For the last several days, Hector Dagworth felt less like the esteemed, powerful member of the Wizengamot and world-renowned Potions Master, and more like a victim of a persistent, malevolent jinx. His meticulously ordered world had imploded.
First, there was the inexplicable, humiliating loss of his Gold Membership Card for the Society of Extraordinary Pharmacists during a night out at the Parisian Opera.
This wasn't merely a piece of plastic; it was a symbol, a powerful identifier, and, crucially, a highly regulated license that permitted him access to rare and controlled magical components across Europe. Its loss was a threat to his standing, his reputation, and his livelihood.
Worse, his groundbreaking research into advanced Trans-Elemental Potions—a project that promised to secure his legacy—had abruptly devolved into a series of catastrophic failures. Where once his concoctions brewed with smooth, predictable precision, they now sputtered, curdled, and, on one occasion, violently detonated, leaving a permanent scorch mark on his custom-made Brazilian cherrywood lab bench.
Desperate, he had even tried to utilize a small, ancient reserve of Felix Felicis he kept hidden—a vial he'd been saving for a moment of supreme, career-defining importance. But even the powerful Liquid Luck had failed him; the problems persisted, and his attempts to restore order simply led to more elaborate messes. It was as if his luck, far from being improved, was actively being inverted.
He hadn't dared report the card's disappearance. Reporting it meant formal investigation, tedious paperwork, and the almost certain public humiliation of admitting negligence. The irony of seeking help via the very Ministry he disdained was not lost on him. He had briefly considered placing a heavily-coded ad in the Daily Prophet, but dismissed it as undignified.
Through his extensive, albeit distasteful, network of Ministry contacts, he had managed to narrow down the probable location of the card to an unauthorized trace signature originating from a Hogwarts student. But approaching Albus Dumbledore to demand a school-wide search for a missing wallet was beyond the pale. It was an act of supplication that his vast ego could never tolerate.
As he wrestled with his pride, a discreet tawny owl arrived, dropping a tightly rolled scroll of parchment into his lap. The message was terse and shockingly direct:
You appear to have a minor difficulty. I possess the immediate solution.
Note: I prefer to take my evening tea on the island terrace at precisely 20:00.
The sender was Brod.
Hector knew Badbrod. They were distant acquaintances, both members of the Wizengamot, but their paths rarely converged. Brod specialized in ancient languages and legal theory, while Hector was the undisputed authority on magical chemistry. The old adage that "a career carves its own mountain" was true; their peaks rarely intersected.
Yet, this calculated invitation could not be ignored. Brod clearly knew something and, more importantly, knew who Hector was unwilling to ask.
Hector arrived at the designated meeting location, a secluded patch of shoreline on the edge of a deep, dark lake, fifteen minutes ahead of the scheduled time. The cool, damp air provided a momentary, welcome relief from the late summer humidity that had been plaguing his subterranean laboratory.
He stared out across the black, still water towards the tiny, tree-covered island in the distance. He adjusted the lapel of his expensive, custom-tailored robes. "A man who truly stages his life for maximum effect," Hector muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Does one require a special permit for maintaining a property that appears to be permanently haunted?"
He raised his jeweled staff, casting a small, localized Lumos charm to illuminate the dilapidated wooden dock. A single, tiny, barely seaworthy rowboat bobbed precariously on the water.
Hector stepped into the boat, which immediately creaked and groaned in protest, and pushed off. The small, fragile vessel, barely clearing the surface of the water, silently navigated the darkness towards the invisible island shore.
After a few minutes of unsettling silence, the boat reached a small, hidden jetty and, with an almost theatrical gasp, completely submerged itself, dissolving beneath the surface as if it were never there.
A small, perfectly groomed house-elf, holding a silver oil lamp, stood waiting on the gravel path.
"My master bids me greet you, Mr. Hector Dagworth. Please follow me," the elf squeaked, bowing low.
The path wound through dense, overgrown foliage, passing under several shimmering layers of protective enchantment that Hector instantly recognized as complex Abjuration and anti-detection wards—the kind one rarely saw outside of high-level Ministry security. The final destination was not the expected humble retreat but a hidden, small-scale manor house, nestled securely in the island's center.
"Good evening, Hector. You're precisely on time, which I suppose is a habit required of a master of precision," Brod said, not looking up. He was seated comfortably at a circular stone table on an expansive, lantern-lit terrace, looking completely at ease.
