Landguard Point Lighthouse
Snow fell in soft, relentless waves over the coast of Felixstowe, swallowing the landscape in silver and silence. The North Sea churned below, its black waters restless beneath the midnight sky. Only the distant hum of muggle machinery broke the stillness — the faint pulse of cranes and port lights that blinked through the storm like tired eyes.
At the edge of that lonely shoreline, Landguard Point Lighthouse stood — a pale spire against the storm, watching the eastern approach to England like a sentinel that had outlived empires.
A figure approached through the snow, boots crunching softly against the frozen earth. He was tall and cloaked in black, his shoulders dusted in white frost. His breath came in clouds as he reached the base of the lighthouse and began to climb. Each iron step groaned faintly beneath his weight, echoing upward through the spiral chamber until at last he paused and drew his wand.
"Calefacio," he murmured.
Warmth spread through the air like invisible fire. The snow on his coat hissed and vanished, steam rising briefly before fading into the cold draft of the tower. With his wandlight guiding him, he continued upward until the stairway opened into the lantern room — a narrow platform with wide windows that looked out toward the sea.
There, silhouetted against the frost-glazed glass, stood a woman.
Her back was to him. Tall, elegant, and motionless, she gazed toward the invisible horizon where snow and sea became one. The wind tugged at her dark cloak, revealing a shimmer of deep emerald fabric beneath it. Her pale blonde hair caught the light from the revolving beacon, gleaming like polished ivory.
"Have you found when it will arrive exactly?" she asked without turning. Her voice was smooth and cold, touched with the faintest impatience. "I am in a hurry, you know. I left someone rather important behind to come here myself, since you said it was an emergency."
The man cleared his throat, lowering his hood. His face was sharp and weathered — a man used to the darker corners of the magical world. He inclined his head respectfully.
"Yes, my lady," he said. "The ship carrying the cargo was supposed to arrive two days later, but our contacts in Brazil reported that it departed ahead of schedule. It will dock at the Port of Felixstowe tonight — likely within the hour. The owner wanted that some of the materials should be delivered to Knockturn Alley by tomorrow morning, so the shipment was pushed forward."
The woman exhaled softly, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "Impatience and greed — a dangerous mix. Typical of them."
"Yes, my lady," he said again. "The same applies to the next shipments. They've all been sent ahead of schedule and should arrive over the next few days."
She turned her head slightly, though her face remained half in shadow. "How many ships, Azeal?"
"Five more after this one," The man who was called Azeal replied promptly. "Six in total. Then, by the end of next month, another line of cargo is scheduled for delivery — though we expect the routes to shift slightly to avoid detection."
The woman gloved fingers rested against the frosted windowpane. "And the total value? Nine million galleons, was it?"
"Closer to twelve-point-four million, my lady."
Her laughter was soft and humorless. "Twelve million galleons' worth of illegal materials, floating right into English waters under the noses of both Ministries. I imagine the goblins at Gringotts will be in uproar when they learn that some of the pure-blood families are conducting smuggling operations without offering them a share."
"One of them already has a share," Azeal replied. "A goblin from the American Gringotts branch. His name is Grumshak. He is among the suppliers of these materials, especially those obtained from the Amazon forests."
"Ah. So even the American goblins involve themselves in jungle theft." The woman's lips curved faintly, though her tone remained cold. "And what of the English?"
"They have their own dealings, my lady. They work with the French goblins, importing from the East. The shipments from China and Vietnam are handled almost exclusively by them."
"Hmm." The Woman's tone was thoughtful, but there was an edge of amusement. "So the goblins divide the world into spheres of greed. Admirable in its own way."
In the passage of time, silence returned. The wind moaned around the tower, rattling the metal fixtures. From below, the rhythmic pulse of the ocean echoed like a heartbeat beneath the ice.
The Woman turned slightly, her eyes — black, sharp, and luminous settled on Azeal. "Do we know exactly what this ship carries? The one that left early?"
"Yes, my lady," he said, straightening. "Its cargo includes rare magical creature parts — thunderbird feathers, nundu fangs, and rare basilisk scales — commissioned by the Avery family. There's also a relic: a stone statue stolen from Mexico, once part of an ancient Aztec temple. It possesses residual enchantments — a protective curse, according to my source. The statue was originally owned by the Del Castillo family, a Colombian magical noble house. When their family fell after a war with the American Magical Congress, the relic was meant to be auctioned off, but it was stolen before it could reach New York. My contacts confirm it's been purchased by Lucius Malfoy."
