The exit terminal of London Heathrow Airport was alive with sound of every day life.
Rolling suitcases clattered across polished floors, voices overlapped in a dozen languages, and the automatic doors sighed open and shut as passengers streamed in and out. Families reunited in tight embraces, chauffeurs held discreet placards, and travelers stood waiting with that particular restlessness born of long flights and longer expectations.
Yet despite the constant motion, a noticeable pause spread through a section of the terminal.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered as the onlookers turned toward the airport exit area.
A young man had just stepped through the exit gate.
He was tall, with that quiet, easy confidence that doesn't need to shout to be noticed. His black hair was thick and slightly wavy, neatly styled and combed back—just enough to look sharp and put-together without trying too hard. A pair of simple black-framed glasses sat on his face, giving him this subtle, thoughtful edge that somehow made him even more attractive.
He wore a long tailored overcoat in charcoal grey, cut close to the shoulders and falling just below the knee, the fabric heavy and well made. Beneath it was a crisp white shirt and a dark knit tie, loosely but deliberately worn, paired with a fitted waistcoat and pressed black trousers. Polished leather shoes completed the ensemble. He looked every inch the image of a proper gentleman of the era, modern yet timeless, the sort of man who appeared as though he belonged equally in a private members club or on the street outside a West End theatre.
Cradled in his arms was a cute white cat.
The animal lay comfortably against his chest, her fur immaculate and her green eyes half lidded, entirely at ease as if airports were her natural domain. He held her with surprising gentleness, one hand supporting her weight, the other absentmindedly stroking behind her ears.
The effect was immediate.
Onlookers stared openly now.
A woman standing near the barrier leaned toward her friend and whispered, "Who is he? Is he some kind of celebrity?"
Her friend did not answer at first, her gaze fixed on the young man as he walked past. "I do not recognize him from television," she said slowly. "Maybe he is a foreign celebrity."
"Whoever the hell he is," the first woman said, grinning, "he's stupidly handsome and fuck, he's making me wet."
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On the opposite side of the terminal, a small group of men watched him with narrowed eyes. One scoffed as he looked at the young man with mockery.
"Look at this wanker," he grumbled under his breath. "Thinks he's it, doesn't he? Strutting round with that cat like it's gonna make him interesting. What a knob."
His friends laughed, nudging him knowingly, quick to point out his obvious jealousy.
Unbothered by any of it, the young man continued forward at an unhurried pace. He neither acknowledged the stares nor altered his stride. When a pair of young girls hesitantly approached, pretending interest in the cat in hopes of striking up a conversation, he simply smiled politely and moved on without stopping.
Once outside of the terminal exit gate, the air shifted. The scent of rain lingered faintly, mingling with exhaust fumes and the distant hum of traffic. He paused near the curb, scanning the line of waiting cars as if searching for something specific.
Then he saw it.
A dark coloured Jaguar waited across the street.
His lips curved into an immediate smile. He glanced down at the cat in his arms.
"See, Nina," he said softly, affection thick in his voice. "The boss herself came to greet us. It seems she missed me."
The cat meowed in response, blinking up at him.
He crossed the street toward the car. As he reached it, the window slid down smoothly.
"Get in," a familiar voice said, flat and direct.
He smirked.
Opening the rear door first, he carefully placed Nina on the seat before closing it again. Then he walked around and slid into the front passenger seat.
He turned toward the driver.
Olivia Brooks sat behind the wheel, her posture perfect, her eyes fixed forward, her expression as unreadable as ever.
"No hugs," he said lightly. "No Welcome Kisses or greeting. Not even asking how I survived all these years. After such a long separation, that hurts boss."
Olivia glanced at him briefly, rolled her eyes, then looked toward the back seat.
"Did I not tell you not to bring that cat?" she said coolly. "You know I am allergic."
Nina hissed softly from behind.
The young man laughed. "See, boss? She dislikes you too."
