Chapter 58: Wizengamot Line
Eleven years had passed since the matter, and Dumbledore, having experienced too many partings in life and death over the past century, could calmly handle the sadness and reminiscence emerging from his heart, but every time he thought of that young mother who left a blessing on her child with her life, he was still somewhat moved.
After finishing the story of that year, Dumbledore paused to savor the hot drink, allowing both Melvin and himself to sort out their thoughts, while secretly observing the young professor sitting opposite him, pondering how he should brush off the question if Melvin asked about Voldemort’s Horcrux or that ancient magic.
With a Scottish joke or a New York wizard joke…
Unfortunately, Melvin raised no questions, just silently drinking tea and sorting out his thoughts like him, his expression calm.
“I’m already 111 years old. I’m not sure how much longer I can live, and I can’t be certain how many times Voldemort can come back. Last time we paid a heavy price and barely defeated him. This time, with exhaustive efforts, we might defeat him again. But what about after that?” Dumbledore asked softly.
The old headmaster’s expression was so calm it didn’t seem like he was discussing his own lifespan, but Melvin could detect the barely perceptible worry in his words—not worry for himself, but for Voldemort’s tricky Horcrux.
International Confederation of Wizards president, Wizengamot chief, accomplishments rivaling the founder, but even a legendary wizard is still a wizard. Dumbledore was not omniscient or omnipotent. He didn’t care about his own life and death, believing Voldemort’s revival this time would be thwarted, but he still worried about not completely eliminating Voldemort, concerned that Voldemort would once again turn into a malevolent spirit and lurk, reviving again in a dozen years or even decades.
“The future needs young wizards like you to create it.” Dumbledore’s gaze swept over the ring on his finger, then withdrew, looking solemnly at the young wizard sitting opposite him. “I also need your help, Melvin.”
“Sounds like trouble.”
“…”
Dumbledore heard that he had agreed, revealing a kindly smile, and returned to the matter of Voldemort: “According to my original plan, Professor Quirrell will start acting as this school year nears its end, giving Harry a lesson on the Dark Lord.”
“Professor Quirrell is dedicated to his duties.”
Melvin expressed agreement.
Professor Quirrell was dedicated to his duties, devoting all his energy to the great cause of education.
The kind willing to burn himself to cultivate outstanding students, even at the cost of turning to ashes.
Dumbledore also acknowledged the professor he had hired, but had slight reservations about the course progress: “Voldemort, possessing Quirrell’s body, is draining Quirrell’s life every moment. On the night of the Christmas banquet, Quirrell’s claim of serious illness wasn’t entirely a lie—that body has already begun to rot. Adding tonight’s use of magic power, the situation will only get worse. Death has come for this master and servant. Before, they could lurk and wait for opportunities, but after tonight, their patience might rot away along with their flesh. Harry and the others need to speed up the progress.”
Melvin shook his head and reminded him: “Not necessarily.”
Dumbledore looked over with puzzled eyes.
Melvin made the reminder based on distant memories deep in his soul: “Voldemort and Quirrell are lurking and hiding because they fear the Wizengamot chief wizard in the castle. As long as you, the headmaster, are still at the school, they can only continue waiting for the right moment. Before, they used herbs to delay the invasion of death. Now that the situation has worsened, they just need to switch to more effective potions.”
Potions that could delay the invasion of death—there were only a few in the entire wizarding world, and one of them happened to be in the school’s Forbidden Forest.
Dumbledore frowned slightly, then quickly realized, murmuring softly: “Unicorn blood.”
…
When Hagrid woke up, his head hurt a bit, still dizzy, unsure if it was the alcohol or sleeping too long. He sat up shakily, picked up the water kettle by the bedside, and gulped down half a kettle of cold water, sobering up completely, with the headache much reduced.
He threw off the blanket and got out of bed, seeing Fang lying by the bed, with half a pot of soup still in the pot on the table.
Hagrid was stunned for a moment: “Did you make this?”
He then realized he was confused, clutching his head as he began to recall last night’s events.
Leaving the Three Broomsticks, he invited them to the Hog’s Head Inn for drinks… Dumbledore and Flitwick refused, Melvin and that artisan accompanied him into the bar… Ordered three bottles of Flame Whiskey, but as soon as the two sat down, they started talking about the tavern’s projection mirror…
He went out to use the toilet, and couldn’t remember what happened after that.
