The next morning.
London was already feeling a little like fall—damp and chilly, but not freezing. A light fog hung in the air, and the deep-green leaves on the plane trees along the street hadn't started dropping yet. If you walked a full loop around the Leaky Cauldron, you'd see the bustling Muggle street out front—cars honking, people rushing—while the back courtyard opened onto Diagon Alley, like a step back into the last century.
Harry was sitting alone at the long table on the second floor, nursing a breakfast tray.
He'd stayed up late agonizing over that letter, but once he'd sent it off, it was like a weight lifted. No more stressing about the Dursleys, no more worrying about the escaped convict Sirius Black. He'd slept like a log and woke up refreshed.
Breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron wasn't exactly gourmet—perfectly edible, but some of it was clearly yesterday's leftovers, refried and served again. The other guests didn't seem big on morning meals. The witch from the countryside had left early to shop, the dwarf was still snoring away (you could hear it through his door), and Professor Lewent—did he sleep in too? Or was he still jet-lagged from traveling?
Harry stared blankly across the table, mind on autopilot, tearing his bread into strips and chewing without tasting it.
A soft rustle of wings snapped him out of it. Hedwig swooped in through the skylight, landing gracefully on the table in front of him. Her eyes looked brighter than usual.
She'd brought a reply from the Dursleys.
Harry tore open the envelope. No letter inside—just a crumpled permission slip, Vernon's scrawled signature in the bottom right corner.
He couldn't help grinning at the creases and the angry pen strokes.
He could picture it: Uncle Vernon reading the letter, face turning purple, crumpling the paper into a ball and chucking it toward the trash, then remembering Harry was a wizard and might come back to Privet Drive if he didn't cooperate. So he'd smoothed it out, signed it through gritted teeth, and handed it to the "monster owl."
Professor Lewent had been right—things weren't as bad as he'd feared.
That meant weekend trips to Hogsmeade with Ron and the others next term.
Harry took a happy sip of milk, still admiring the signature, when a commotion erupted in the hallway.
"Oh, heavens!"
Clack-clack-clack…
It sounded like a house-elf chasing something—darting frantically, growling like a rabid dog, ready to pounce.
"Probably some guest left a dangerous magical item in their room," Harry muttered, swallowing his bread. Hedwig hooted a warning. Then his eyes went wide. "The Monster Book of Monsters!"
"Didn't I strap it shut and stuff it in my trunk?"
He yelped, abandoned his breakfast, and bolted toward the noise. Sure enough—Hagrid's gift.
The thick, green-covered book with gold lettering was scuttling across the floor on its four corners like a deranged crab, snapping its sharp teeth.
"Thank goodness…"
The house-elf looked ready to faint. When it saw Harry, it squeaked, snapped its fingers, and vanished.
Harry stared at the book zipping into crevices and corners, wondering how to catch it, when a soft voice spoke from the doorway.
"Accio Monster Book."
The frantic book flew straight into Melvin's hand. It trembled and vibrated angrily, but Melvin ran a gentle finger along its spine, calming it instantly, then handed it back to Harry.
"Professor Lewent…"
It just… calmed down? Just like that?
Harry took the book, blinking, still processing.
"Morning, Harry," Melvin said, heading for the table. "I saw Hedwig's back. Get a reply from your aunt and uncle?"
Harry quickly belted the book shut and tossed it onto his bed, then jogged after him with a grin. "Sort of. They didn't write anything—they're still not talking to me—but Uncle Vernon signed the form. I'm cleared for Hogsmeade weekends!"
"Ah…" Melvin grabbed a plate of breakfast.
Harry, ever helpful, slid over some silverware. "So what's Hogsmeade like, Professor?"
"Similar to Diagon Alley, but smaller and less busy. It mostly serves students…"
They ate and chatted, mostly about Hogsmeade—Quidditch supplies, Honeydukes candy shop, and Harry's personal holy grail: the Three Broomsticks.
Even if Melvin said the village couldn't compare to Diagon Alley, Harry was buzzing with excitement. Third year was right around the corner, his permission slip problem was solved, and the only thing left was the distant shadow of Sirius Black.
Thinking of the escapee, Harry looked at the wise professor with a hopeful glint in his eye. "Professor Lewent, we've got three weeks until term starts. Any advice?"
Melvin met his green eyes, paused for a moment, then said seriously, "I recommend you teach yourself the Patronus Charm."
Harry's face went blank with confusion.
…
Little Hangleton was a Muggle village tucked in a valley. Decades ago, a few wealthy families lived here, but as the young people moved to cities, the place grew quieter and emptier. The church on the hillside had fallen into ruin, now just a graveyard for the old.
Six miles away was Great Hangleton—a proper English town with a new shopping center, noisy arcades, and a gloomy police station staffed by beer-bellied officers counting down to retirement.
The unsolved Riddle Manor case from fifty years ago was still the Hanging Ghost Pub's favorite ghost story.
Every regular told it the same way:
"Fifty years back, the Riddles were still rich. Snobby, bad-tempered, but loaded—businesses all the way in London, fancy mansion and everything. Then one clear summer morning, their maid walks into the drawing room and finds all three Riddles dead on the floor."
"Cops questioned everyone in the village. Nothing. Everyone had an alibi."
