"I don't care about your unregistered Animagus status, the truth behind the Potters' demise, or your feud with Sirius Black.
"I can keep your secret, not telling a soul who you really are. All you have to do is one thing for me…"
Melvin spoke softly, "As long as the outcome satisfies me, you're free to disappear or stay the Weasleys' pet—it doesn't matter."
"Can I refuse?" Peter asked tentatively.
"I don't think so, Mr. Pettigrew." Melvin swirled his teacup. "If we can't make a deal, I'll have to turn you over to the Ministry. The Aurors will scrutinize you, a suspicious unregistered Animagus. Moody's not as easygoing as I am. You'd need a airtight story to explain why you faked your death and hid with the Weasleys for twelve years."
Is this a threat?
This is a blatant threat!
Peter Pettigrew sat stunned, clutching his teacup, his expression dazed.
According to the young witches and wizards, wasn't Levent supposed to be a kind, gentle professor with a stellar reputation?
This was nothing like what he'd heard. A bad feeling crept over him as he stammered, "W-what… kind of deal?"
Melvin gave a satisfied smile, kindly refilling Peter's pumpkin juice. "Do you know Bellatrix Lestrange?"
"That deranged Death Eater witch?" Peter knew her, of course.
"Yes. The night the Potters were killed, Voldemort vanished, his whereabouts unknown. Bellatrix tortured the Longbottoms to insanity trying to find him, then was caught, tried, and locked in Azkaban."
Assuming Peter, long disguised as a rat, might be out of the loop, Melvin explained patiently.
"What does this have to do with your deal?"
"I want you to infiltrate Azkaban, get close to Bellatrix, and extract her Gringotts vault key." Melvin's tone was light, almost as if asking for something trivial.
Peter's expression shifted, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints, his face a mix of shock, fear, and disbelief.
"You want to rob Bellatrix's Gringotts vault! That's illegal!"
"Oh, Mr. Pettigrew…" Melvin looked mildly displeased, tucking Ulm back into his soft hat. "Is there some misunderstanding? Are you a law-abiding wizard? Or do I need to hand you to the Ministry to remind you who you are?"
"I…" Peter opened his mouth, speechless.
"Besides, I'm only asking you to obtain the key. That doesn't mean anything. Maybe I just want it as a collectible." Melvin shrugged.
Steam rose from the pumpkin juice, blurring Peter's vision with its sweet aroma. His throat bobbed, his rat-like eyes darting as a plan formed.
After a moment, he stuffed the remaining cream cake in his mouth, gulped the juice, and declared with knight-like resolve, "Fine, I'll help you!"
Melvin's reaction wasn't what he expected. Shaking his head, he said, "An unregistered Animagus, a nimble, inconspicuous rat, wouldn't fear capture.
"Once you appease me, slip out of sight and spell range, you could hide anywhere—a wizard family, a sewer, even Hogwarts—and escape my leverage.
"Even if I reported you to the Ministry, who'd believe me? A Second Class Order of Merlin recipient, dead for twelve years, an illegal Animagus and criminal?"
Melvin met Peter's eyes, smiling. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
With each word, Peter's face grew paler, until the final question left him ghostly white.
His right hand slipped under the table, inching toward his wand. Warily, he asked, "What are you going to do?"
"Maybe you need time to cool off and think about this deal. We have plenty of time…"
Melvin spoke slowly, but Peter tensed, his hairs standing on end, his rat-like instincts screaming danger. The moment Melvin finished, Peter grabbed his wand.
But the young professor's spell was faster. Before Peter could raise it, a transfiguration spell engulfed him, despair reflected in his eyes.
A flash of white light, and the portly middle-aged wizard vanished. In his place, a small white rat lay in the cream cake dish, squeaking in terror.
Unlike his Animagus form, this rat was purely Melvin's magic, its shape beyond Peter's control. He could only tremble helplessly.
Ulm, intrigued, poked its head from the hat, eyeing the white rat. It was much prettier than the scruffy gray one.
"Mr. Pettigrew, take your time to think. I'm sure by the time I finish my preparations, our cooperation will be pleasant."
Melvin lifted the rat by its tail and approached a wall shelf, finding the glass jar that once held a beetle. He dropped the rat inside.
The jam jar, fine for a beetle, was cramped for a rat, leaving it curled up pitifully, trembling.
"Perhaps I should ask Professor Snape for a specimen jar," Melvin murmured.
…
The day after Christmas was Boxing Day.
Hogwarts was still swept by snowstorms, but the students' enthusiasm for play remained undimmed. Boys braved the biting wind for snowball fights on the pitch, soaking their clothes with snow and sweat before shivering back to the castle. Girls preferred gathering by the fireplace, chatting and laughing about topics they kept from the boys.
Hermione, a satchel slung over her shoulder, walked alone from the library to the Great Hall.
Recent events had set her back on schoolwork, and she'd read fewer extracurricular books. The Christmas break was a chance to catch up and relax with reading.
If only Madam Pince weren't so strict—she'd love to browse the Restricted Section.
Maybe she could ask Professor Levent for a pass.
Speaking of Professor Levent…
Hermione stared at the steps, descending instinctively, familiar with the shifting staircases. Her mind wandered to what Harry had said: Levent's deal with Malfoy, opening the Chamber early to face the Basilisk, guiding them to the truth, and shaping public opinion through the papers.
