The transition from the opulent, gold-leafed halls of the Woolworth Building to the biting winter air of New York City felt like a cold splash of water to the face. Jessica, acting as the unofficial spokesperson for the younger half of their group, had finally cornered Leonard near a marble pillar. Her message was simple: she'd had enough "diplomatic elegance" to last a lifetime and wanted to go home.
Leonard hadn't put up a fight. In truth, the man looked like he was ready to collapse. While the climb up the political ladder was paved with honey for some, for Leonard, it felt more like a set of velvet-lined shackles. He was a man of action, an Auror by trade, and being forced to trade pleasantries with sycophants like Abernathy was a special kind of torture. Using the "tired children" excuse was his golden ticket out of the gala without offending the high-ranking officials still nursing their firewhiskey inside.
The group of five descended the stone steps of the Congress entrance, their breaths blooming in the air like pale ghosts. The tension of the banquet had bled away, replaced by a momentary sense of relief. Leonard and Ian took the lead, walking toward a quieter side street where the Apparition wards were thinner.
Ian, ever the high-spirited colt, couldn't contain his excitement. The prospect of finally opening the mysterious red boxes at home had him practically vibrating. He broke into a light jog, his dress shoes clicking sharply against the cobblestones, pulling several yards ahead of the adults.
"Ian, slow down!" Leonard called out, his voice tired but fond. "The house isn't going to sprout wings and fly away."
But the boy didn't slow down. He rounded a corner into a narrow alleyway lit only by the flickering neon of a distant Muggle diner.
The change happened in a heartbeat.
Three figures cloaked in midnight-black robes materialized from the shadows as if they were part of the darkness itself. They didn't use spells—spells were loud and left magical signatures. Instead, one of them lunged with a physical efficiency that suggested professional training. A heavy, gloved hand clamped over Ian's mouth while another delivered a precise, blunt strike to the back of his neck.
The boy went limp instantly. Before Leonard could even draw his wand, the attackers had bundled Ian into a magically expanded trunk and vanished behind a secondary corner.
"Ian!" Leonard's roar shattered the silence of the night.
He moved with the speed of a hunting cat, Allen and the others hot on his heels. They skidded around the corner, wands leveled and glowing with ready light, but the alley was a dead end. No cracks of Apparition, no lingering scents—only the faint, mocking smell of wet brick and trash. The kidnappers were gone.
Leonard's face went from pale to a terrifying shade of crimson. He let out a guttural snarl of frustration and drove his fist into the brick wall. The sound of bone meeting stone was sickening, but he didn't even flinch.
"Leonard, stop! Hurting yourself won't bring him back!" Professor Flitwick's voice was like a bucket of ice water. The small professor stood at the center of the alley, his eyes darting around, analyzing the scene with the cold logic of a master duelist. "Self-reproach is a luxury we don't have. Every second you spend punching walls is a second they use to put distance between us and the boy."
Leonard turned, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. "He was right there, Filius! I let him run ahead!"
"Listen to me," Flitwick commanded, stepping into Leonard's line of sight. "You are the one with the authority here. Get back to the Congress. Mobilize the Aurors. Seal the Apparition points and the Floo network. I will take Jessica and Allen back to the house to ensure their safety, and then I will meet you at the department. If we move now, we can choke off their escape routes."
Leonard swallowed hard, the professional taking over the grieving uncle. He nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion. "Right. The house is warded. Stay there. Don't leave for anything." Without another word, he turned and vanished with a thunderous crack that echoed through the alley like a gunshot.
The journey back to the Nox residence was a blur of silent misery. Jessica looked like she'd had the soul scooped out of her; her eyes were wide and glazed, her hands trembling so violently she had to tuck them into her sleeves.
Once inside, Flitwick wasted no time. "Jessica, listen to me carefully. I need you to stay by the window. If an owl comes, if a Patronus arrives, if you see so much as a spark in the sky, you send word to the Congress immediately. You are our anchor here. Can you do that?"
Jessica nodded dumbly, her gaze already fixed on the dark horizon.
Flitwick then turned to Allen, his expression softening just a fraction. "Watch her, Allen. Use your head. This isn't a game anymore."
Allen watched the Professor leave, feeling a heavy, cold stone settle in the pit of his stomach. He looked at the four red velvet boxes sitting on the table—the rewards they had been so eager to see. Now, they looked like omens of bad luck.
