Everyone had been counting down, and just like that, summer vacation was here.
Inside the Hogwarts Express, Harry sat by the window. He glanced out at Hagrid waving goodbye to the students, then dropped his eyes to the fancy envelope in his lap.
The Black family crest was stamped on the front. Sirius's handwriting on the back. It had arrived right after the Leaving Feast—Gryffindor had just won the House Cup, the common room was still buzzing, and they'd been throwing Oliver and Percy their going-away party. That was when the letter showed up.
Harry had been over the moon thinking he finally had a real home with his godfather and wouldn't have to go back to the Dursleys. One letter from Sirius killed that dream.
According to Dumbledore and Professor Levent, the blood protection tied to his mother's sacrifice needed him to spend at least a month every year with a direct blood relative to keep working until he turned seventeen. So half the summer would be spent at Privet Drive.
"Man, I really wanted you at the Burrow the whole time," Ron said beside him, sounding genuinely sorry. "But don't worry—we'll have George and Fred swing by Privet Drive in August to grab you. They're commuting to London every day for work anyway. Uncle Vernon won't be able to lock you up anymore."
Free summers sounded amazing. George and Fred were heading off to a real Muggle factory, doing something they actually liked, wandering Diagon Alley whenever they wanted, and they even had their own bank accounts.
Not like certain kids stuck with their aunt and uncle, trapped in a bedroom most of the day, listening to insults, sneaking around just to do homework.
"Don't worry, Harry. I'm not going anywhere this summer either," Hermione said, looking up from stroking Crookshanks. "Any problems, write or call me anytime."
Compared to last summer when both his friends had gone completely dark, that promise actually meant something.
"You don't have to stay in London just for me," Harry said, sniffing and tucking Sirius's letter away. "If you see anything cool on your trip, just tell me about it when you get back."
The train car filled up fast. Excited chatter bounced everywhere—kids yelling about their plans, voices drifting out the windows to the professors on the platform.
"We're going to New York! That's where the International Confederation of Wizards is meeting this year!"
"Make sure you're back in time for the Quidditch World Cup final!"
"Any idea who made the final four? I heard the group stage just wrapped."
"Pretty sure Bulgaria's in—they've got this genius Seeker!"
The whistle screamed. Steam billowed. The scarlet engine pulled away, snaking through the hills until it disappeared.
The elective professors watched it go, then picked up their trunks and smiled. Students were on break, so they were too. Unlike the Heads of House, they had no reason to stay behind. Most had summer trips already booked.
Professor Babbling and Professor Vector were off to explore Mayan ruins. Professor Sinistra was heading to the Greenwich Observatory. Professor Trelawney planned to dig through her great-grandmother's old notes back home—she'd finally admitted her Divination classes had been mostly smoke and mirrors and was determined to come back next year actually knowing what she was doing.
Hagrid wasn't going anywhere—he'd stay on as gamekeeper—but he was already planning to visit Professor Kettleburn and swap notes on teaching Care of Magical Creatures. The hippogriff incident at the start of the year and the Porlock disaster at the end had nearly gotten him fired. He knew he still had a lot to learn.
Melvin watched his colleagues Disapparate one by one, a touch of envy on his face. He had no travel plans.
Too much work. This summer was going to be even busier than the school year.
The Ministry kept firing off letters asking for his advice on the special trade deals. Madam Bones wasn't Fudge—she actually wanted to do things right and didn't care if people called her a puppet. As the trade routes settled, the letters had slowed to two a week, but they still came like clockwork.
Pulling strings from the shadows… Melvin was starting to understand why the Malfoys had chased that feeling for centuries.
Ilvermorny and Beauxbatons had both written to the Department of International Magical Cooperation about restarting the Triwizard Tournament. Since both letters mentioned him by name, Mr. Crouch had zeroed in on the key player fast.
Lately half the Ministry mail included notes from Crouch asking about Cup preparations.
Then there was the Quidditch World Cup broadcast. The group stage was almost over, but nobody cared about that. Bagman had handled the early deals; the usual suspects—Ludo and the others—would still do their delayed "live" version: record the match, cut the memories, feed them into the Mirrors afterward.
The final was different. Bagman and the committee had signed off—Mirror Club had full control. Melvin planned to broadcast it live. First time ever in the wizarding world. He had to be on site the whole time to make sure it worked.
"I'm heading out too, Melvin," a quiet voice said beside him.
The tone was a little strained—side effect of the Wolfsbane Potion. The full moon had just passed, and the summer nights were bright and clear.
"Dumbledore's going to be tearing his hair out over the Defense position again," Melvin joked.
He turned and looked at the colleague he'd worked with all year. Remus Lupin looked good these days—neatly trimmed beard, steady eyes, decent gray-brown robes with no patches. A year at Hogwarts had changed him from the inside out.
"Off to find Greyback, then?"