What kind of wizard was the professor?
Entering the Great Hall, it was much like Christmas Day. Christmas trees lined the aisles, dry snowflakes drifted from the ceiling, though the candles were gone, making it less ornate.
Sitting at the Gryffindor table, she glanced at the staff table, about to pick up her cutlery when she froze. Two seats were empty.
Dumbledore and Professor Levent were absent from dinner?
Where had they gone?
Staring at the empty seats, the young witch fell into thought.
With no clues, she couldn't guess. Beside her, Ron was pouring out his grief over losing Scabbers to Harry, his endless chatter almost moving.
Hermione gave up speculating, picking up her fork to eat while flipping through today's Daily Prophet.
The front page answered her question.
A photo showed four wizards, three familiar: Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Levent, and Minister Fudge, whom she'd seen from afar. The fourth was a stranger.
Order of Merlin Ceremony!
Today, the Order of Merlin held a grand ceremony. Two wizards received the Second Class Order of Merlin for outstanding contributions: Melvin Levent, for bravely subduing rogue dragons and capturing a dark wizard gang in Romania, and Damocles Belby, for perfecting the Wolfsbane Potion. Their deeds exemplify courage and wisdom, inspiring all wizards.
Melvin Levent: Battling Dragons, Outwitting Dark Wizards, Protecting the Dragon Sanctuary.
As an elective professor at Hogwarts, Levent visited Romania's dragon sanctuary during the summer. A gang stealing dragon eggs enraged 23 brooding mother dragons, causing others to rampage, endangering tourists and keepers. Levent fearlessly stepped in…
At the ceremony, Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore and Minister Cornelius Fudge presented the medals, urging wizards worldwide to follow their example. Their stories shine like beacons in the wizarding world… Reported by Rita Skeeter.
Hermione reread it, lingering on the photo.
Dumbledore and Levent stood to the right, letting Fudge take center stage, his self-important posturing almost comical. The other must be Belby, the Wolfsbane Potion's inventor.
The young witch's lips curved into a smile.
How could a professor like that be a bad wizard?
…
The White Wyvern, Upper Flagley
As night fell, the venue lit up. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, candlelight dazzled. Fairies twirled under the ceiling, holding colorful magical candles, scattering shimmering gold and silver dust that mingled with the crystal chandeliers' glow.
The building was opulent, with velvet carpets and intricately carved granite walls.
Male wizards wore crisp dress robes, pocket squares or medals pinned to their chests, gold-gilded buttons on cuffs. Witches donned elegant gowns, blooming like winter buds.
"Merlin's beard, the incense here's numbing my nose. I can't tell if this is grape juice or wine."
Melvin stood by a dining table, holding a purplish-red drink. He sipped, unable to discern its flavor.
A purple-ribboned gold medal gleamed on his chest under the lights.
"No need to guess—just tell a waiter, and they'll bring what you want," Dumbledore said, wearing a gold-and-red dress robe, a green First Class Order of Merlin medal on his chest. Tall and imposing, his silver hair and beard lent a mystical air, exuding headmasterly authority when serious.
Melvin glanced at the green medal—Merlin's color, Slytherin's color. A fine hue for a fine award, but tainted by Cornelius Fudge owning one too.
Last year, Fudge awarded himself a First Class medal for "outstanding contributions."
The Order of Merlin's prestige had taken a hit, its medals' value diminished.
Melvin's thoughts drifted to that event as he touched the ring on his finger, set with a small, exquisite emerald matching his medal's ribbon.
"Headmaster, do you think Harry and the others will awaken the Basilisk again?"
"Who knows what the future holds?" Dumbledore swirled his goblet, speaking softly. "The bathroom pipe entrance is sealed. If those three keep their promise of secrecy, in a few centuries, the Chamber and Basilisk will truly become a misty legend."
"…"
The music in the hall shifted. Melvin looked up to see witches and wizards dancing—Ministry officials and invited prominent guests.
The spotlight was on a middle-aged wizard, Damocles Belby, the other medal recipient.
With black-framed glasses and hair like Snape's but fluffier—likely styled for the occasion—he wore a light green dress robe, his trousers slightly baggy.
Back in the '70s, Belby had developed a prototype Wolfsbane Potion, but its unstable effects, severe side effects, and costly ingredients, combined with that era's turmoil, prevented widespread use.
After twenty years of refinement, he'd created a commercially viable version, far more economically valuable than busting a dragon egg theft ring. It made Belby the evening's star.
Poor Belby, a potions master, was flushed from drink, led in circles by a young Parkinson witch, dizzy and likely promising away Wolfsbane Potion profits.
Melvin shook his head. "When can we leave?"
"About two hours," Dumbledore said with a grin. "Boredom makes time drag. Want me to introduce you to some old wizards?"
"Speaking of that, I do want to make some connections."
Melvin's gaze settled on a group of Ministry officials.
…
"Madam Bones, may I have this dance?"
Melvin approached the edge of the venue, addressing the middle-aged Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"My pleasure, but I'd rather find a quiet spot to rest my ears," Amelia Bones said with a smile, no ulterior motives in mind. "And hear what Professor Levent wants to discuss."
Melvin didn't mince words. "I'd like to visit Azkaban."