quiet.
Norwegian Ridgeback center area, on the lawn in front of the camp.
Hagrid lit a fire on a flat stone, the damp firewood crackled as it burned, producing choking bluish-white smoke, and he grinned, “With Melvin’s flames, Norberta will definitely be willing to get close to me, so I can play with her however I want, right? Hehe…”
Professor Kettleburn ignored him and buried his head in reviewing two lesson plans in front of him, one for training students and one for training successor professors.
Before leaving, Melvin not only left him a dozen jars of blue flames but also specially gave him a small projection mirror, instructing him not to forget to sort through the images of magical creatures in his mind, paying attention to perspective and aesthetics, and adding commentary and music.
“Sigh…”
The old professor about to retire sighed, feeling busier than a normal workday, and could only comfort himself: “I’ll retire next year.”
“Hoo…”
After sighing, he took a deep breath, accidentally inhaling the smoke from Hagrid’s burning damp firewood, and immediately started coughing.
……
In the restaurant at the Aurors and keepers’ station, the house-elf chefs and waiters were already busy.
During summer vacation, there were more guests to serve, as those having breakfast included not only Reserve and Ministry of Magic staff but also some staff relatives, which was a kind of employee internal benefit.
The surrounding keepers occasionally mentioned that young professor:
Some were grateful that he quelled the Fire Dragon riot, captured the conspiring black wizard who escaped, and almost single-handedly solved the dragon egg theft case; some marveled at his blue fire magic, which could make violent and restless Fire Dragons gentle and friendly, regretting that such magic could not be spread;
Others had tavern-related businesses at home, their hearts burning with excitement; after a few weeks, they had directly felt the profits in neighboring Budapest and eagerly anticipated getting a share from the young professor.
The two witches from the Rocher family sat in the corner, opposite a still-warm fireplace.
Old Vida looked up at Kristin across from him, seeing her eating very quietly, the Rocher family’s dining etiquette unchanged for decades, her fair face slightly reddened by the firelight.
She seemed to be thinking of nothing.
At eight fifteen, Melvin stepped into the floor of the Romanian Ministry of Magic Department of Transportation, entering a brightly lit room with several other wizards heading to New York.
Seven or eight wizards sat around a round table, placing their hands on the worn tablecloth, its frayed patches somewhat rough.
They quietly sized up the wizards around them; although this was an official Portkey channel and everyone had passed security checks, no one casually started a conversation.
After a few minutes, several wizards suddenly sensed something and looked down at the tablecloth-style Portkey,
Its worn patches trembled lightly; around the round table, space seemed to take on physical form, layering and overlapping like paper, with many terrains and landscapes emerging, while the wizards’ bodies quickly became transparent.
Melvin only felt a powerful pulling force on his abdomen, a sense of weightlessness enveloping him, his entire body instantly crossing those layered spaces.
His feet landed heavily on the ground; coming back to his senses, they were already in another room, the tablecloth still the same one, but the table and chairs gone, a familiar yet strange accent coming from the ceiling speaker:
“Dear passengers, the Portkey from Bucharest to New York has arrived. Please proceed quickly to immigration to register your wand…”
A female voice slightly gentler than that of the British Ministry of Magic echoed in the not-too-large room, but no one left immediately; most wizards chose to simply tidy their hair and attire.
Having instantly crossed nearly five thousand miles, one elderly wizard’s hair was almost blown bald.
Walking out of the room, a road sign labeled Woolworth was posted on the wall.
Melvin stood to the side of the corridor passage, watching the staff and wizards handling business pass by; amid the disordered and hasty footsteps, there was a sense of familiarity. Compared to the classical decor of the British Ministry of Magic, the modern office building was indeed more pleasing.
As expected, returning to this building after a year, a certain Deputy Head of the Auror’s Office soon received the news and hurried over to personally inspect.
“Mr. Grevis, long time no see. Thank you very much for forwarding my letters.”
“…” Grevis said nothing, silently checking and verifying the information.
“The wand is registered, and the suitcase has official permission from the Ministry of Magic. Rest assured, Mr. Grevis, you know me—I would absolutely never violate any country’s wizard laws within its borders.”
