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The Mirror Club held its big sponsorship pitch for the Quidditch World Cup final right on the top floor of the Three Broomsticks. It wasn't some huge gala, but a solid crowd of witches and wizards still showed up.
The room split into clear circles. The pure-blood elite claimed the center—Malfoy and Nott holding court, surrounded by Goyles, Crabbes, Parkinsons, and the rest. Their robes dripped with gold-thread embroidery that caught the candlelight like liquid money.
Along the sides were the village shopkeepers from all over Britain—pure-blood, half-blood, even a few Muggle-borns. These were the real business people. A bunch of pub owners mixed in too, clinking glasses and laughing loud. They didn't need ad slots; they were just there to cheer the Club on.
Clink.
Tacklow and Malcolm tapped glasses and downed their ice-cold butterbeers in one go. They'd come mostly on a hunch—no big expectations, and they sure as hell didn't want to wade into the noisy crowd.
They noticed the young wizard hanging back by the doorway, looking equally bored, and figured he was just another guy hoping for a lucky break.
"Those bastards in the middle used to be Death Eaters," Tacklow muttered. "Now they're all smiles and back-slapping. Their voices are worse than a screeching banshee."
They nudged Melvin into their little group and asked, "So what line are you in?"
"Banshee screech… that was the line they used for Canadian fans at the last Cup, right?"
The young wizard who'd just strolled up clinked glasses with them. They still hadn't recognized him. "Lot of merchants here today. Aren't you worried about the same thing that happened last final? Some nobody team pulls an upset and fans end up hating your product?"
"Match result's got nothing to do with the ad," Tacklow shrugged. "Besides, even hate is still name recognition."
He grabbed another butterbeer and dropped into wise-old-wizard mode. "Good impression, bad impression—doesn't matter. The second someone needs what you sell, your ad better be the first thing that pops into their head. That's a win."
Melvin raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected wizards to already get advertising that well. He took a sip. "So what do you sell?"
"Outdoor lanterns. Made with Hinkypunk essence. Long burn time, keeps bugs away."
Tacklow sounded proud when he talked about his lamps. "My family used to be somebody. We've been making lanterns since Hogwarts was founded—craft passed down sixteen generations. I'm basically an alchemist myself. Chocolate Frog cards even wanted to put one of my ancestors on a card."
"Except you just lie around spending the family vault," Malcolm cut in mercilessly. "Levinia Monkstanley invented the Lumos charm and your lamp business died overnight. Her family actually worked for it, became real alchemists. Look at Wright—Mirrors are going to keep the Monkstanleys rich for centuries."
Tacklow glared but couldn't argue. After a few seconds he slumped.
Melvin glanced at Wright up on the little stage, then back at the down-on-his-luck heir. "The final isn't the only advertising play. There are sponsor packages, pitch-side billboards, virtual overlays during the Mirror broadcast, logos on souvenirs. The Club can even hook you up with player endorsements later. Missing the top slots doesn't mean you're out."
"It's not about visibility," Malcolm said. "His lamps are handmade by him alone. He used to slack off and fill whatever orders trickled in. Now he suddenly wants to leave something for his kids, but he can't scale production."
Tacklow: …
They'd been sniping at each other since school days—usually even. Today Tacklow felt like he was getting wrecked.
Melvin thought for a second. "If volume's the problem, raise the price. How much does one of your lanterns go for now?"
"Six Galleons."
"Then figure out how to sell them for ten times that. Or a hundred times. One lamp that does the work of a hundred."
"That's insane," Tacklow said, unable to imagine charging hundreds of Galleons.
"Why? You clearly know how ads work—you've studied Muggle goods. Why haven't you expanded? Same lamp, but Muggle shops charge wildly different prices. What's the real difference?"
Both men stared at him, caught off guard by the teacher-like tone. They shook their heads.
It felt weirdly familiar—like being called on in class.
"Split your line into tiers," Melvin said smoothly. "Keep the cheap practical ones for regular customers. Make a luxury version aimed straight at pure-blood money. Fancy design, dragon-scale accents, thunderbird feathers, gold and silver inlays. Don't worry about selling them—the Mirrors already proved rich wizards will pay stupid money for status."
Tacklow's eyes lit up. Malcolm just gaped.
The older wizard studied the young man, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. "You seem to know an awful lot about Muggle business. Your family must run something big…"
Before he could place where he'd seen that face, the room suddenly erupted. Wright was walking straight toward them, beaming.
"Melvin! There you are. I was starting to think you'd sneak off again."
Tacklow and Malcolm froze. No wonder the kid talked like a professor and knew Muggle commerce inside out—it was Professor Levent.
A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. Most people had only seen blurry Prophet photos; the real thing didn't click right away.
Then the noise exploded.
"Professor Levent—can Windy's Fashion House get its logo on the goal hoops?"
"Professor, Twilfitt and Tatting's is a much better fit for the Club!"
