Moonlight streamed through the window of the simple wooden cabin, casting a soft glow on the figure seated by the flickering kerosene lamp. The person set down a report, leaned back in the chair, and frowned in deep thought.
Outside, the view was a desolate expanse of scorched earth, with faint wisps of dark gray smoke rising into the night. If you got close enough, the sharp scent of sulfur lingered in the air.
"A total of 23 dragon eggs stolen," Anton Vogel said bluntly, addressing his guests with no attempt to sugarcoat the situation. "We've alerted the Aurors to lock down and screen all witches and wizards crossing the borders, but the outlook isn't great. They might've already slipped out. If we don't recover those eggs, many of the mother dragons could suffer from postpartum depression."
Melvin, thoughtful as ever, asked, "Twenty-three dragon eggs stolen all at once, with no trace left behind—that sounds like a highly organized, well-planned operation, doesn't it?"
"You're spot on, Professor Lewent," Vogel replied, nodding. He reached for the teapot on the table and poured a crimson liquid into his guests' cups. "Try this. Dragon's Blood Brandy, a local specialty. No alcohol, just the kick of dragon's blood for flavor."
Melvin took a sip, then discreetly set the cup down.
Hagrid and Kettleburn might've enjoyed it, but they weren't here. As experts, they were out in the field, helping to calm and manage the fire-breathing dragons.
"Highly trained, meticulously planned, and very familiar with the reserve…" Melvin paused, choosing his words carefully. "I have to warn you, Mr. Vogel, there's a good chance the dragon reserve has an inside man. Maybe more than one."
"More than one…" Vogel echoed softly, his eyes studying the young professor before him—powerful, sharp-minded. A thought sparked in Vogel's mind, and with a heavy sigh, he began to vent. "You're right, Professor Lewent. We've suspected as much for a while. The reserve has strict protocols, but the underground dragon trade around here is rampant. Poaching dragons and stealing eggs happens every year. The Ministry's Law Enforcement Department has investigated multiple times, but they only manage to quiet things down for a bit. Once the heat's off, those thieving scumbags slink back."
Melvin listened politely, his smile masking the fact that he'd picked up on Vogel's unspoken plea for help. He nodded as Vogel rambled on about Romania's security issues. "That's unfortunate, but I'm confident the Aurors will catch those rogue dark wizards."
Vogel opened his mouth, clearly tempted to ask the professor for assistance. But after a moment's thought, he reconsidered. This professor might be a magical powerhouse, but he was clueless about the local dynamics. When it came to investigations, he probably wouldn't be much help.
And what if he did uncover something?
Vogel nodded, taking a sip of his Dragon's Blood Brandy. "Professor, are you planning to leave soon?"
"Leave? Not at all," Melvin said with a grin. "Quite the opposite. I was wondering when the reserve might reopen. I haven't had a proper look at the dragons yet."
"That depends on how quickly the dragons recover," Vogel sighed. "We've had egg thefts before, and it usually takes about a week. Let's hope none of the mother dragons fall into depression."
Ten minutes later, Melvin said his goodbyes. Vogel mentioned he'd be working late, and as they parted, he added, "Professor Lewent, the reserve won't forget your help."
The Romanian Ministry of Magic had tightened border checks, requiring regular travelers to comply with stricter regulations. It was thanks to Charlie Weasley that they'd been escorted out, floating through the night sky for half an hour before checking back into Abbott's hotel.
At ten o'clock that evening, Melvin, Kettleburn, and Hagrid strolled through the streets of Budapest, the cool, damp breeze from the river brushing against them.
Hagrid's shoulders slumped, his mind heavy with thoughts of the mother dragons. He felt their pain deeply, remembering how hard it had been to part with Norbert. The mother dragons must be even more heartbroken.
Melvin and Kettleburn stayed quiet, offering no strong opinions, simply keeping Hagrid company to lift his spirits.
"Don't let that Vogel fool you, Melvin," Kettleburn said, gazing at the shimmering lights reflecting on the Danube.
"Is there something I should know?" Melvin asked, surprised.
"You're aware that in Britain, many Death Eaters escaped justice. Some of those criminals faded into obscurity, while others reinvented themselves and took up prominent roles abroad," Kettleburn said, pausing briefly. "Take Ludo Bagman from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, or Karkaroff, the headmaster of Durmstrang…"
"Vogel's one of them?" Melvin asked.
"He's a fugitive who escaped trial, but not a Death Eater. He was a Pure-Blood Saint."
"Pure-Blood Saint… Vogel…" Melvin repeated the name, a flicker of recognition sparking. Now that Kettleburn mentioned it, the name clicked. It was familiar from his studies of magical history, though overshadowed by towering figures like Dumbledore, Grindelwald, Piquery, and Scamander.
In the early 20th century, Vogel, as German Minister for Magic, had overseen the capture and transport of Grindelwald in the 1920s. In the early 1930s, he organized the election for the new president of the International Confederation of Wizards. For reasons unclear, Vogel and much of the German Ministry aligned with the Pure-Blood Party, plotting to install Grindelwald as the new president. After Dumbledore and Scamander defeated Grindelwald, Vogel was ousted and disappeared.
Decades later, who would've thought a former Pure-Blood Party member would rise to a high-ranking position in Romania?
"So that's the story…" Melvin mused.
No wonder Vogel hadn't seemed shocked when he'd mentioned the possibility of an inside job.
This place was a melting pot of talent and trouble.
Melvin's mood grew thoughtful.
"It's strange, isn't it?" Kettleburn continued. "Former Death Eaters running schools, Pure-Blood Saints as high-ranking officials, and a black market thriving right next to the reserve. This ecosystem's been around for nearly a century."
"They wouldn't be stealing from their own, would they?" Melvin asked.
"Probably not. They're in it for the long haul. This kind of bold move smells like outside wizards."
"We're outsiders too. Wonder if the local traders will roll out the welcome mat for us," Melvin said, his eyes drifting to a bridge spanning the river.
Budapest had nine bridges crossing the Danube, the oldest being the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, or simply the Chain Bridge. Stretching between Széchenyi Square in Pest and Clark Ádám Square in Buda, it was a city landmark—and the entrance to the wizarding black market.
The three-arched iron bridge spanned six hundred feet between its two stone pillars, flanked by grand, intricately carved triumphal arches. Massive stone lions guarded each side, their heavy bases engraved with Latin inscriptions describing the bridge.
With a few precise taps of their wands on the letters, the trio continued down the passageway, their figures vanishing into the ancient arches of the Chain Bridge.