The woman's red lips curved faintly, her tone almost playful. "Lucius Malfoy buying a cursed Aztec relic. How poetic."
"There's more," Azeal said. "The shipment also includes alchemical ingredients for the Burke family — refined mercury, drakon blood crystals, and powdered manticore bone. Likely for ritual or experimentation. But the early dispatch suggests they feared inspection — perhaps word spread that the British Aurors were monitoring certain sea routes."
The Woman said nothing for a while. She moved to the edge of the platform and stared out toward the dark horizon. The snow was heavier now, veiling the sea in white. The world beyond the lighthouse was little more than a blur of lights — the distant glow of the muggle docks, the occasional flicker of moving cranes, and the shadows of waves breaking against the shore.
Then she spoke, softly but firmly. "Once we take this ship, the rest will be your responsibility, Azeal. You know what Lady White's will is."
The man bowed deeply. "Of course, Lady Bloom. Everything will proceed according to plan. Once we intercept this one, the other five ships will follow. They can't alter their routes or turn back — not without drawing attention."
Emma nodded slightly. "Good. Be ready. After tonight, they'll send protection for the others. Likely hired wizards from the Continent — mercenaries, smugglers, perhaps even Dark wizards and the forgotten Death Eater sympathizers."
"I'll have our men stationed at every port from Dover to Whitby," Azeal said. "By the time the next ship arrives, it won't have a chance to unload."
"See that it doesn't," she said quietly. Her eyes reflected the revolving light of the beacon, cold and golden. "After all, we wouldn't want the Ministry — or certain families — to suspect that this little setback was deliberate."
Azeal hesitated, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "If I may ask, my lady… will Lady White herself become involved in this?"
Emma's lips curved in a knowing smile. "No. The Lady has other matters to attend to tonight. She's at Hogwarts, and these stuff are beneath her."
Azeal faltered under the unexpected warmth of her smile, but he held his tongue, words failing him, and merely bowed again. "I understand, Lady Bloom."
Suddenly, a faint glimmer pierced the snowfall beyond the glass — a steady light moving across the black sea. The man turned sharply, eyes narrowing.
"My lady," he said, "the ship. It's here. The only one scheduled to pass through this channel tonight."
Emma's gaze followed his, and for a long, silent moment, she watched the distant glow approaching the coastline — a slow, ghostly shimmer through the white storm.
"Excellent," she said at last. "Ready your men. We'll Apparate directly onto the deck once it's within range."
Azeal inclined his head, already moving toward the stairs. "Understood."
When his footsteps faded down the tower, Emma remained alone for a moment. She looked once more toward the sea, her expression unreadable.
The ship's light was growing stronger — like a dim golden eye gliding through the storm.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to the castle far away in Scotland, where the great hall would now be lit by floating candles and laughter. Music, the scent of winter roses, the glitter of ball gowns. Eira, smiling, dancing beneath the enchanted snow.
"Enjoy your dance, my lady," she whispered to the empty room. "Because after tonight, the pure-blood families of Britain will begin to lose sleep."
The revolving light swept across her face again, revealing the calm of someone who had long mastered fear and the art of patience. Her beauty held both serenity and menace, the kind that drew admiration and dread in equal measure.
Then she lowered her hand, drew her wand, and whispered a word.
A sharp crack echoed through the lighthouse as she vanished from sight.
A moment later, a flurry of identical cracks echoed across the snowbound coast — dozens of them, sharp and rhythmic like thunderclaps. Wizards in dark cloaks materialized around the lighthouse grounds, their wands raised, their formation precise. They were agents of House White, operatives loyal to Emma Bloom and Eira's unseen dominion across Europe's shadow markets.
And then, one by one, they disappeared as well — Apparating into the blizzard toward the ship that glided steadily closer to Felixstowe's port.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ship rode the black water like a sleeping beast. Its name, the Marisol, was painted in flaking white letters across the stern, half swallowed by algae and spray. Lanterns hung from the rail in swaying cages, casting a sickly amber around the deck where muggles moved with tired, habitual motions. They tied ropes, checked nets, and hauled crates, their breaths puffing white in the air. To them the night was work and wages, a rhythm of toil that had nothing to do with the odd cargo manifest tucked into a captain's pocket.
Two men leaned on a coil of rope near the mainmast. One was broad and sunburned, hands like planks of driftwood from years of hauling nets. The other was thin and nervous, perpetually glancing at the horizon as if the dark might conceal a ledger or a reason to escape.
