Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, illuminating the dust and dirt clinging to the base of the founders' statues. A Pukwudgie caretaker quietly wiped it clean with a cloth. During the summer holidays, the Ilvermorny campus was silent, save for the rhythmic snip-snip of pruning shears as the Pukwudgie tended to the trees and flowers.
A sudden burst of noise broke the stillness. The Pukwudgie glanced toward the source, spotting Headmaster Fontana talking with a young wizard at the end of the empty tree-lined path. The wizard was strikingly handsome, tall and lean, with a warm smile on his face.
Dark hair, dark eyes, and a hint of mystery—he looked vaguely familiar.
"The dark wizards who stole the dragon eggs were Ilvermorny graduates…" Headmaster Fontana sighed. "The Scourers, that lot of soul-selling criminals, still haven't died out. To think, wizards mixing with the Second Salem Philanthropic Society—for gold, they'd do just about anything."
Melvin studied the two founders' statues. "If I recall correctly, seventy years ago, the Second Salem Philanthropic Society was tangled up in the Grindelwald and Pure-Blood Saints case. Their leader, Mary Lou Barebone, was a descendant of the Scourers."
"Exactly," Fontana said. "I thought the Magical Congress had wiped her memory, but it seems Barebone… and her bloodline… are still around."
Fontana chuckled, recalling some old anecdotes. "Bartholomew Barebone single-handedly brought down the Twelvetrees family. Mary Lou Barebone caused trouble for the Graves family. Those old purebloods probably get migraines just hearing the name Barebone."
Melvin's lips curved into a faint smile.
In the late 18th century, a witch named Dorcus Twelvetrees fell for a charming No-Maj named Bartholomew Barebone. She spilled countless magical secrets to him—the location of MACUSA, Ilvermorny, major wizarding communities, and details of the International Statute of Secrecy.
Bartholomew promptly published it all, triggering the largest magical exposure in history.
The Magical Congress of the United States faced severe reprimands from the International Confederation of Wizards. The then-MACUSA president, Emily Rappaport, sent Aurors to erase memories, but the fallout was so catastrophic that she was publicly humiliated at the Confederation's meeting.
When the president was shamed, her subordinates suffered. Dorcus's father, Aristotle Twelvetrees, MACUSA's Keeper of Treasure and Dragot (essentially the Minister of Finance), was a prominent figure in the American wizarding world. He was demoted to guarding a storeroom, and the Twelvetrees family never recovered.
Then, seventy years ago, Grindelwald, disguised as MACUSA's Director of Magical Security Percival Graves, nearly tore New York apart. When the case was closed, records inexplicably linked to Mary Lou Barebone, the Second Salem leader.
The Graves family was disgraced and never regained its former prominence. Melvin's friend, Mr. Graves, was still stuck as a deputy director, with no promotion in sight.
Somewhere along the line, a rumor spread in the American wizarding world: the Barebone ancestors had the gift of prophecy and cursed their bloodline. Whenever a Barebone descendant entered the wizarding world, a prominent wizarding family would fall.
It was eerily similar to the supposed curse on Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts post.
Some dismissed it as a joke, but others believed it, and the name Barebone always made certain families uneasy.
"These clues should be enough to get the old guard's attention. I'll pass them along," Fontana said, stopping to smile at Melvin. "Now that business is out of the way, should we talk about you dropping out of Ilvermorny to teach at Hogwarts?"
"…"
Melvin's expression stiffened slightly, and Fontana laughed. "Just kidding. It's rare to have you back—stay for a Pukwudgie-cooked dinner."
---
Pukwudgie stew.
The broth was pale with a greenish tint, flecked with golden oil. It included ingredients from the Serpent Tree—leaves and bark ground into spices. Its effects were unclear, but it tasted slightly bitter, with an odd flavor.
Sitting in a side hall of Ilvermorny's Great Hall, Headmaster Fontana skipped formalities. While waiting for the food, he shared how professors had lamented Melvin's dropout and how students admired his bold move.
As the Pukwudgie served utensils, Fontana dug into his meal, ignoring table etiquette. "You've been teaching at Hogwarts for a year now. How's it feel? How does it compare to Ilvermorny?"
"It has its strengths and weaknesses, but overall, Hogwarts edges out slightly," Melvin said after a moment's hesitation, opting for honesty. "Hogwarts has a deeper foundation. Its library holds nearly a millennium of books, the castle is full of secrets and surprises—restricted sections, bronze door knockers, the founders' relics, wizard portraits… Students can stumble upon knowledge and magic anywhere."
"I know," Fontana said. "The founders' memoirs mention it. It's a treasure trove of history."
"But the student culture isn't as good as Ilvermorny's. The four houses are cliquish, especially Slytherin. Many students worship pureblood ideals and shun Muggle-borns, making it hard to get along with other houses."
"Hmm…" Fontana nodded, his tone lingering. "One of our founders was a Muggle, so we nipped those pureblood-mixed-blood tensions in the bud."
Ilvermorny was more open and inclusive. It started as a school the founders created for their adopted children, not bound by blood. As its reputation grew, more parents sent their kids—mostly immigrant families where pureblood, mixed-blood, or Muggle-born distinctions were blurred. Over time, it became even more welcoming, accepting werewolves, vampires, Veela descendants—everyone was welcome.
Scholars were now debating revisions to the Statute of Secrecy. With Muggle-born wizards growing in number, complete isolation was impractical. Who didn't have a few Muggle relatives or friends?
