Hogwarts: This professor is too Muggle

No wonder... no wonder!

Father must be informed as soon as possible.

Watching the freshman's back gradually disappear into the distance, the professors in the guest seats withdrew their gazes and subconsciously looked at Snape. Then, realizing something was wrong, they looked at Melvin next to them, but they couldn't help but glance at Snape out of the corner of their eyes.

"Melvin Levant!"

Snape's forehead twitched with anger, his long-cold face flushed red, and his lips moved: "I was just testing Potter's potion foundation!"

"I believe you, Professor."

Melvin nodded, his expression serious. "I understand. Psychology is only an empirical discipline, and the above inferences are just guesswork."

"you you!"

Snape was speechless and turned to look at the other professors.

The other professors also nodded, but avoided his gaze.

Dumbledore lowered his head and concentrated on scraping the cake crumbs from the plate. Only some scraps were left, less than half a spoonful in size, and could not be seen without careful observation.

Professor Flitwick, taking advantage of his small stature, buried his head under the table, unable to stop his shoulders from shaking.

Professor Sprout nudged him gently a few times, trying to remind him not to go too far, as they had been colleagues for more than ten years.

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, trying to remain serious. If you ignore the slight curve at the corner of her mouth...

It’s not that they don’t believe Snape. After all, when Snape was in school, several professors were already teaching at Hogwarts, and they all knew what happened.

But Melvin's speculation, when put to the usually gloomy Snape, could not help but make people laugh.

Snape's breathing seemed to become heavier. He glared at Melvin several times. Considering the speed of the owl messenger, he had no time to continue arguing with him, so he threw up his sleeves and left angrily.

The guest of honor seat fell silent, everyone was making eye contact.

Is this Muggle psychology?

It's even more terrifying than the mysterious man's black magic.

Melvin took a sip of his wine and said casually, "It suddenly occurred to me that the asphodel root powder in the Living Hell Potion isn't actually narcissus, but a type of lily."

Dumbledore lowered his blue eyes and remained silent for a moment.

……

It was late at night, and lights were about to be turned off.

The second floor of Hogwarts Castle.

Melvin climbed the stairs.

After a week of exploration and familiarization, he had walked through almost every tower of the castle and had thoroughly mastered the transformation patterns of common staircases and doors. Only a few rooms remained to be explored, such as the principal's office, the restricted corridor on the fourth floor, and the Room of Requirement on the eighth floor.

It’s not that I don’t know the location and how to open it, but I’m not in a hurry and want to leave some suspense and take it slow.

Today I toured the North Tower, visited the Divination classroom and Professor Trelawney’s office, and on the way I met the portrait of Sir Cadogan, a very chivalrous portrait, and we had a very pleasant chat.

Melvin passed the staircase landing, stopped, and looked around suspiciously. He seemed to hear a faint sound of muffled sobbing.

"Is there a Howling Banshee wandering around the castle at night? Headmaster Dumbledore never said anything..."

Melvin looked carefully for a while and then followed the sound of the crying.

A few minutes later, a fair and tender little chubby boy was found in the corner of the aisle.

The white and tender here is an objective description. His skin had suffered corrosion and damage not long ago, and was then regenerated by the magic potion. The skin is fresh and tender, white with a pinkish tint.

"Neville Longbottom?" Melvin called out his name.

Neville, who was squatting on the ground, raised his head, with a sad face and sobbing: "Professor...Professor."

"What are you doing hiding here?"

Neville pulled out a crystal ball that flashed red light and explained vaguely, "I'm looking for my password list. It's gone since I woke up in the school infirmary."

"How did you get into the school infirmary?"

"Seamus sent me there."

"...How did you get hurt?"

"I knocked over the cauldron in Potions class this afternoon."

"..."

It took Melvin a few minutes to process what had happened to him.

The Gryffindor common room required a password to enter, but the child had a bad memory since childhood and could not remember the password that changed regularly, so he wrote the password on a piece of parchment.

In the afternoon Potions class, he learned to brew a potion to treat boils. He remembered the steps incorrectly and made a corrosive and vicious potion. Unfortunately, he knocked over the crucible and the potion splashed all over him, corroding his skin and clothes. After a simple treatment by Snape, he was transferred to the school infirmary, drank the medicine given by Madam Pomfrey, and fell asleep.

When he woke up, it was already dark. He felt in his pocket and the password list was gone. He could only wander around the castle looking for it.

I didn't find the password list, but the professor did find me.

Melvin first observed Neville's condition. His physical injuries had healed, but his mental state was not very good, so he felt a little relieved.

Then he stared at the memory ball in his hand for a while. It was a small crystal ball with red mist swirling inside, which gave him a headache.

This should clearly be the dean's concern, so how come he, a professor of the elective course, encountered it?

Chapter 18 Try Again

In fact, Neville was not familiar with this professor. He only knew that he taught an elective course.

Freshmen do not need to take elective courses and will only start choosing courses at the end of the second year. Neville's future courses have already been planned by his grandmother. The goals are high and the courses are busy, and there is no option for Muggle Studies.

Ten years ago, Alice and Frank were captured by crazy Death Eaters and interrogated about Voldemort's whereabouts. They were tortured to the point of losing their minds and becoming unable to take care of themselves. They could only be cared for by therapists in the closed ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for the Sick and Infirm. The Longbottom family lost a famous Auror couple in the wizarding world, and Neville lost his parents.

From then on, his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, became his guardian.

For nearly ten years, the old witch had been planning and dreaming of training him to be the most outstanding heir to the Longbottom family.