He leaned back comfortably. "You told me I would be staying in the United Kingdom for a long time. I could not leave her behind. Besides, she would have followed me anyway. She is clingy."
He turned his head toward Olivia. "So how are you? And why now? Why call me back to England after nearly fourteen years?"
Olivia started the engine and eased the car into traffic.
"We will discuss it later," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Mysterious. Then where are we going? Your place? Or am I finally meeting the Queen?"
"Neither," Olivia replied. "Your residence."
The car moved smoothly through London streets, the city unfolding around them. After some time, they stopped in front of a modest two story house set back from the road. It was neat, unremarkable, but in a quiet neighborhood.
The young man stepped out, Nina following close behind, and surveyed the house.
"Quite humble," he said thoughtfully. "I like it. Not as extravagant as yours, though."
Olivia walked toward the door. "Come inside."
Once indoors, she closed the door firmly and retrieved a folder from her bag.
"These are the property documents," she said, handing them to him. "The house is yours. And this is your British identification."
He examined the papers carefully. His photograph stared back at him from the card. Beneath it was his name.
Ethan Thorne.
He looked up, his expression serious now. "So. Why bring me back now?"
Olivia moved deeper into the house. He followed as she closed the curtains and turned on the lights, sealing the space from the outside world. She opened her bag again and spread files across the table.
"You have been reassigned," she said. "You needed to be here for this."
Ethan frowned. "You sent me to France. I was finally making progress there. I found leads about my mother. Could the Crown not send someone else for this mission?"
She sighed quietly. "Orders from the top. Recent events have forced a restructuring. All handlers and their OCAs have been recalled from overseas. The organization is changing its policy."
She handed him a file. "Read this. I will explain more afterward."
She left for the kitchen to get herself some tea.
Ethan read in silence.
Page after page.
When he finished reading the file, he leaned back, disbelief etched across his face.
"Is your superior perhaps on some kind of drugs or something?" he asked dryly. "Overthrowing the entire magical system of Britain? That is insanity."
Olivia sipped her tea, utterly unmoved by his jab at the royal officers. Her voice remained calm, almost conversational.
"Actually, we do not have a choice. With everything that is happening and with the way the British Ministry of Magic is behaving, taking control is no longer optional."
Ethan stared at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. Disbelief flickered openly across his face.
"Come on, boss. Do you have any idea how hard this plan is to carry out? I understand that you, the handlers, and the royal government have never truly been inside the magical world. All you know comes from the intelligence we, the Operative Crown Agents, provide. That makes your decision understandable. But this is different. This is a level of operation where people can read your memories just by looking into your eyes. You know that, right?"
Olivia set the teacup down with measured care and met his gaze.
"I do understand how serious this is. I also understand that this will be the hardest task you have ever been given. But you are not alone in this. Other handlers are overseeing similar missions to penetrate key British magical structures. Yours, however, is the most critical. Secretary Cavendish himself selected you for this assignment."
Ethan exhaled slowly and sat down beside her. He flipped open the files, skimming their contents before looking up again.
"So my mission is to enter Hogwarts, as staff or something similar. But you do realize I am not very familiar with British wizarding culture. I barely know anything about Hogwarts beyond what everyone else knows. How exactly am I supposed to get in?"
Olivia folded her hands, her expression composed.
"The initial plan was for you to join the Ministry of Magic as an assistant to another Operative Crown Agent. He has been embedded there for nearly forty years. After a few years, you would be introduced to Hogwarts under whatever pretext was required. However, that agent proposed an alternative."
She paused briefly before continuing.
"You could apply directly for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. If you present yourself convincingly, there is a strong chance the Hogwarts management will accept you."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, doubt written clearly across his face.
"And what if they do not? Who would seriously accept a nobody from another country as a professor at Hogwarts, the most legendary magical school in the world?"
Olivia answered without hesitation.
"Then we fall back on the first option. You enter through the Ministry, and with the help of my colleague's OCA inside, you will reach Hogwarts eventually."