The taller of the two men, a wiry fellow named Hugh, rubbed his hands together and muttered, "You ever notice those three blokes in the black coats? The ones who never help with the cargo?"
His companion, a broad-shouldered man called Peter, spat into the sea and grumbled, "Aye. They walk around like they own the place. Always clutchin' those sticks in their hands. Think they're generals or somethin'."
Hugh chuckled. "I asked one what the sticks are for, and he glared at me like I'd insulted his mother. Then he called me… what was it again?"
"Mudblood," Peter said with a laugh. "Yeah, that's the one. Mudblood! What kind of insult is that? Sounds like a kid's word from a comic."
The two men burst out laughing. The sound carried faintly through the cold air, almost swallowed by the wind.
"Maybe it means we're too clean for them," Hugh said between chuckles. "They sure look like the type who ain't seen a proper shower in weeks."
Peter shook his head, amused. "Arrogant bastards, that's what they are. Staring down their noses at honest men doing all the work. Bet they're part of some fancy secret order or—"
He stopped, his eyes narrowing. "You don't think they're… you know… part of that thing, do you?"
Hugh frowned. "What thing?"
"The Illuminati!" Peter whispered dramatically. "Those sticks of theirs? Maybe they're symbols. Signs of rank. They say the Illuminati rule everything — banks, kings, the weather. Maybe these three are here makin' sure this cargo gets where it needs to go. World domination and all that."
Hugh blinked, then burst out laughing so loudly that one of the nearby gulls took flight. "Peter, for the love of God, stop readin' those conspiracy books! You've gone mad."
"I'm serious," Peter insisted. "They walk around like they own the place, don't they? Always talkin' in low voices, sneerin' at us. I tell you, mate, they're not normal."
"Normal or not, you're talkin' rubbish," Hugh said, smirking. "Next thing you'll say they can move things with those sticks."
They were only half joking. The sea was a place that punished sloppy work.
A sudden pop of noise made both men look up. The air on the foredeck chilled as if someone had opened a door into winter itself. A tall woman appeared between them as if she had been conjured from the fog. She stood motionless for a fraction of a breath, Golden hair like silk in the lantern light, eyes black as wet coal. Her cloak clung about her like a wet shadow. She was impossibly tall and carried herself with an ease that made both men feel small and exposed.
Peter let out a choked sound. "My God," he whispered. "Help us. A demon."
The Hugh rolled his eyes and reached to slap his companion. "Not a demon," he scolded in an awed tone. "An angel. Have you ever seen such beauty? You think demons have beauty like this?"
"You do not know,"Peter said with angry and fearful tone. "How would you know the face of a demon or an angel? Have you ever seen one to begin with?"
Before the argument could resolve itself into insults, a small, precise wand movement from a shadow behind the great mast took hold of the moment. Azeal stepped from the gloom, face calm and practical. He flicked his wand in a motion practiced and efficient. "Obliviate," he intoned, the single word slipping into the chill.
A haze of light like falling snow washed over the two muggles, and Peter's hands started to tremble. Azeal followed quickly with another motion, gentler this time. "Somnus."
A soft shimmer passed between them. The Peter's head nodded once and then his eyes slid shut. He sagged against the ropes and fell into a deep, perfect sleep. Hugh blinked, coughed, and then shook his head as if clearing a bad dream. Azeal crouched and checked both quickly. The forgetting charm had done its work. They would remember a routine night, nothing more.
There was no triumph in his face as he straightened. He only said, efficiently, "There are many more muggles below deck than I expected. They do not know what they carry."
Emma turned her face. Up close she was more frightening than beautiful. Her skin was pale like carved ivory. Her black eyes were cold and assessing. Her voice flowed like silk over steel.
"Make them forget everything about this night," she said. "Then move them to the fort inside the dunes. Let them wake there with wages in their pocket and a dream of being shorehands. We will not leave any traces."
Azeal inclined his head. He stepped forward and tapped Hugh lightly once across the temple. Obliviate again, then Somnus. He moved like a man who had done this a thousand times. Within minutes the sleeping crew were bundled by two of House White's men and Apparated away in pairs, deposited inside the old fort that crouched behind the lighthouse. They would wake warm, confused, and honest. Their memories would be a blank where the earlier minutes had been.
Azeal wiped his gloves on his trousers and glanced back toward the stern where the crate marked with strange sigils waited. "There are wizards aboard," he said. "Three near the hold. They are watching the smuggling manifest. Two look poorly trained. One seems disciplined. They are armed."