Neville could clearly sense this expectation, but he couldn't respond.

His talent was not outstanding, his magic power was slow to awaken, and he did not show any signs of magic. His neighbors and relatives even suspected that he was a Squib.

This suspicion continued until 1988.

On Midsummer Eve of that year, a month before Neville's birthday, Uncle Argyle accidentally threw eight-year-old Neville out of the window. At the critical moment, magic burst out, and Neville bounced up like rubber, unharmed.

The scene of the awakening of magic delighted Grandma Augusta for several months, but only for a few months.

He had mediocre talent and could barely cast spells normally. The wand he inherited from his father Frank was like a piece of dead wood in his hand. No matter how he waved it, it gave no response.

The Longbottom family's magical training was useless, and Neville performed only slightly better than a Squib.

Augusta ultimately placed her hopes on Hogwarts, hoping that this thousand-year-old magic school could enlighten the Longbottom child and guide him to become a great wizard who would restore Longbottom.

A week into school, Neville didn't see that possibility.

Professor McGonagall taught them how to turn matches into silver needles in the first class, but Neville still couldn't make the matches change. Professor Flitwick taught them the fire spell, but his wand couldn't even produce sparks, not to mention the Potions class that almost corroded a layer of his skin...

Neville felt that he did not have the talent of Harry, nor the brains of Hermione. He was not interested in Transfiguration, Charms or Defense Against the Dark Arts, but the more ordinary Herbology. He felt at ease tending to those plants.

Grandma and Uncle Argyle told him to write home every week to report on what was happening at school. This week's letter had already been written and was now placed in his cabinet drawer. Neville wrote about some interesting things at school, telling them that he was sorted into Gryffindor and his roommate was Harry Potter. He described in detail the dinner in the hall and the castle stairs, but only briefly mentioned the specific course content.

Perhaps he would never be able to meet his grandmother's expectations in this lifetime. After realizing this, Neville just wanted to spend seven years in school peacefully.

"I happen to know a spell that's perfect for finding missing items."

When Neville heard Professor Lewinter say this, he hesitated for a few seconds and asked in a low voice, "Is it a summoning spell?"

Born into the Twenty-Eight Pureblood Clans, Neville was influenced by these spells since childhood. Although he was unable to master them, he still understood their effects.

He was a little hesitant to tell the professor that he could use a summoning spell to find the list, but the summoning spell had a distance limit of about dozens of feet. If the professor cast the spell, it might be extended to hundreds of feet, which was probably the range of several adjacent classrooms.

But Neville couldn't remember where he left the list. It might be the infirmary ward, which was only a few dozen feet, or it might be the corridor stairs, the courtyard on the first floor, the Potions classroom, the grounds outside the castle... more than a few thousand feet.

"You know this spell too?"

Melvin raised an eyebrow. "Then you cast the spell."

"I...I can't." Neville was about to cry again.

"You can learn even if you don't know. I'm a professor and you're a student." Melvin demonstrated the spellcasting motions, speaking slowly, a very patient professor. "Wave your wand, visualize your list in your mind, point the tip of the wand in the direction your intuition leads you, and then chant—summon the list."

On such a night, in such an occasion, Neville suddenly couldn't say no, and subconsciously followed the professor's instructions to cast the spell.

He pulled the wand out of his pocket. It was a bit old, black with tung oil, inherited from his father. He adjusted his breathing and took a deep breath. He pointed the tip of the wand at the side of the corridor and shouted in a resolute tone:

【List Recruitment】

Half a minute passed and there was no movement.

Neville was even more frustrated, almost crying. He hadn't learned any magic in the first week of school, and he didn't think it was the professor's teaching that was wrong, but rather his own magical aptitude. Disappointed, he even blamed himself for not telling the professor directly, causing the professor to waste his time.

Melvin took two steps, came behind him, and put his palm on his shoulder.

Neville's voice began to tremble again: "Professor, don't waste your time on me. I can't learn anything. I'm a Squib."

Melvin offered no comfort, his tone calm and gentle: "Try again."

Neville wanted to refuse, but couldn't say it. He raised his wand again and shouted: [Summon the List]

For an instant.

The evening breeze blowing through the corridor was stronger than ever. The whistling air made the windows shake and clothes rustle, as if all the air around the castle was rushing into the corridor, almost to overturn the castle.

Standing in the eye of the storm, Neville's first reaction was that he had mispronounced the spell and gotten into trouble. His second thought was that he was going to be expelled from Hogwarts. Thinking of this, he actually felt a little relieved. He had no magical talent in the first place, so he shouldn't have been in Hogwarts in the first place...

Absurd thoughts surged, and in the end, a hint of joy emerged -

At least the spell was cast successfully.

Neville soon noticed the abnormality of the strong wind. The wind was howling in the corridor and the windows were almost blown off. However, Professor Lewinter, who was standing next to him, did not react at all. He waved his hand, and the strong wind suddenly became warm and gentle.

Melvin patted him on the shoulder, signaling him not to be anxious and wait a moment.

Neville wasn't sure if he had calmed down. His heart was mixed with panic about being fired and joy at having successfully cast the spell. He couldn't tell what emotion was taking over, but his heart was pounding and his face flushed.

The magical wind swept across the area, causing the torches and oil lamps on both sides of the brick wall to sway.

Behind the corner of the stairs, Dumbledore watched the scene silently, took a sip of hot cocoa, and didn't care about his silver beard flying around, and even felt a little cool.

The wind in the corridor suddenly stopped, and a wrinkled and torn parchment list floated over, drew an arc, and landed in Neville's outstretched palm.