“…”
“What a pity!” Melvin looked at the middle-aged Auror before him, patiently cooperating with the inspection while idly glancing at his badge. “A diligent Auror like you, held back by the Ministry of Magic’s outdated and rigid ways, unable to get a promotion or reward.”
This Mr. Grevis’s position was still deputy head, the same as a year ago.
For a senior Auror nearing fifty, with significant achievements and no major obvious mistakes during his tenure, such a promotion speed was clearly abnormal.
Grevis knew it was abnormal, but who could he blame? Who but for his Grevis name, for prosecuting a certain stage effects designer and losing the case, for that incident becoming nationally known?
Oh, it was this guy!
The grim-faced Grevis remained silent, merely rechecking Melvin’s identity documents and Undetectable Extension Charm permit several times, trying to find evidence to put him in prison.
But unfortunately, Melvin knew American Ministry of Magic laws better than he did.
“Mr. Grevis, may I ask if the Ministry of Magic has had any cases involving Purifiers in the past two years?”
The Auror deputy head didn’t look up: “What era do you think this is? Those bounty criminals the witch hunters sold to the Puritans were cleared out by twelve Aurors right at the founding of the American Ministry of Magic!”
“As you said, Purifiers are bounty criminals, greedy villains chasing gold—how could such people be completely cleared out?”
“What do you mean?”
Grevis stopped checking the documents, staring at him warily: “Have you received some secret news related to the Purifiers? From where—Britain’s London or Romania? No, Budapest, right!?”
As a senior Auror from an Auror family, Grevis had a very keen sense for this.
Back in the New Continent era, Purifiers did anything for gold, capturing wizard criminals who fled to America for bounties while selling wizards to the witch-hunting Puritans; after the American Ministry of Magic was established, indeed many criminals escaped trial.
Some married, had children, and hid domestically, harboring hatred for the Ministry of Magic under assumed names;
Some fled to other countries, continuing dark wizard activities, infamous.
“…”
Melvin knew from one listen that they hadn’t received the news here yet—after all, Romania couldn’t confirm the behind-the-scenes instigator’s identity either and would likely hand the file to the International Confederation of Wizards.
He showed a thoughtful look, looking at the eager middle-aged director, and chuckled softly: “I’m not clear on the exact news, but I can give you some clues. Romania recently had a very vicious dragon egg theft case, said to be related to Purifiers and the New Salem Philanthropic Society.”
“Second Salem!”
Grevis’s expression turned serious.
This was an old friend of the Grevis family—Salem was even an old friend of the American Ministry of Magic. Unlike the loose Purifiers, these were organized, disciplined Muggle fanatics; since the late 17th century, they had been obsessed with exposing and eliminating wizards.
Seventy years ago, if not for Newt Scamander and his dangerous creatures, the American Ministry of Magic would almost have been exposed.
“Are you sure the theft case is related to them?”
“Not very certain.”
Melvin decisively denied it, while putting away his wand and suitcase, saying: “But if such a major case is cracked, it should wash away the Grevis family’s shame; the credit would be enough for the Deputy Head of the Auror’s Office to be smoothly promoted, possibly even to Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within a few years…”
“Wash away shame… smooth promotion…”
Listening to his murmur, Grevis felt this guy was a devil tempting him to fall, a viper luring people to eat the red fruit, but he had to admit the fruit was indeed very tempting.
Melvin had a faint smile on his face; he wasn’t deceiving or misleading this Auror, just cleverly omitting some irrelevant clue information.
Things like Ilvermorny weren’t in the criminals’ confessions or files.
Walking out of the Woolworth Building, Melvin turned back and waved to him with a brilliant smile:
“Good luck, Mr. Grevis!”
……
Broadway district, Gershwin Theatre.
There wasn’t much foot or vehicle traffic at the intersection; it was only nine in the morning, not yet matinee time, so the theater wasn’t open to the public—only some tourists hurriedly passing by for photos, with things picking up after two in the afternoon.
The sun was gradually rising, the air becoming muggy.
A tall, slender figure carried an iced Americano, strolling along the street in front of the theater, eyeing the posted posters with furrowed brows, muttering disdainfully that this stuff wasn’t for humans to drink, yet still sipping it in small mouthfuls.