Hector took the offered seat, suppressing the urge to bypass the pleasantries. "I am here. Now, give me the news you so tantalizingly dangled in your letter."
Brod smiled, a thin, knowing expression. "Ah, so the rumors of a profound loss were not exaggerated. You are troubled, Hector. Good. Trouble clarifies the mind." He poured a rich, crimson fluid into Hector's waiting goblet. "A new acquisition—a gift from a rather remarkable acquaintance. It's a Muggle red wine, entirely fascinating."
Hector clenched his jaw, forcing himself to wait. He knew better than to rush Brod.
Brod continued his slow, deliberate pace. "This acquaintance of mine recently corresponded with me. A young wizard, only just finishing his first year at Hogwarts. He wrote to me because he received a letter from the Office for the Prevention of Misuse of Magic—a warning letter, stating he had performed the Summoning Charm while vacationing in France. A spell he hasn't even begun to learn, mind you."
Hector's gaze remained fixed, his expression unreadable, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
"Now, Hector," Brod continued, half-closing his eyes as he swirled his wine, "My young friend was, understandably, mystified. He noted that he was wandless at the time and, more crucially, provided evidence that the original trace must have been triggered by a powerful, unauthorized act of magic that immediately preceded the Ministry's faulty detection."
Brod paused, lifting his glass in a silent toast. "Even the dullest mind, Hector, can connect a powerful, unauthorized Summoning Charm in France with a renowned Potions Master who suddenly finds his exclusive Gold Membership Card missing in the very same country."
"What is his name?" Hector asked, his voice low, tight, and barely above a whisper.
Brod ignored the question. He leaned forward, his casual posture gone. "What is your intent? To charge into the school and demand the boy return your property? Or perhaps offer him a paltry sum of compensation for his 'trouble'?"
Hector bristled. "That doesn't seem to be any of your concern, Brod. I will deal with my property as I see fit."
"Oh, but it is entirely my concern, because you have caused my young friend distress and bureaucratic danger," Brod countered, his voice becoming mildly admonishing. "You look like a man who needs this ice-cold wine to restore some equilibrium, Hector, because you are still fundamentally misunderstanding the gravity of the situation you've created."
Hector fell silent, the shame of his outburst combined with the realization that Brod was entirely serious. "I apologize, Brod. I have been under tremendous strain, and my judgment is… strained. Tell me what I have missed."
Brod pushed a clean, unfolded piece of parchment across the table—a copy of Albert's precisely worded reply to the Ministry, which Brod had strategically acquired.
"Read this, Hector. This is not the letter of a simple child who stumbled upon a treasure. This is a cold, calculated legal document. He is not asking for money for the card. He is demanding that the Ministry—and by extension, you—clean up the mess that you made of his clean record."
After Hector finished reading, his face was etched with a slow dawning of realization. "He has framed himself as the victim of a Ministry glitch… which was actually caused by the careless spell of the original caster."
"Indeed," Brod confirmed. "The Ministry has since ignored and discarded his correction—which he anticipated. He has laid a perfect paper trail of his innocence. Your task is not to recover the card, Hector. Your task is to use your considerable influence within the Ministry to officially retract the trace warning and issue an apology to the boy, thereby solidifying his legal position as an innocent victim of a faulty system."
"And what do you want from me?" Hector asked, defeated, accepting the necessary humiliation.
"I want you to fix your mistake and leave the boy's clean legal status intact. That is all. Attempt to compensate him, and you will be met with a politeness so cold it will chill you to the bone. He is not motivated by money."
"I understand. Thank you, Brod," Hector said, standing up, eager to leave this place of uncomfortable truths.
"Why not stay for a cup of tea?" Brod offered, a faint smile returning. "We could have a conversation…"
"No," Hector refused sharply. "Thank you for your unusual courtesy, but I am entirely preoccupied. I have a bureaucratic nightmare to dismantle, and I have no time for leisure."
"I suspect you will soon be much more inclined to sit and speak with me," Brod said airily, watching Hector stalk off the terrace. "Our next conversation won't be taking place here."
Hector left the island the same way he arrived—a small, dilapidated boat that quickly submerged upon reaching the main shore—and headed off into the night, knowing the boy's name and knowing exactly what he had to do to appease the forces he had unintentionally angered.