The bartender leaned in, drawing out the suspense like a pro. "Any guesses who did it?"
Bam!
The pub door swung open. A young stranger stepped in, brushing dew off his clothes and pants. "Anyone got mead?"
The room went quiet. Locals clocked him as an outsider immediately. Weird, too—he'd come through the woods, but his shoes were clean, no mud, barely any grass on him.
The bartender's story had just hit the hook, and now the mood was ruined. A couple of regulars shot the kid dirty looks.
The bartender slid over a mead. "You're not from around here, are you? What brings you?"
"I'm a student doing field research—looking for old, simple folk houses."
"Ah…"
That eased the tension. As long as he wasn't a Riddle relative, they could keep gossiping.
"Riddle Manor fits your 'old' criteria," the bartender offered, recapping the case to reel the crowd back in.
"No, I need something humble and rundown. Rich folks don't count." Melvin smiled. "But I am curious—who do you think the killer was?"
"Still unsolved. Files are locked up in the Great Hangleton station." The bartender pivoted smoothly. "But the maid and cook who worked there always suspected Frank—the Riddles' gardener."
Frank Bryce was odd and moody. War vet, shot in the leg, full-blown PTSD. Hated crowds and noise. Plenty figured the "nutcase" might snap.
The bartender had told this tale a hundred times—low and ominous for the setup, loud and punchy for the questions. He knew exactly where to pause.
Patrons slapped coins on the bar, hungry for details.
But once the money was down, the story took a nosedive.
Autopsy showed no murder. No stab wounds, no gunshot, no poison, no strangling. Just three identical looks of terror. Like they'd all dropped dead of heart attacks at the same moment.
Frank was cleared and sent home.
The manor passed to some mysterious rich owner who never lived there, never rented it out—kept it for tax reasons, supposedly. Frank stayed on, mowing the lawn, tending the garden.
The regulars hated the ending.
"That's it?"
"Bullshit! You're scamming us for drinks!"
"Go to hell, you greedy ghost!"
The bartender just calmly collected glasses, wiping them down. Same song and dance every time. In a dead-end village like this, the pub survived on unsolved mysteries.
Real stories don't always wrap up neatly.
The young student finished his mead, left a few pounds under the glass. The bartender suddenly remembered why he'd come.
"Which old house are you looking for, sir?"
"The Gaunts. Ever heard of them?"
"The Gaunts…" The bartender scratched his head. After a long pause, it clicked. "The weirdos across the valley in the woods? Don't bother. Just a falling-apart shack. Been abandoned forever."
"Got it."
The student waved without looking back and walked out of the creaky old pub.
…
The village sat between two steep hills. Head straight down the slope, hang a right at the main road sign, slip through a gap in the hedge, and follow an even narrower, rockier dirt path.
Bushes crowded in, thick and wild. Decades without foot traffic had let the grass and weeds swallow the trail. Potholes everywhere.
The emerald snake nest on Melvin's wrist shivered. Yurm sensed the surroundings and eagerly slithered out, climbing a low branch and vanishing into the greenery.
Melvin strolled behind, taking his time, scanning the woods. Every so often he'd summon a small whirlwind to rustle the branches and scare off hidden snakes.
Sometimes he'd spot a viper camouflaged as dead leaves, coiled motionless. It wouldn't budge until he stepped on it—then it'd lunge for a bite.
Yurm would rocket out of nowhere, whip the viper across the face with his tail like a slap, then hiss a scolding.
Melvin didn't speak Parseltongue, but the viper's sulky slither away told him Yurm had cussed it out good.
Wonder where the little guy picked up that language.
After half an hour of stop-and-go, the canopy grew thick, blocking the sun. The air turned crisp but carried a faint, damp, reptilian smell. Snakes were everywhere now. Melvin didn't mind—nothing could bite through the Iron Bubble Charm coating his skin.
He glanced at Yurm. The baby snake was having the time of his life, zipping around, occasionally smacking the locals.
"Yurm, help me find the old Gaunt place."
"Hiss…" The snake picked up speed.
Melvin followed at a leisurely pace. Soon, through a gap between ancient oaks, he spotted it—a strange, crumbling cottage.
Transfigured stone walls, now overtaken by moss and vines, blending into the forest. The pale gray house was swallowed by green. Stinging nettles choked the door; a rotted snake skeleton dangled from the knocker.
Melvin sent a gust to open the door and shoo the lingering reptiles, then stepped inside. Half the roof tiles were gone; decades of rain had turned one side into mud. Oak furniture was hollowed out by bugs and coated in colorful fungi.
Walls had collapsed, revealing three small bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen.
The soot-blackened brick fireplace was cracked. Ash-rich soil had sprouted thick nettles. A filthy armchair held a snake skeleton, flesh rotted away. Maggots and ants ignored the intruder, crawling over everything.
Rusty pots, grimy pans, a pile of filthy dishes.
Yurm explored, nearly falling into a stinking puddle of sludge. He decided he'd had enough adventuring and coiled around Melvin's ankle, giving the cottage a look of pure disgust.
"…"
Melvin scanned the room. His sharp magical senses zeroed in.
In the tiniest bedroom, by the headboard, a pulse of dark, malevolent magic glowed like a black lightbulb—impossible to miss.