Melvin already knew the answer and didn't try to talk him out of it. "Did you tell Tonks? Or are you still keeping everyone in the dark? She's been stationed in Hogsmeade all year treating you like her best friend."
At Tonks's name, the usually steady werewolf suddenly looked awkward. "Dumbledore told Madam Bones about the mission. Law Enforcement set up a special task force—two teams of Aurors shadowing the pack, ready to back me up, deliver Wolfsbane, pass messages…"
"Tonks is on the team?"
"Yeah…"
Melvin narrowed his eyes at the soon-to-be-ex-Defense professor.
Looked all honest and respectable on the outside. Who knew he'd go and start a romance on the job?
"Cough… I should get going," Lupin said, clearing his throat. "It's been good working with you, Melvin. Really good."
The crack of Disapparition rang out. Melvin shook his head and turned back toward the castle.
He walked through the wrought-iron gates with the winged boar crest, followed the path along the grounds, and ran into the Dumbledore siblings by the Black Lake.
One in white robes, silver hair and beard—Albus Dumbledore. One tall and burly with a rough voice—the scruffy barkeep Aberforth. And between them, half-hidden in the misty water, the faint outline of a golden-haired girl.
The huge beech tree reflected on the lake like a bridge between mist and reality, crossing the line between life and death. Melvin and Dumbledore sat on a flat sandstone rock while Aberforth and Ariana played in the shallows a little way off.
The Black Lake stretched wide and deep, connected to the ocean. A breeze from the forest stirred the surface. The giant squid drifted below, tentacles waving. Sunlight danced on the water, waves lapping gently against the stone.
Melvin glanced sideways and caught the Headmaster's smile—warm, real, no legendary-wizard mask, no Headmaster pose. Just a hundred-and-ten-year-old man enjoying an afternoon with his family.
"Where are you off to this summer?" Dumbledore asked softly, legs dangling, shoes getting splashed by the water.
"Nowhere," Melvin said.
"I thought you'd be jetting off somewhere exotic again, making headlines and picking up another medal from whatever foreign Ministry you visit," Dumbledore chuckled. "New York, maybe? The International Confederation is meeting there this summer. We could travel together."
"I sat in on the last one," Melvin said. "Saw you in the big chair, nodding off."
"Was it that obvious?" Dumbledore stroked his beard, pretending to think. "Guess I'll need a better way to sneak a nap this year."
"You can figure that out at the Woolworth Building," Melvin said. "You flagged me down for a reason. What's up?"
Dumbledore paused. "Mainly the Resurrection Stone. I want to take Aberforth and Ariana to New York with me. Since you found it, I wanted your permission."
"As long as it doesn't mean overtime for me…" Melvin waved a hand. "No reason to say no to a hundred-year-old wizard taking his family on holiday. Safe travels."
A light breeze rippled the mist. Sunlight caught the spray and made a faint rainbow.
Under that shimmering bridge, Melvin thought he saw a bright-eyed girl smiling at him through the haze, mouth forming the words thank you.
He smiled back, stood, and headed toward Hogsmeade.
Two big things on the calendar this summer: the Quidditch World Cup and the International Confederation of Wizards meeting.
Quidditch rules had been set in the 1300s and spread from Kent across the wizarding world. Millions of fans, dozens of leagues, constant drama.
Contact sport meant emotions ran hot—on the pitch and in the stands. Riots after big matches were common, and most of them involved wands.
The first major fan riot happened right here in Britain—Scotland versus England. Both sides accused the other of cheating. A small argument turned into a full-blown duel that spilled into the streets. The old Wizards' Council had to send in the Aurors to shut it down. In the decades that followed they passed a string of Quidditch restrictions.
1362: No matches within fifty miles of any known Muggle town.
1368: Make that a hundred miles.
1419: Anywhere a Muggle might possibly see the game is banned. Violators get chained to a dungeon wall.
All that chaos and those laws led to the creation of the Quidditch Committee—the forerunner of today's league governing body. When the International Confederation of Wizards formed, they immediately set up the International Quidditch Federation and scheduled a World Cup every four years.
With wizarding wireless growing, the Cup matches got radio commentary—sound only, no pictures. Fans sat glued to their sets, desperate for visuals, clawing at the air like starving men smelling roast beef they couldn't touch.
Live picture-and-sound broadcast meant solving a few technical nightmares:
First, the Floo Network was still a patchwork of Ministry-controlled zones. They'd need every country's Department of Magical Transportation to accept the same memory packets at the same time.
Second, Mirror Club had only ever done recorded shows. Editing, shipping memories to the Ministries, then pushing them out through the Floo took time. Even the fastest news segments needed at least half an hour turnaround.
Solving it the normal way would take decades and a mountain of gold—convincing every Ministry to link their networks, building transmission hubs at the stadium, fixing latency…
So Melvin chose the cheat-code route. He'd already cleared the broad strokes with Madam Bones. Now came the prep work.
Like telling Bagman and the others to start lining up sponsors for the big broadcast meeting at the end of the month.