A light drizzle fell intermittently until the early hours of the next morning.
When the first Portkey to New York activated that morning, the dragon reserve still wasn't open to tourists. The fire dragons, exhausted from their antics, had finally settled down, leaving the mountains eerily quiet.
At the Norwegian Ridgeback's central area, on a grassy patch in front of the camp, Hagrid had lit a fire on a flat stone. The damp wood crackled and popped, sending up plumes of choking white smoke. He grinned broadly. "With Melvin's blue flames, Nobetta's bound to warm up to me. Then I can play with her however I like, right? Heh heh…"
Professor Kettleburn ignored him, engrossed in two sets of lesson plans—one for training students, the other for mentoring a successor professor.
Before leaving, Melvin had left him a dozen jars of blue flames and a small Shadow Mirror, with instructions to mentally review his knowledge of magical creatures, focusing on perspective and aesthetics, and to consider adding commentary and music.
"Ugh…" The soon-to-retire professor sighed, feeling busier than a regular workday. He muttered to himself, "Just one more year until retirement."
"*Huff…*" His sigh turned into a deep breath, only to choke on the smoke from Hagrid's damp firewood, triggering a coughing fit.
…
In the dining hall at the Aurors' and dragon keepers' outpost, house-elf chefs and servers bustled about.
During the summer holidays, the hall saw more guests than usual. Alongside reserve staff and Ministry employees, there were family members enjoying a sort of internal perk.
The dragon keepers occasionally mentioned the young professor:
Some were grateful for his role in quelling the dragon riot and capturing the conspiring dark wizards, practically single-handedly resolving the dragon egg theft case. Others marveled at his blue-flame magic, which tamed even the most ferocious dragons, lamenting that such a spell couldn't be widely shared.
Then there were those with ties to tavern businesses, their excitement palpable. Over the past few weeks, they'd seen the profits pouring in from Budapest and were eager to get a piece of the action from the young professor.
The two Rosier witches sat in a corner, opposite a fireplace with lingering warmth.
Vinda glanced up at Christine, who was eating quietly, her table manners unchanged in decades, her fair face faintly flushed by the firelight.
She seemed lost in thought—or perhaps thinking of nothing at all.
At 8:15 a.m., Melvin stepped into the Romanian Ministry's Department of Magical Transportation, joining a handful of other wizards heading to New York. They entered a brightly lit room, where seven or eight wizards sat around a round table, their hands resting on a tattered tablecloth with rough, fraying patches.
They stole glances at one another. Though this was an official Portkey route and everyone had passed security checks, no one spoke casually.
After a few minutes, the wizards sensed something. They looked down at the tablecloth—the Portkey—its worn patches trembling faintly. The space around the table seemed to solidify, folding in on itself like layered paper. Landscapes flickered briefly, and the passengers' bodies turned transparent.
Melvin felt a powerful tug at his core, a weightless sensation washing over him as his body surged through the folded space.
His feet hit the ground hard. When he came to, they were in another room. The tablecloth was the same, but the table and chairs were gone. A familiar yet foreign voice echoed from a ceiling speaker: "Passengers, the Portkey from Bucharest to New York has arrived. Please proceed to the entry point to register your wands…"
The voice, softer than the British Ministry's, reverberated in the small room. No one left immediately; most wizards took a moment to fix their hair or adjust their robes.
Crossing nearly five thousand miles in an instant had left one elderly wizard's hair nearly blown off.
Outside the room, a sign reading "Woolworth" hung on the wall.
Melvin stood to the side of the corridor, watching Ministry staff and wizards handling business rush by. The chaotic clatter of footsteps felt oddly familiar. Compared to the British Ministry's old-fashioned decor, this modern office building was far more to his liking.
As expected, within moments of his arrival at the Woolworth Building—his first time back in a year—a certain deputy director of the Auror Office got word and hurried over to personally inspect him.
"Mr. Graves, long time no see. Thanks for helping forward my letters."
"…" Graves said nothing, silently reviewing Melvin's documents.
"My wand's registered, and my suitcase has an official Ministry permit. Relax, Mr. Graves—you know me. I'd never break any wizarding laws in any country."
"…"
"Such a shame," Melvin said, patiently cooperating with the inspection while glancing at Graves' badge. "A dedicated Auror like you, held back by MACUSA's outdated bureaucracy, still not promoted or recognized."
Graves' badge still read "Deputy Director," unchanged from a year ago.
For a seasoned Auror nearing fifty, with notable achievements and no major blunders, such a stagnant career was unusual.
Graves knew it wasn't right, but what could he do? His last name was Graves. He'd once sued a certain stage effects designer and lost, and the case had become a national embarrassment.
Oh, right—that designer was *this guy*.
Graves' face darkened, but he stayed silent, triple-checking Melvin's identity papers and Undetectable Extension Charm permits, hoping to find grounds to lock him up.
Unfortunately, Melvin knew MACUSA's laws better than he did.
"Mr. Graves, quick question: any cases involving Scourers in the last couple of years?"
Graves didn't look up. "What era do you think this is? Those bounty-hunting criminals who sold wizards to Puritans were wiped out by the original twelve Aurors when MACUSA was founded!"
"As you said, Scourers are greedy criminals chasing gold. People like that don't just disappear."
"What are you getting at?"
Graves paused his document check, eyeing Melvin warily. "Did you hear something? About Scourers? From where—London? Romania? No, Budapest, right?"
As a veteran Auror from an Auror dynasty, Graves had a keen nose for these things.