No sooner had Hector's presence vanished than a flash of emerald fire erupted in the massive stone fireplace on the terrace. McDougal, the renowned magical artifact collector, stepped out, brushing soot from his exquisitely tailored robes.
He walked over and sat down in the chair Hector had vacated, picking up the untouched goblet. "Gone, finally!" He took a large, appreciative sip of the wine. "Not bad. Though I suspect Anderson only sent you one bottle, and I, his esteemed colleague, received a simple letter detailing Muggle financial instruments."
Brod stroked his beard, laughing warmly. "Well, I am his professor, McDougal. The relationship carries certain privileges."
"Do you honestly believe Hector will succeed?" McDougal asked, swirling the wine.
"He will retrieve his trinket only if he adheres strictly to my instructions and cleans up the bureaucratic contamination he inflicted on the boy's name," Brod said, his smile fading into a look of sober calculation.
"He must realize that Albert Anderson's greatest currency is his spotless legal record and his lack of obligation. Hector's attempt to use a simple Accio has created a profound and unexpected legal challenge for Albert, and Albert intends to turn that challenge into a significant defensive asset."
"You are certain the boy won't be swayed by a large sum of gold?" McDougal pressed, knowing Hector's default solution to every problem was a hefty compensation cheque.
"Absolutely," Brod affirmed, leaning back. "Albert is not like other children. If Hector approaches him with mere compensation, he will find the boy's refusal to be glacial and absolute. Albert sees money as a tool, not a measure of worth. He values leverage and principle far more than transient wealth."
McDougal nodded in understanding. "I see. So, Albert used the Ministry's incompetence to set a trap for the unwitting Gold Card owner, forcing him to establish a precedent of innocence on his behalf."
"Precisely," Brod smiled. "A fascinating gambit for a mere first-year student."
"On a different, and perhaps more concerning note," McDougal abruptly changed the subject, his expression tightening. "I received unsettling news. Rowena Smith is planning to attend Hogwarts this year, intending to secure the Defense Against the Dark Arts position."
Brod frowned, taking a slow sip of wine. "That… is deeply troubling news."
McDougal's voice dropped to a low, grave tone. "Why would she suddenly desire such a volatile, short-lived post? Why sacrifice her current successful trajectory?"
"Has Gerber been informed of this?" Brod asked, referring to a senior figure in their secret cohort.
"Not yet, but he must be," McDougal shook his head. "Gerber would never have discussed the true extent of the Smith Family Legacy with Rowena, simply because she is a relative. He keeps that information highly compartmentalized. But Rowena is exceptionally intelligent; she must have accessed old, obscure Smith family records. She has likely deduced some of the implications of the bloodline."
"Intelligent, yes, but her temperament is entirely unsuited for the responsibility the lineage carries," Brod concurred, tapping his finger thoughtfully on the stone table. "Furthermore, the situation has changed significantly since her last serious consideration for the task. We now have two other highly suitable candidates we are currently observing—far more balanced and less prone to reckless ambition than Rowena."
"Then we shall continue to monitor them closely," McDougal agreed. "But we need to intercept Rowena's intentions immediately. This change of direction is too dangerous."
McDougal smiled grimly, swirling the rest of the wine in the goblet. "By the way, I did win our last wager, didn't I? Regarding the publication numbers of my new book?"
"You did. But if I recall, you immediately gave away the vast majority of the hundred-copy print run as gifts," Brod chuckled, shaking his head. "How many copies did you actually sell to a paying customer?"
"Perhaps half a dozen?" McDougal conceded with a mischievous glint in his eye. "But a bet is a contract, Brod. And I always honor my contracts."
"Very well. You may take the remainder of the red wine," Brod conceded, pushing the bottle toward his friend. He poured himself one final, small glass before McDougal took possession of the bottle, securing the cork with a quick, non-verbal charm.
"Let us find Gerber immediately," McDougal said, moving toward the fireplace. "We need to understand Rowena's motives before she sets foot on Hogwarts grounds."
Brod rose to follow, the twin problems of a furious Potions Master and a dangerously ambitious DADA candidate occupying his mind. He disappeared into the column of roaring, forest-green flames, leaving the remote terrace silent once more, waiting for the next clandestine meeting.