"But on the flip side, societal upheaval shapes stronger wizards," Melvin said. "Students who've faced turmoil or loss find something worth protecting. Their resolve strengthens, their souls grow resilient, and their magic develops faster."
He concluded, "Hogwarts is better at producing determined, powerful top-tier wizards."
"I've seen the Examination Authority's records," Fontana said, chewing a piece of steak with a hint of envy. "Hogwarts students who've lived through wars or rebellions do score higher on standardized tests."
He added, "Our students mostly come from immigrant families. Their parents struggled in their home countries but built stable, comfortable lives here. Better material conditions mean less grit."
Ilvermorny's founder, Isolt Sayre, was a Hogwarts graduate and a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Her memoirs praised Hogwarts endlessly, leaving later headmasters with a love-hate relationship toward the school—admiration mixed with a quiet desire to surpass it.
But Ilvermorny's shorter history couldn't yet rival the prestige of Europe's other two major schools.
Melvin chuckled. "Speaking of that, Headmaster, have you heard of the Triwizard Tournament?"
"The Goblet of Fire?" Fontana's eyes lit up.
Melvin nodded. "I've heard Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are considering reviving it. There's time to prepare. Maybe we could join in."
"…"
Fontana's mood grew complex. The Triwizard Tournament, started over seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between Europe's three major schools, had been discontinued for over two centuries due to its dangerous tasks.
The tournament's hiatus was nearly as long as Ilvermorny's entire history.
Joining it felt daunting, almost humbling.
Seeing the sixty-something headmaster's conflicted expression, Melvin stifled a laugh.
Fontana glanced at him. "If Ilvermorny competes, which school would you root for—your old alma mater or Hogwarts, where you teach now?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Melvin said, dodging the question.
Dinner passed with lively conversation, stretching an hour and a half until the sun sank fully and night fell. Casually, Melvin asked, "Headmaster, have you seen that Horned Serpent lately? Where's it hiding to nap?"
Fontana looked at the young wizard beside him, hesitated, then revealed a secret the Horned Serpent had asked to keep for at least a decade. "The second Saturday after you dropped out of Ilvermorny, the Horned Serpent passed away. It used the magic in its horn to ignite its body and asked me to scatter its ashes under the Serpent Tree."
"…"
Melvin froze, silently set down his utensils, and stood to leave.
Fontana didn't stop him, only saying softly, "Melvin, the serpent asked me to tell you it lived 717 years—a good, long life—with no regrets."
Melvin paused briefly, then continued toward the courtyard.
---
Behind the granite cottage built by the founders, Melvin slowly approached the sprawling Serpent Tree. Unceremoniously, he sat on a rock, gazing at the tree's branches, lost in thought.
He recalled Professor Kettleburn's words on the way to Budapest, about Crups and their habits. Some intelligent, spiritual creatures could sense their approaching death. They'd leave home, avoiding familiar faces, to find a quiet corner to face the end alone.
But others, with quirky personalities, would sense their time and instead find ways to send others away.
Thinking of the Horned Serpent, Melvin felt a pang of sadness.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in the damp, misty night air.
The first nineteen years of his life hadn't been particularly eventful. He awoke with distant memories in an orphanage, received his Ilvermorny letter at eleven, and was brought to the mountaintop castle by professors. Days were spent in classes, evenings practicing magic by the lake, tirelessly casting spells into the water.
When he hit a wall, he'd grow restless, returning to his dorm still pondering magical theory. One sleepless night, he sneaked out to practice by the stream under moonlight—and met an ancient Horned Serpent.
In his third-year dueling class, he stunned everyone by defeating a fifth-year teaching assistant. The school was abuzz, and even Headmaster Fontana personally praised his talent. No one expected such a gifted student to drop out just before graduation, work briefly as a stage effects designer, then teach at Hogwarts.
The mountain mist was thick, obscuring his vision.
With a gentle wave of his hand, Melvin cleared it.
The fog parted, revealing a patch of clear ground—not swept away by a gust or pushed by a magical barrier, but as if the mist obeyed his will, dispersing on its own.
He pressed his hands to the Serpent Tree, feeling the cool bark, like scales under his palms. The mist gathered again, blurring his sight, and his consciousness began to drift. The faint sound of a distant stream reached his ears.
Mist rose from the ground, nourishing the land.
The clear stream seemed to flow from a distant ravine. With his eyes closed, Melvin's thoughts wandered—to the Serpent Tree under moonlight, its shadow stretching across the ground; to racing through the mountains at night, the serpent's silver horn glowing in the bushes, its body hidden in the stream's shadows, its eyes gazing at the moon, bright and silver.
Melvin had witnessed those moments.
It felt like he was back under the Serpent Tree, surrounded by a quiet cacophony—the stream's flow, the breeze rustling branches, the soft calls of birds and creatures.
He looked up. A full moon hung among the branches, its light pouring like liquid silver, bathing the mountains in a cool glow. The shadow of a massive serpent stretched across the rocks, its head raised toward the moonlight.
Melvin stayed silent, the scene dreamlike, afraid that breaking the quiet would wake him.
The Horned Serpent's gray-white scales shimmered with radiant light.
Melvin climbed onto a branch, sitting beside the serpent. Together, they gazed at the mountain moon, time seeming to pause.
"Melvin, goodbye."
The serpent slowly turned, its mercury-like eyes brimming with condensed moonlight, like a clear lake.
Melvin's mind sank into that lake, then he heard a splash, snapping awake as if emerging from water. He found himself truly sitting on the Serpent Tree's branch, the cool, smooth object in his hand still there—
A serpent egg.