He pointed his wand at the hearth. "Incendio." The flames roared to life, casting flickering orange shadows across the room, but the warmth did nothing to touch the chill in the air.
As he sat beside the trembling Jessica, Allen's mind began to race at a frantic pace. He had the System. He had the Mission Map. He knew that if he focused, he could likely pinpoint Ian's location within minutes. But how could he explain that to the MACUSA? "Oh, I just had a feeling he was in a cursed mansion by the river"? It would make him look like a collaborator, or worse.
But more importantly, he started to analyze the why.
Why abduct Ian? If it was revenge for Henry Jones, they would have targeted Leonard—the man who actually made the arrest. Or perhaps Jessica, to twist the knife in Leonard's heart. Taking Ian seemed... specific.
Then, his mind flashed back to the dragon egg.
Ian and Allen were roughly the same height. Both had that shock of messy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. In the dim light of a New York alley, to a kidnapper working off a description rather than a photograph...
They think they have me, Allen realized, a surge of guilt washing over him. They wanted the boy who bought the egg. They wanted the British kid.
Ian was suffering because of a mistake in identity. He was a proxy for Allen's own prize.
Miles away, Ian Nox was learning that terror had a very specific smell: old wood and stagnant water.
He woke up much sooner than his captors intended. Leonard hadn't just taught him how to duel; he'd spent years drilling the boy on "The Auror's Resilience"—techniques to shake off magical concussions and minor hexes. His head throbbed with a rhythmic, stabbing pain, and his first instinct was to cry out.
He bit his tongue instead, keeping his breathing shallow and even.
He was in a box. A cold, hard, wooden box that smelled of damp earth. He could feel the swaying motion of being carried, the occasional jolt making his teeth rattle. It was dark—a thick, suffocating blackness that made him feel like he'd been buried alive.
Don't panic. Panic kills, Uncle Leonard's voice echoed in his mind. Assess the situation. Find an opening.
The box eventually came to a halt with a heavy thud. Ian felt himself sliding as the container was tilted, and then the lid was wrenched open. He kept his eyes shut, his body limp, playing the part of the unconscious victim to perfection.
He felt himself being dumped onto a cold stone floor. The impact sent a jar of pain through his shoulder, but he didn't make a sound.
"Careful with the brat!" a voice rasped. It was a rough, uneducated accent. "Madam said she wants him intact. We don't get the gold if he's broken."
"He's fine," another replied, sounding bored. "Kids these days are made of rubber. Did you send the signal?"
"Yeah. The thin man is waiting at the service entrance."
Ian listened to the heavy thud of their boots as they moved a few paces away. He risked a microscopic squint.
He was in the shadow of a gargantuan structure. The Breckenridge Mansion. Even among wizards, this place was legendary for the wrong reasons. It sat on the edge of the Hudson River, a crumbling monument to a family that had practiced rites too dark for even the 18th-century MACUSA to tolerate. Muggles avoided it because of the "bad vibes," while wizards avoided it because the house tended to eat anyone who entered without an invitation.
The two masked wizards were distracted, laughing about the "commission" they were about to receive.
This was it. His only window.
Ian didn't reach for a wand—they'd already stripped him of that. Instead, he reached into the hidden, silk-lined pocket of his formal trousers. His fingers brushed against something cold and oily.
He carefully withdrew a small, multi-colored cocoon.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the tall, dead grass of the garden. Mid-air, the cocoon unfurled into the vibrant, spiked form of a Swooping Evil. The creature expanded its wings, looking like a cross between a butterfly and a prehistoric predator.
Go, Ian pleaded silently. Go to the light. Go to Leonard.
The creature didn't make a sound as it ascended into the night sky, its green-and-blue scales camouflaging perfectly with the shadows. It was a creature that lived on brains, but it was fiercely loyal to those who fed it.
Just as the creature vanished, the back door of the mansion creaked open. A sliver of pale, sickly yellow light spilled onto the gravel. A thin, nervous-looking wizard peered out, his face like a piece of crumpled parchment.
"Bring him in," the thin man hissed. "Quickly, before the wards reset!"
Ian felt the rough hands grab his collar again. He went limp, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, as he was dragged across the threshold and into the maw of the monster.