“One bottle of wine knocked me out?”
Hagrid found it hard to accept, thumping his head, trying hard to recall, only managing to remember various fire dragon names and an image of dragon flame spewing.
“What dragon is the silver-white flame?”
The more he recalled, the more doubts arose, and the more doubts, the more his head hurt. Hagrid racked his brains and could only deduce that Professor Levent had brought him back; he didn’t know the rest.
“Woof woof!”
Fang circled at his feet, tugging at his trouser leg toward the table, reminding him there was still half a pot of soup there.
Hagrid chuckled and rubbed its dog head: “You’re right, breakfast first.”
Ten minutes later.
The hound Fang watched the half-giant slurp down the soup with satisfied sighs, then looked at the plate of plain boiled meat in front of himself and stayed silent for a long time.
That was clearly its dog food…
Hagrid ate his fill and drank his fill, belching, his stomach warm and comfortable.
He had thought Professor Levent was some pure-blood family wizard, but unexpectedly he was quite approachable, and the soup he made was so delicious.
He should invite him for drinks again sometime.
…
On the third evening after Christmas, a little argument broke out in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory.
“Want to play chess?”
“No.”
“Want to check on Hagrid?”
“Don’t want to go, you go.”
“Harry, I know you’re still thinking about that mirror. I must remind you not to go again tonight.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I just have a very bad feeling. Seeing desires and dreams and such, a magic mirror that makes people obsessed is never a good thing in stories. It might even be a dark magic item. And you’ve been lucky to escape so many times. Filch, Snape, and Mrs. Norris patrol at night. What if you get caught?”
“You sound like Hermione.”
“I’m not joking, Harry. Really don’t go.”
“…”
Harry didn’t heed his roommate’s advice. From the time he could remember, he had never seen his dad or mom, and in the previous ten years, he had never experienced parental love. Now he finally had a chance to see his parents’ faces—Merlin himself couldn’t stop him, let alone Ron’s baseless guesses.
Night fell, Harry donned the Invisibility Cloak, left the dormitory, passed through the common room, and climbed out the portrait hole.
“Naughty fellow, who are you!?” The Fat Lady asked angrily. She had been disturbed from her sweet dreams for three nights in a row; even with the headmaster’s instructions, she still had to scold.
Harry stayed silent, apologizing silently in his heart.
The torches in the corridor had gone out. With darkness and the Invisibility Cloak as double insurance, Harry wasn’t as panicked as the previous night. He went downstairs lightly, avoided the patrolling Filch and Mrs. Norris, and soon arrived at the abandoned classroom, standing before the Mirror of Erised.
“Mom… Dad…”
Harry gazed obsessively at the mirror surface, stroking the mirror surface as he sat on the floor. He wanted to stay here all night; no one could stop him from being with his family—not even Merlin!
“You’re back again, Harry?”
“Headmaster Dumbledore! I… I didn’t see you.”
“The Invisibility Cloak shouldn’t obstruct your view. Maybe your nearsightedness has worsened.” Dumbledore said with a smile, coming to sit beside him. “Or perhaps you were so eager to see the Mirror of Erised that you ignored your surroundings.”
“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.”
“I’m just calling it that based on the inscription above.”
“Erised…”
“You can try reading it backwards.”
“…”
In the castle’s abandoned classroom, the kindly headmaster began giving psychological counseling to the first-year student, while five hundred miles away in London, Melvin walked through Charing Cross Road, pushed open the revolving door of an old tavern, and stepped inside.
The tavern was at its liveliest, the dim yellow kerosene lamps unable to fully light the room, instead adding a hazy, mysterious atmosphere to the bar. An oddly dressed old witch sat in the corner, emitting a hoarse, shrill laugh. A Gringotts goblin was going wild on the long table. The ones mixing drinks and serving customers were several young nephews from the Abo family. Old Tom was hiding behind the counter slacking off, chatting with a few male wizards.
Hearing the copper bell above the door ring, Old Tom’s gaze turned over. Seeing the visitor, his eyes lit up, revealing a brilliant smile, his wrinkled face squeezing together to show toothless gums, like a shriveled walnut.
“Professor Levent!”
Old Tom hurried out from behind the counter, pulling him toward a room on the second floor. “Please wait a few minutes. Wright already told me. I didn’t expect you’d come early; he’ll be here soon.”
