Chapter 62: Malfoy And Lumbardons’ Old Story
Professor of Muggle Studies’ office.
Melvin was flipping through the notice distributed to all teachers and students by the Deputy Headmaster. Last week’s group brawl was too egregious in nature, Professor McGonagall was furious, and this notice was posted in each house’s common room, on the notice board outside the Great Hall, and mailed to each student’s parents.
“Multiple students from Godric Gryffindor and Slytherin House fought during break time, their behavior seriously violated school rules and had a bad influence…
“After discussion by the deans and Headmaster, Godric Gryffindor and Slytherin House house points are cleared to zero, participating students are given a public reprimand, and weekend detention as punishment.
“We hope other students can take this as a warning, study seriously, and strictly abide by all rules and regulations…”
For a full week, howlers from students’ parents could be heard every morning and evening in the school auditorium, deafening and more invigorating than coffee.
Melvin learned many British wizards’ cursing slang, which was indeed more elegant than Ilvermorny’s howlers, but inevitably involved words like feces and urine and such. To protect his hearing and appetite, he recently had house-elves deliver meals to the office, using the saved time to study magic.
As the projection mirror spread to wizard taverns everywhere, Melvin Levent’s name appeared multiple times on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Though unclear why that beetle reporter lady favored him, it didn’t stop Melvin from thanking her.
Melvin set down the parchment, gripped his wand, narrowed his eyes, and sensed the magic power flowing through his body.
The influence of the newspaper was gradually manifesting. Thousands of wizards on this British Isles had chanted his name, creating some secret and subtle connection with him. A small portion of those wizards’ emotional fluctuations birthed unknowable changes that crossed mountain barriers, turning into his faint but steadily growing magic power.
“Iron Armor…”
Melvin murmured softly.
A silver-white metallic luster flashed and vanished, accompanied by a slight but piercing metallic clang. A bubble film of magic power enveloped his whole body and quietly faded.
Covering a range of several inches from his body, far exceeding an ordinary Iron Armor Charm.
The defensive capability still needed testing. Unfortunately, no other spells could be cast while maintaining the Iron Armor Charm, and the several inches of distance wasn’t convenient for powerful spells.
Judging purely by intuition, it should easily block ordinary spells like Stupefy, Splitting Charm, and Impediment, though dark magic was uncertain.
Perhaps he could ask Professor Snape to help test it…
While Melvin was considering feasibility, the office doorway was suddenly knocked on, and Caretaker Filch’s voice came into the room:
“Professor Levent, the Headmaster wants you to go to the Great Hall Antechamber for a meeting.”
“Got it…”
Melvin agreed aloud, pondering inwardly while tidying the documents on the desk, pocketing his wand, donning his outer coat, and heading out to the Great Hall Antechamber.
A meeting… Was there some emergency?
Dumbledore was still at school, and Quirrell was in no position to act rashly now.
Dinner had ended, but it wasn’t lights-out yet. Students were still wandering the corridors and staircases, with few first years in sight. The occasional ones seen were from badger and raven houses; none of the students involved in that group fight were around.
Melvin had some guesses in his mind.
Arriving at the Great Hall, he finally saw those students, sitting quietly on either side of two long tables, heads down like quails. Hearing footsteps, some looked up.
Melvin saw Hermione and the main culprits from that day. The bruises and swelling on their faces had completely faded, their clothes tidied, and they were lively again. The two groups met eyes with fierce expressions. Draco and Neville glared deadly at each other, likely to clash again later.
Entering the antechamber, not all professors were at the meeting—only the four deans and Quirrell. This main course professor looked listless, waxen-faced, bloated, eyes red as if he’d been crying, resting in the corner.
Dumbledore stood in the room’s center, speaking softly with Professor McGonagall and Snape beside him, expression unclear.
Sensing the room’s light and shadow shifting, all eyes gathered on Melvin. He frowned slightly, appropriately showing puzzlement.
“Melvin, sorry to call you so late.” Dumbledore’s voice was steady. “There are too many students accepting detention punishment. After assigning jobs like polishing the display of awards, clearing greenhouse compost, and cleaning bathrooms, a few main culprits remain. After discussion with several deans, we’ve decided to punish them with patrolling the Forbidden Forest.”
Detention slots full—this achievement was worthy of the school history.
Professor McGonagall’s expression was grave, still angry about this vicious brawl.
Hearing the last item, Melvin impassively glanced at Quirrell in the corner, thoughts surging.