The decor hadn’t changed much, nor had the classic shows; from the poster portraits, the theater was still using his designed stage effects—after all, both magic and technology could achieve it, just slightly more cumbersome.
Melvin sipped the coffee expressionlessly, recalling his working days here—nothing particularly special. He was too young to feel nostalgic or sentimental at familiar scenes.
Staff occasionally came and went; unclear if backstage or maintenance, probably still the original bunch.
Someone seemed to notice the figure looked familiar, recalling the theater manager and owner’s frequent regrets, just about to confirm carefully when a car with an unusually heavy engine sound drove by—
With a loud boom.
The figure disappeared across the street.
The staff blinked hard, thinking he must be too tired from work and needed an iced Americano from the nearby café.
……
Half an hour later.
Outside Berkshire County, Massachusetts, at the foot of Mount Greylock.
The winding mountain road turned here; going ahead led to the next town. Melvin wasn’t in a hurry to return to Ilvermorny, casually found a fast food place, filled his stomach with fried chicken and cola, then hiked up the mountain.
After all, it was a magic school; Ilvermorny had the necessary protective magics like Muggle-Repelling Charms and Apparition wards, but for wizards, the mountain road wasn’t hard, and the animals in the mountain forest were friendly to Melvin.
Mid-August, temperate continental climate, some maple leaves already turning yellow.
The distant mountaintop was shrouded in clouds and mist; looking closely, a castle was faintly visible, with tower spires vaguely piercing the depths of the fog.
For Muggles without magic, they’d probably only see rocks and treetops—even standing before the castle, just a pile of crushed stone ruins.
Melvin wore a jacket, walking leisurely up the mountain, looking at the roadside scenery, occasionally startling passing squirrels or being startled by vipers disguised as fallen leaves.
The town air was muggy; near the mountaintop, with higher elevation, the temperature dropped, feeling a bit cold.
The Horned Serpent always said it didn’t like staying at the mountaintop, especially in autumn and winter—too low a temperature made it sleepy, and for such a long-lived magical creature, hibernation could mean years or decades.
“…”
Melvin walked slowly toward the castle, looking at the four statues standing before him, their embedded gemstones emitting four colors of faint light, the nearby stream winding down the mountain, sparse leaves casting dappled shadows.
He felt a bit emotional after all.
Ilvermorny didn’t have a gamekeeper position; Pukwudgies generally handled security patrols. These creatures were distant relatives of European goblins, short, with grayish-white skin, broad ears, and powerful magical abilities.
They were the original inhabitants of Greylock, originally unwilling to interact with humans; Isolt Sayre established deep friendship with them at the school’s founding. Through generations of mutual help, they had developed to the point where Pukwudgies became school-employed staff.
The headmaster paid them wages; they handled the castle’s miscellaneous work, security, cleaning, catering, and such.
Similar to Hogwarts house-elves, but much higher status, basically on par with wizards.
Alert magic and scrying mirrors were set around the statues; detecting unplanned magic fluctuations, Pukwudgies secretly investigated, saw it was a former student, and hurriedly went back to inform the wizards staying at the school.
Current Headmaster Aegilbert Fontana was dutiful—unlike a certain white-bearded headmaster, he wouldn’t push work to the deputy headmaster; he was the one staying over summer vacation.
“Isn’t this Mr. Lavent, who dropped out to be an elective professor at Hogwarts? How did you end up at our Ilvermorny?”
Headmaster Fontana was around sixty, with a loud voice, only gray hair at his temples, in good health, ruddy-faced.
Considered young among wizards, his speech content also youthful, his tone mastering that sarcastic essence.
Melvin wasn’t surprised at all; Hogwarts was the world’s most famous magic school, Ilvermorny’s founder came from there, and the headmaster aspired to catch up, usually paying close attention to that side’s situation—knowing his history was normal.
He didn’t answer such a sensitive question, instead looking serious and solemn: “Headmaster Fontana, I’ve come back specifically to inform you that Ilvermorny is involved in a major international case with severe impact!”
“?”