The tavern’s second floor was a guesthouse, specially tidied up for guests, with neatly arranged table and chairs inside. The air was filled with a faint alcoholic fragrance, the fireplace crackling, and the faint sound of cars passing outside the window could be heard.
“Old Tom, we haven’t seen each other for just a few months, it’s not like we just met today. No need to be so polite.” Melvin was somewhat helpless. “I still prefer how you were during summer vacation—a bit polite, but not too much.”
“Yeah, well, tonight we’re talking business…”
Old Tom chuckled twice, showing his toothless gums. “Let me tell you, a couple months ago there was a period when lots of patrons came in every night. I thought it was merchant caravans from Knockturn Alley coming over after business for a drink to relax. But when I tallied up at night, business hadn’t changed. I asked around and found out they were all coming to use the bar’s fireplace, going from Diagon Alley to Hogsmeade just to watch the match at the Three Broomsticks.”
“News spreads that fast?”
“Yeah, at first it was just friends and family of Hogsmeade villagers going to join in the fun. Then everyone knew the Three Broomsticks could show Hogwarts house Quidditch matches. My regular patrons Codoli and Diggo went and came back nagging me… The Boy Who Lived is the Seeker, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, thrilling match, and in the end Harry Potter grabbed the Golden Snitch to win.”
Old Tom seemed to have long been dissatisfied, chattering on: “It’s really outrageous!”
“So you want to buy a projection mirror too?”
“Exactly!” Old Tom nodded emphatically.
Melvin chuckled lightly: “Didn’t expect you to have that in mind. I always see you hiding behind the counter slacking off, not doing cleaning, dragging out mixing drinks. I thought you didn’t care about the tavern’s business.”
Old Tom blinked, looking up at him: “I don’t care.”
“Then why do you want to buy a projection mirror?”
“Because I want to watch Harry Potter’s matches too.” Old Tom said matter-of-factly. “The Leaky Cauldron is the entrance to Diagon Alley, the public fireplace is here, and regulars come every day for a couple drinks. The tavern can’t close for business, and I can’t leave. To watch the matches, I can only buy a projection mirror.”
“…”
Melvin showed a thoughtful expression.
The influence of Quidditch events was even stronger than he had anticipated, plus the star player, Harry Potter’s label—the spread was faster than expected. Diagon Alley in London was like this; what about wizard settlements elsewhere?
Would tavern owners in other places want to buy projection mirrors too?
How long would it take to establish a theater system in the wizarding world?
The tavern owner didn’t know the young professor had zoned out and was still muttering complaints. For so many years he had been guarding the Leaky Cauldron; others could go traveling, but he was stuck in London. The Quidditch World Cup every four years—posters always plastered in the shop—but he had never seen one in person.
“And those awful guys like Diggo, showing off the matches right in front of me after watching!” Old Tom gnashed his toothless jaws. “Every time mixing drinks, I want to spit a couple mouthfuls of saliva into their drinks!”
“Creak…”
The door swung open.
Wright and Borgin stood stunned in the doorway holding a tray of butterbeer. They had rushed over from outside, specially ordering a dozen beers to support the tavern’s business. Pushing open the door, they heard the tavern owner say he wanted to spit into the drinks, unsure for a moment whether to enter.
“…”
Wright began reflecting: In past years watching World Cup matches, had he bragged in the shop, had he let Old Tom mix his drinks by hand.
Borgin began reflecting: As a Knockturn Alley merchant, had he offended the Diagon Alley tavern owner anywhere.
Old Tom was caught red-handed by patrons, his expression slightly unnatural. He coughed twice and started scratching his head—though he had no hair, it just felt itchy, probably because the Imperius Curse had made him spout nonsense.
Melvin didn’t join their dispute, ushering the two into the room and taking a butterbeer, asking them: “No one told me Mr. Borgin would join tonight’s conversation. Is there good news for me?”
“Indeed good news.”
Borgin let out a slick laugh: “Lots of wizards have seen that projection mirror at the Three Broomsticks and understand its value. They’re not as well-informed as Old Tom, can’t tell it’s Monkstanley family craftsmanship, can’t find Wright’s repair shop, so they can only come to Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley.”
“How many people want to buy?”
Melvin was in a quite pleasant mood.
His magic court line was set.