“The first few tasks will be supervised by Mr. Filch, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Sprout. For the Forbidden Forest, including Hagrid, we still need two professors. It was originally McGonagall and Snape, but Professor Snape says he has a cauldron of potions at a critical stage tonight and can’t leave long. I asked Professor Quirrell, but he says his illness still needs healing…”
Dumbledore paused. “So we’ll have to trouble you, Professor Levent.”
Melvin’s peripheral vision caught Quirrell in the corner stiffening, right hand clutching his headscarf fiercely, swollen fingers whitening from the force, looking extremely angry.
Melvin’s expression was odd. Could the Headmaster have calculated that his body was on the verge of collapse, planning a Forbidden Forest hunt tonight?
During Christmas holiday, Quirrell used a dragon egg and alcohol to extract intel from Hagrid, then hid in the Hospital Wing recuperating. After school started, he stayed reclusive, appearing only in class.
Melvin suspected he’d toughed it out for a while, realized his life force was rapidly decaying, and only then thought of unicorns. But the Headmaster had coordinated early defenses with Forbidden Forest groups, leaving Quirrell no chance.
By the timeline, this body’s life force was nearing exhaustion.
If unicorn hunting failed, Quirrell couldn’t delay further and would have to seize the Philosopher’s Stone before his body fully withered, risking it all in weakness—a smaller threat to Harry and the others…
The Headmaster’s calculations were truly meticulous.
“I understand.” Melvin nodded in agreement.
Quirrell against the wall clutched his dangling headscarf, veins bulging on his gripped fist.
…
Forbidden Forest edge.
Scottish Highlands winters are long; snow hadn’t melted. No clouds or stars visible overhead, bright moonlight illuminating the snow white and vast, all silent.
The gamekeeper carried an oil lamp ahead, the half-giant with stone bow and quiver, pink umbrella at his waist, beaver fur boots stepping steadily into soft snow, footsteps especially clear in the night forest.
Behind Hagrid were two groups: on one side Godric Gryffindor’s Harry, Ron, Neville, and Hermione; on the other Slytherin’s Draco, Theo, Pansy, and Daphne.
“Don’t be scared, the centaurs organized patrols—the forest is actually very safe.” Hagrid’s voice boomed. “Acromantulas and nasty vipers are hibernating in caves, no bloodsucking leeches or stinging wasps this season. We’ll circle twice and head back.”
“…”
Little wizards sniffled, silently slowing to stay closer to the two professors behind for safety.
Night was cold with biting wind; air chilled the nose. The little wizards’ noses were red and runny.
At the rear were Professor McGonagall and Melvin, responsible for security.
“Fortunately we have your Muggle Studies class—this group brawl had no upperclassmen, or it could have been worse.” Professor McGonagall thanked Melvin, explaining. “Slytherin upperclassmen were about to join, but elective Muggle Studies student Cassius Warrington talked with Lee Jordan to let them fight it out themselves. Team captain Marcus Flint agreed, and so did the other students.”
Melvin recalled that bucktoothed Marcus, who hadn’t taken Muggle Studies but thanked him at term start, saying the projection mirror got him a trial invite from an Argentine youth team.
“That was unexpected.”
“Godric Gryffindor and Slytherin House have longstanding tensions—nearly every year brings similar conflicts, sometimes brawls, very unpleasant. Few students reach agreements.”
Professor McGonagall sighed. “I thought it was due to house family backgrounds—many Slytherins pure-blood, raised with superiority from parents; Godric Gryffindors often misunderstand true courage, acting rashly.”
“School is just a phase of life; they learn these vital lessons after graduation.” Melvin nudged Fang at his trouser leg, who kept trying to bite his heel.
“I think the school doesn’t emphasize this education enough, or we professors haven’t guided them properly.”
Melvin didn’t think it all Hogwarts’ fault. “Hogwarts is the only magic school around, maintaining independent operation free from outside ideologies while not imposing teachers’ or Headmaster’s views on students—a safe, correct choice. In former Headmaster Black’s era, pure-blood ideology was mainstream and the school didn’t favor it; now Muggle-pure-blood equality is budding, and the school doesn’t favor that either.”
“Is that so…”
Professor McGonagall repeated softly, eyeing this young professor beside her, wondering how Professor Levent, so young, had such profound thoughts.
Was Ilvermorny’s education level that high?
Along the path into the dense woods, they soon reached a fork. Hagrid turned to the students and professors behind. “This is the fork—everyone split up. Centaur patrols are in the woods; they know me, Professor McGonagall, and you with Fang, Professor Levent. For emergencies, fire a signal skyward. We’ll regroup here after patrol.”