Back in the New World era, Scourers stopped at nothing for gold, capturing fugitive wizards for bounties and selling others to witch-hunting Puritans. When MACUSA was established, many escaped justice.
Some settled down, hiding in plain sight, nursing grudges against MACUSA. Others fled abroad, continuing their dark wizardry with infamous reputations.
"…"
Melvin could tell MACUSA hadn't gotten wind of anything yet. Even Romania couldn't confirm the mastermind behind the dragon egg theft, likely passing the case to the International Confederation of Wizards.
He gave Graves a thoughtful look, smiling faintly. "I don't have solid intel, but I can offer a lead. Romania recently had a nasty dragon egg theft case, and word is it's tied to Scourers and the New Salem Philanthropic Society."
"Second Salemers!" Graves' expression turned grave.
The Second Salemers were an old "friend" of the Graves family—and of MACUSA. Unlike the loosely organized Scourers, these were disciplined No-Maj fanatics, hell-bent on exposing and eliminating wizards since the late 17th century.
Seventy years ago, if not for Newt Scamander and his dangerous creatures, MACUSA might have been exposed.
"You're sure the theft is linked to them?"
"Not entirely."
Melvin shook his head, stowing his wand and suitcase. "But cracking a case like this could clear the Graves family's shame. The credit might even get the Auror Office deputy director promoted—maybe to Director of Magical Law Enforcement in a few years."
"Clear the shame… get promoted…" Graves muttered, tempted. This guy was like a devil whispering forbidden fruit, but damn if that fruit wasn't enticing.
Melvin smiled faintly. He wasn't misleading the Auror—just omitting a few irrelevant details.
Like anything about Ilvermorny. That wasn't in the criminals' statements.
Stepping out of the Woolworth Building, Melvin turned and waved with a bright smile. "Good luck, Mr. Graves!"
…
Broadway, Gershwin Theatre.
The street wasn't too crowded at 9 a.m., far from matinee hours. The theater was closed to the public, with only a few tourists snapping photos as they passed. It wouldn't liven up until after 2 p.m.
The sun climbed higher, the air growing warm and dry.
A tall figure strolled along the theater's front street, sipping an iced Americano. He eyed the posters, frowning and muttering that the drink wasn't fit for human consumption—yet he kept taking small sips.
The decor hadn't changed much, and the classic shows were still the same. The posters suggested the theater was still using his stage effects designs. Magic or tech could achieve them, just with a bit more hassle.
Melvin sipped his coffee, his face blank as he recalled his days working here. No nostalgia—he was too young for that.
Staff occasionally came and went—backstage crew or maintenance, likely the same old bunch.
Someone seemed to recognize him, perhaps recalling the theater manager's and owner's frequent laments. They started to take a closer look, but a car with an unusually loud engine roared by—
*Boom.*
The figure vanished across the street.
The worker blinked hard, thinking they must be overworked. Time for an iced Americano at the café.
…
Half an hour later, at the foot of Mount Greylock in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.
The winding mountain road veered here, leading to the next town. Melvin wasn't in a rush to reach Ilvermorny. He stopped at a fast-food joint, filled up on fried chicken and cola, then hiked up the mountain.
As a magical school, Ilvermorny had its protections—Muggle-Repelling Charms and Anti-Apparition wards. The mountain path wasn't tough for a wizard, and the forest creatures were friendly enough to Melvin.
Mid-August brought a temperate continental climate, with some maple leaves already turning yellow.
From a distance, the mountaintop was shrouded in mist, faintly revealing a castle's silhouette, its tower spires peeking through the fog.
To a No-Maj, it'd look like mere rocks and treetops. Even standing before the castle, they'd see only rubble and ruins.
Melvin threw on a coat and ambled up the path, taking in the scenery. He startled a passing squirrel or two and got a scare himself from a viper disguised as a fallen leaf.
The town below was hot, but up here, at higher altitude, the air was crisp and cool.
The Horned Serpent always complained about disliking the mountaintop, especially in fall and winter. Too cold, it said—it'd get sleepy. For a long-lived magical creature, hibernation could last years, even decades.
"…"
Melvin approached the castle, where four statues stood, their embedded gems glowing faintly in four colors. A stream wound downhill, and sparse leaves cast dappled shadows.
He felt a twinge of sentiment.
Ilvermorny didn't have a gamekeeper, but Pukwudgies handled security patrols. These small, grey-skinned, long-eared creatures—distant cousins of European goblins—had powerful magic.
Native to Greylock, they'd initially avoided humans until Isolt Sayre, the school's founder, forged a deep bond with them. Over generations, they became salaried staff, handling security, cleaning, and catering.
Like Hogwarts' house-elves, but with far higher status—practically equals to wizards.
The statues were surrounded by detection charms and scrying mirrors. Sensing an unexpected magical presence, a Pukwudgie investigated, recognized a former student, and hurried to inform the wizards on duty.
Headmaster Agilbert Fontana, ever dutiful, was no Dumbledore shirking responsibilities onto a deputy. He stayed at school over the summer.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Levent, who dropped out to become a Hogwarts elective professor. What brings you to Ilvermorny?"
Fontana, around sixty, had a booming voice and only two tufts of grey hair at his temples. Fit and rosy-cheeked, he was young by wizard standards, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm.
Melvin wasn't surprised. Hogwarts was the world's most famous magical school, and Ilvermorny's founder hailed from there. The headmaster, eager to rival Hogwarts, kept tabs on its affairs and likely knew Melvin's story.
He sidestepped the jab, his face serious. "Headmaster Fontana, I've come to warn you: Ilvermorny's been implicated in a major international crime!"
"?"