If you had told most students that History of Magic could be exciting, they would have laughed.
Unless, of course, they had the pleasure—or occasional chaos—of attending Professor Emory Merriman's class.
Today, Professor Merriman swept into the classroom like a gust of theatrical wind, his navy teaching robes covered in enchanted patches of old maps that occasionally wriggled or whispered dates. His copper-red hair was tousled, his spectacles slightly askew, and his expression one of infectious delight.
"Good morning, my brilliant minds!" he called, snapping his fingers as the blackboard behind him filled with glowing script. "Today we will explore the thrilling, dangerous, bureaucratically stifled—but ultimately triumphant!—response to the Great Spellfever Outbreak in Spain, 1703!"
He waved his wand and summoned a smoky illusion of a flaming village with witches zooming in and out, sneezing spells.
"The Spanish Ministry, in a moment of pure bureaucratic inspiration—yes, I know it's rare—decided to actually listen to their Potioners…"
Students chuckled. Dora and Iris were leaning forward with grins; Hadrian, however, was thoughtful, eyes flickering.
He raised his hand.
Merriman immediately froze mid-monologue and beamed. "Yes, Hadrian! Interrupt my carefully choreographed lecture with an unscheduled curiosity—how thrilling!"
A few snickers bubbled from the back rows.
"Sir," Hadrian said politely, "I was wondering—what do we actually know about the Veil in the Department of Mysteries? And what's beyond it?"
The room quieted instantly. Even the Ravenclaws looked up.
Merriman slowly lowered his wand and tapped it once against his desk. The fiery illusions faded. "Now there's a question worth derailing a lesson for," he murmured, eyes gleaming. "Take notes, class. You won't find this on page 42."
He climbed on top of his desk to sit cross-legged, like a storyteller at a campfire.
"The Veil of Death," he said with reverence. "One of the oldest and most enigmatic magical artifacts we still possess. It sits in the Department of Mysteries—a name more literal than you'd think. Since to those remain behind and do not follow, whoever wanders through it, might as well be dead. Its magic predates most modern wizarding constructs. We don't know who built it, or even precisely when. The first solid documentation we have comes from a surviving Atlantean logstone."
"Atlantean?" Dora asked, blinking. "As in—?"
"Yes, that Atlantis," Merriman confirmed. "Their civilization was real. And brilliant. And entirely too curious for their own good. Before it sank, they compiled thousands of records on magical phenomena, the Veil included."
He flicked his wand, and a glimmering diagram of the Veil appeared midair, slowly rotating.
"Now, there are many theories," Merriman said, standing up again and pacing. "But the leading one and most consist with the findings is this: the Veil is not simply a gateway to death—it's a doorway to another plane of existence. A sanctuary, if you will. Created to preserve magic that was in danger of vanishing from our world."
The class leaned in.
"It's said that when rare magical species began to disappear—phoenix flocks, crystal dragons, sentient magical trees—they weren't wiped out. They were moved. Rescued."
"To this other world?" Iris asked.
Merriman pointed at her, grinning. "Yes. That's the theory the Department of Mysteries still clings to, although few have dared enter. And none, I repeat none, have returned. But over the centuries, we've glimpsed fragments through scrying magic and time echoes—floating cities of light, enchanted forests where music bends reality, and societies of magical beings we thought were myths."
Dora whispered, "Like elves?"
Merriman gave a theatrical shiver. "Yes. Not the house-elves we know today. I speak of elven-kind—tall, noble, ancient. And dragons that dream in languages we've never heard. Beings that evolved with magic itself."
Hadrian sat still, absorbing every word. The book in his mind pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.
"This sanctuary was said to have been constructed by the Ancients," Merriman continued, "a coalition of master wizards from before recorded history. They feared that the magical world and the mundane would collide in a way that would destroy both. So, they built a failsafe—a world apart. A paradise, hidden through the Veil."
"But no one's ever come back?" someone asked hesitantly.
"No," Merriman admitted, tone more somber. "The Veil is one-way. A final door. But if the stories are true, it isn't an end. It's a beginning. A magical sanctuary, untouched by the wars and fears of our world."
He looked around the room. "Think about that. A hidden world of wonder. The past and the future of magic, protected."
The bell rang.
No one moved.
Then Merriman clapped once. "All right! For homework, write me two feet on what you would preserve in a magical sanctuary, and why. Use your hearts and your brains. Now go!"
Later, in the Hufflepuff Common Room
"I think I'd preserve magical laughter," Dora said, writing lazily on her parchment as she lay with her head on Hadrian's lap.
"I'd preserve the people I care about," Iris said softly. "Even if the world forgets them."
Hadrian said nothing, but his mind was elsewhere—on glowing forests, on cities in the clouds, on dragons with dreams.
He would preserve hope.
And maybe, if needed, lead his loved ones there.