"Professor, our Terror Tours company offered the highest price and we don't even need pitch-side space—just insert the ad during the Mirror feed!"
…
The chatter was loud, but if you listened close you could hear the sweet sound of Galleons splashing like waves.
Today's meeting was mostly Wright and Bagman's show. Melvin had only come to check in and talk to a few people—he hadn't planned on speaking. But Wright had dragged him front and center and the energy was electric.
"Friends of the Mirror Club," Melvin said, letting the noise settle, "thank you for coming today."
He looked out at dozens of expectant faces and kept it short. "We're not here just to fight over a billboard on the pitch, or a few seconds of virtual overlay, or a logo on some souvenir Snitch coins and Omnioculars…"
"We're here to build something brand new in the wizarding world—a business model the Muggles invented."
"The Mirror Club has faced plenty of bumps and plenty of criticism since the beginning. But look where we are now—big enough that the whole wizarding world is watching. This is an unstoppable wave, and we're riding the first ship straight through it."
"I know you all want every witch and wizard on the planet to see your shops and products. But I'm telling you—that's not the only opportunity coming."
Melvin paused just long enough for the room to lean in. "I can let you in on something: Mr. Crouch at International Cooperation is already working to bring back the Triwizard Tournament. That will be an even bigger stage."
He ignored the fresh wave of gasps and turned toward the side parlor. Spotting Tacklow and Malcolm, he gave them a friendly smile and disappeared around the corner.
The main room exploded with chatter about the Triwizard news.
Tacklow mumbled a couple of replies, then immediately regretted not asking Professor Levent how to trick rich pure-bloods into buying overpriced lamps.
…
Later, after the meeting broke up—Three Broomsticks side parlor.
The Mirror Club's inner circle had the room. Melvin lounged in a deep armchair by the window, shoulders sunk into soft fur, completely relaxed. The big round table had been removed; this felt more like a casual tea party.
Wright (Mirror production), Mr. Goode (Daily Prophet editor), Ludo Bagman (Sports), Madam Rosmerta, Old Tom, Old Wil, and a few other pub owners were all there.
Glasses clinked, nuts cracked. The vibe was pure satisfaction.
"Over the last few months the Saints helped us sell Mirrors in dozens of countries—Bulgaria, Norway, Germany, Austria. After the Order of Merlin, every Ministry was happy to work with us on the Floo network upgrades."
Wright took a slow sip of mead, chin high. "At the same time I partnered with the Egyptian Alchemy Research Center and hired a ton of alchemists. Production is locked in and the international Floo upgrades will be finished on schedule."
Pride rolled off him in waves. Everyone else just smiled. The past year—while Melvin taught at Hogwarts—the Club had grown faster than ever. Under Wright and the others, Mirrors had become a global wizarding hit. Even the MACUSA resistance couldn't stop the tide.
The last few countries still dragging their feet on Floo links would be Dumbledore and Crouch's problem when they hit New York.
"World Cup final ad revenue is already looking strong," Old Wil said cheerfully. His leg and old injuries felt better in summer. "We'll be able to open our own separate vault at Gringotts. Twilfitt and Tatting's bid alone could buy a couple of my pubs!"
Laughter and clinking glasses filled the room. Making Galleons by the tens of thousands felt fantastic.
Clink.
Melvin tapped his glass. The clear note cut through the noise.
"The road for Mirrors is still long. We can't just pocket the profits."
His eyes were warm. "Most of today's gold goes straight back into development. Wright—keep the Egyptian partnership going. Floo upgrades, broadcast hubs, better production pipelines—all of it costs money…"
"Live broadcast tech still isn't ready for the final, so we're using a workaround. Hopefully we'll have the full infrastructure done before the next Cup." Melvin waved the mead jug over and topped everyone off, then raised his glass first.
Glasses met with the bright ring of a new era.
He turned to the Prophet editor. "The Prophet's going to be busy this summer, right? International Confederation meeting, World Cup final, and now the Triwizard news."
"Any suggestions, Professor?" Mr. Goode asked, sensing there was more.
"I've got an outstanding student—top of her year, future Minister of Magic material. She'd like to intern at the Prophet."
"We do let employees' kids help out sometimes," Goode said, not taking the "future Minister" line too seriously—probably just proud-professor talk. "But it's usually filing, counting ink and paper. They get bored fast and quit."
"What year is she? What kind of work does she want to try?"
"Rotate her through everything," Melvin said casually, leaning back. "Treat her like a real junior employee so she actually learns. She's not that young—going into fourth year next term."
The room burst out laughing. Fourth year meant fourteen years old. One year of electives, no O.W.L.s yet, standard spells barely finished. What could a kid that age even do?
"A fourteen-year-old intern," Goode chuckled. "Hope nobody reports me for child labor."
Melvin grinned too. The wizarding world had no official underage labor laws—just the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, which banned magic outside school and close Muggle contact.
But nothing said you couldn't work.
The little witch was about to get her first real job.