Gellért Hill, József Bridge
The József Bridge stretched across the Danube River, a steel framework spanning a thousand feet. It was also known as the Freedom Bridge or Liberation Bridge. Originally built for a world expo, it had been seized and destroyed by German forces during the war, only to be rebuilt afterward and renamed the Liberation Bridge. Atop its towers perched statues of the Turul bird, a mythical creature from ancient Hungarian lore.
A thin mist rose from the Danube at night, blurring the view in the distance.
Two elderly figures, each clutching a wand, moved slowly along the street. As they walked, they flicked their wands, their forms flickering and shifting through the fog. The faint hum of displaced air was kept low, barely audible.
They paused before a lamppost's base, eyeing the electric light hanging above. One of them tapped the lampshade with their wand, then strode straight toward the steel base. The moment their bodies touched the wall, ripples spread across the metal, like water disturbed by a stone.
The lamplight flickered, and the two figures vanished.
Melvin approached cautiously, still dressed in the pajamas he'd worn at the hotel, looking slightly out of place. He'd watched closely, circling the base as the two elderly wizards had done, mimicking their technique by tapping the lampshade.
The light seemed to quiver twice, casting wavering shadows.
The green-painted metal wall looked unchanged, but a keen wizard's senses could detect a subtle shift. The base beneath the streetlamp had become a hidden passage, much like the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Melvin reached out, his hand passing through the wall. It felt cool, as if a breeze brushed past.
This secret space wasn't mentioned in any records he'd seen. Clearly, it wasn't a respectable place—perhaps a covert black market or a private gathering spot for certain wizards. Barging in uninvited seemed impolite, not to mention risky.
"Well, I'm already here…" Melvin muttered, brushing aside his hesitation. With a deep breath, he stepped into the hidden passage.
Beyond the green-painted steel wall, the air grew dim and damp. A faint mist lingered, mixed with the musty smell of cement in a space long unventilated. It felt like an old air-raid shelter or an abandoned subway tunnel.
Ahead, he heard the faint shuffle of footsteps and hushed whispers.
Melvin didn't rush to follow. Instead, he glanced back. The wall behind him was now stone, embedded with murky glass-covered lamps. The brass bases were tarnished, coated in a layer of grime, with faint symbols etched into them, barely visible.
"Triangle, circle, vertical line…" Melvin murmured, squinting. He recognized the symbol immediately: the Deathly Hallows. "So, I've stumbled into Pure-Blood territory."
Before moving forward under the flickering kerosene lamps, Melvin tapped his pajamas with his wand. With a bit of Transfiguration, the fabric darkened to an inconspicuous black-gray. The hem lengthened to cover his legs, the collar stretched into a hood that shadowed half his face, leaving only his dark eyes visible. Even his slippers morphed into sturdy boots.
A textbook dark wizard disguise.
A Disillusionment Charm would've been safer, but this was a decent precaution. Pulling the hood low, Melvin softened his steps and followed the sounds ahead. From now on, he was a ghost in the passage—or, if spotted, just another member of the Pure-Blood faction.
He pressed close to the wall, catching the faint sound of flowing water. They must be near the Danube's banks.
The passage was deep and winding, with abandoned circular offshoots covered in moss and dust. Some sections showed cracked surfaces, revealing a structure of reinforced concrete—not a wizard's creation, Melvin deduced. Likely a wartime tunnel, perhaps a bunker, long forgotten and repurposed by the Pure-Bloods.
Following the faint footsteps and voices at a careful distance, Melvin trailed them for about twenty minutes before stopping.
The passage ended at a massive stone blocking the way, topped by a Turul bird statue, not unlike the portrait entrance to Gryffindor Tower. The two elderly wizards whispered a password and slipped through a gap in the stone, which sealed shut behind them.
Through the barrier, Melvin sensed a dozen distinct magical signatures. This was definitely a gathering.
"Well, I'm already here…" he repeated to himself.
Melvin quietly lifted his Disillusionment Charm, cast an Ironclad Charm for protection, and adjusted his hood to cover half his face. Facing the Turul statue, he spoke the password: "For the greater good."
The stone rumbled open, revealing the scene within.
A dimly lit circular hall, its layout reminiscent of the Wizengamot's courtroom, sloped downward toward a central platform. Steps lined the edges, leading to the middle.
A dozen wizards stood scattered across the steps, all cloaked and hooded like Melvin, their faces obscured. Only two stood out: Aberforth, the hotel owner, near the front, and the elegant yet fiery old witch who'd been at the center of things. She stood on the platform, clearly leading the gathering.
Melvin recalled Aberforth calling her name last night—Vida, was it?
All eyes turned to Melvin. He kept his gaze steady, nodding slightly as he stepped to an empty spot on the steps, projecting calm confidence.
"I didn't expect any old friends to answer my call," the white-haired witch, Vida, said sharply, her voice laced with sarcasm. "I thought the rest of you were long dead."
Melvin suppressed a grin. His cover was intact. This ragtag group of Pure-Blood remnants was hardly an organized outfit—no guest list, no credentials, and apparently some internal strife.
Frowning to feign displeasure, Melvin lowered his voice to a gruff mumble. "Vida…"
He let the name hang, his tone heavy with unspoken history.
That single word worked wonders. The sparse suspicion in the room dissolved. The other wizards averted their gazes, and the tense atmosphere eased. With that subtle shift, Melvin was accepted as one of them—a surviving core member of the Pure-Blood faction, weathered by the trials of fifty years ago.
Even if they didn't know his name.
Holding back a smirk, Melvin maintained his aloof persona, nodding vaguely at the others, exchanging cryptic glances that meant nothing to him. The room felt oddly harmonious.
"Back to business!" Vida's sharp gaze swept the room, commanding attention. "There's been a major dragon egg theft in Romania. Wizards from nearby countries have been called in to investigate, leaving Austria's Ministry spread thin. Nurmengard's defenses are weak. This is our chance to break him out."
Her words carried weight. The dragon egg theft wasn't their doing, but they saw an opportunity to free Grindelwald. The plan sounded solid, and Vida had clearly been preparing for years, waiting for the right moment.
Melvin listened, his hooded figure blending seamlessly into the shadows of the Pure-Blood gathering.