Professor McGonagall and Melvin respected the professional’s opinion, each selecting students for groups.
Ten minutes later, moonlight filtered through treetops onto the soft snowy path. Hermione, Neville, and Draco were dazed—they’d wanted to stay with house friends but were inexplicably picked by Professor Levent.
Melvin teased Fang while breaking the silence. “Neville, haven’t you replaced your old wand yet?”
“I… this is my father’s wand.”
“I see…”
Such matters were most troublesome.
Melvin pondered briefly. “By classical duelling etiquette, a wizard losing combat has their wand broken. You don’t want to lose a match due to an ill-suited wand and have it snapped, do you?”
“…”
Neville’s face paled instantly, clearly heeding the advice.
Hermione eyed Melvin covertly, pondering if that Chocolate Frog was coincidence, and probed: “Professor, have you heard of Nicolas Flamel?”
“Not only heard of him—I met him. He and Dumbledore recruited me to the school together.”
“…”
The answer was too frank, no suspicious points.
Was she overthinking?
The little witch furrowed her brows, sinking into self-doubt.
Beside her, Draco’s heart sank. He’d thought the others unfamiliar with the elective professor too, but these talks suggested only he was unacquainted with Professor Levent.
As he pondered escaping a beating and calling for help, he heard the professor call his name.
“Draco Malfoy, right?”
“Hm? Ah! Yes, Professor.”
“Theo’s Fort has a tavern run by a retired Auror—your family rents the shop to Old Will, right?”
“Yes… I think so?” Draco wasn’t sure; at 12, he didn’t know family business, but with their vast properties, if the professor said so, probably.
“Do you know how low that shop’s rent is?”
Melvin said casually: “Neighboring shops rent for over a thousand Galleons yearly, but your father rents to Old Will for under a hundred Galleons a year, and thirty years’ tenancy grants land ownership.”
Hermione and Neville perked ears.
They’d calculated: at that rate and price, the Malfoy family was basically giving the shop to Old Will.
Draco frowned tightly.
How would his shrewd father, Malfoy family head, do such a losing business?
Melvin seemed to read their doubt and explained preemptively: “Because Old Will lost his arm to a Death Eater blast. Your parents were notorious Death Eaters, claiming Imperius Curse control after the Dark Lord’s fall, narrowly escaping trial. They’ve compensated Aurors injured or killed fighting Death Eaters for years—dozens of cases like Old Will’s.”
“Your father publicly says though controlled, he’ll atone, investing thousands of Galleons yearly. Papers call him kind-hearted, repentant; taverns call him hypocritical, just chasing reputation to avoid old accounts.”
Melvin asked offhandedly: “Which do you think your father is?”
Hermione and Neville side-eyed him, answers clear.
Draco had an answer inwardly but couldn’t voice it.
Melvin shifted: “Mr. and Mrs. Lumbardon were famed Auror spouses back then, captured and tortured by Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange—your mother’s sister, your aunt. She Cruciatus-ed their brains to ruin.”
Neville jerked his head up, glaring at Draco, eyes teary but icy cold as snow and moon.
Melvin ignored Draco, teasing Fang at his feet: “Your parents held high status and fame among Death Eaters; many enemies remember. Whenever the Ministry loosened, victims’ families protested at tribunal. The Malfoys nearly faced trial, one step from Azkaban life sentence.
“To win Auror favor, Malfoy family wealth was scattered freely, especially seeking Neville’s grandmother’s forgiveness. But the Lumbardons lack for nothing, and old Mrs. Longbottom is a stubborn old lady, itching to Killing Curse all Death Eaters—refusing the Galleons even in death.”
Draco paled ashen.
“But Mr. Lucius Malfoy is clever, always finding the right use for Galleons. He looped around, donating to St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, requiring healers to care meticulously for the Auror couple, pouring vast resources yearly into curing Cruciatus aftereffects.”
All three students listened stunned; Melvin learned this from tavern owners: “In the end, old Mrs. Longbottom didn’t forgive, but stopped rallying Lumbardon family old friends to protest at tribunal.”
“…”
Draco avoided their faces, stammering: “I… I didn’t know that candy wrapper… was from his mum. I even kept his book clean.”
“I’d rather you ruined my book!” Neville cried out.
Draco was speechless.
The dense woods grew quieter.
“Whoosh—”
At that moment, a burst of red sparks shot skyward, instantly lighting half the sky.