Emma's mouth twitched into a smile that was not friendly. Her hand went to her wand, slender and pale as bone. She did not bother with formalities. "Let us introduce ourselves," she said.
They moved like a single current toward the hatch and the hold. The deck creaked beneath careful feet. The smell of oil and brine thickened as they descended. The hold was a maze of crates, tarpaulins, and ropes. A single lantern hung from a hook, casting long shadows. Three wizards stood around a stack of chests, their cloaks heavy, their hands idle upon their own wands.
At the sight of the intruders one of the wizards straightened and stepped forward. He was middle sized, with a face like flint and eyes that checked every angle for a trap.
"What do you want?" he demanded. His wand hand was steady. "You do not belong here. This cargo belongs to people of consequence. To take it is to make enemies with the very foundations of our social order."
The Emma's laughter was soft. "Foundations of your social order," she said. "You mean the old men who count blood and coin the way others count sheep. How admirable of them to pay so handsomely for secrecy."
"You cannot understand," the flint faced one said. "They will not forgive this. They will send those who will break bones, who will break spirits. You think you are entitled to judge what should be moved on the sea?"
"You are the sort of fool a pure blood family pays tenfold to guard a crate," Emma said, amusement clear and bright like a blade. "What a marvelous investment. I had hoped for better security for twelve million galleons of merchandise."
The second of the three wizards moved with a sneer. He flicked his wand, and a line of light stabbed toward the Emma. A protective ward flashed up as if it had been waiting, and the light fractured into icy sparks against the spell that bloomed from her palm. She had not bothered with a shield. Her fingers moved with the fluidity of someone long practised in violence. She answered with a quick, precise curse that knocked the sneer from his face. He staggered backward, clutching his jaw, and spat a string of curses that fell into the salt air.
The first wizard called loudly for more reinforcements, the word an attempt to summon aid from the open sea and from men who kept promises in committee rooms and drawing rooms. Emma's eyes did not flicker. She stepped forward and her wand cut a bright line. A nonverbal bolt of magic struck the leader in the chest. He thudded into a stack of crates and passed out like a man who had been punched by an unseen fist. The second wizard tried to recover but was too slow. Azeal had already moved, his own wandwork efficient. He looped a web of ropes animated by a restraining charm around the second man and hauled tight. The man flailed and then grew still, bound like a fish in a net.
They breathed but did not celebrate. From a darker corner of the hold a sudden chill rippled. The air changed tone. A single figure stepped from behind a pile of crates, and the light of the lantern seemed to recoil before him as if it had been insulted. He was broad shouldered with hair the color of iron and eyes like winter storms. His presence shaped the space around him. He carried himself as a man who had made a covenant with danger and kept it.
Emma's face hardened. She had not expected a fourth guardian. "You have the manners to send a real guard at last," she said. Her voice was flat now, honed into steel.
The new man's laugh came without humor. "You are a bitch who step where she does not belong," he said. His wand flicked, but he did not speak. The first movement of his hand sent a pulse of pressure that knocked the lantern to the floor. He wove his wand in small circles without a sound. Nonverbal magic laced the air, sharp and precise and bright as glass. He raised his wand and the shadows buckled. Emma answered in the same manner. Her wand moved in an economy of gestures, no incantation crossing her lips. The hold filled with sparks and light, with the sound of wood groaning and metal singing.
This was no ordinary clash. Spells met like the teeth of a saw. He summoned gouts of black water that tried to pull the deck apart. She called back a shield of iron and thunder that cracked like a struck anvil. He lashed with ropes of conjured seaweed and tried to entangle her. She severed them with a single slash of light that shimmered as if cut from moonlight. The air between them static with power, a brittle song of danger that set their hair on end.
He unleashed an old curse, guttural and raw, the sort of thing men used when blood and reputation were at stake. The words were not heard but the motion that followed made the crates tremble. Emma responded with a spell that had no name in the mouths of polite society. It was a shaping of will, a soft but inexorable pressure that took hold of the wizard's breath and squeezed. He coughed and staggered. He tried to sink the ship, calling the sea to his service in a mad attempt to drag the vessel under. Water rose like a fist through the seams, eager and hungry.
She moved faster than thought. With a twist of wrist she sent a knot of light into his chest that unthreaded the bond between him and the waves. He howled, a single animal sound, and then he fell. The last thing he saw was Emma's face up close: black eyes and the red curve of a mouth that had no room for mercy. He fell into the dark like a fallen mast.
The hold was silent then. Only the faint drip of seawater marked the moments after violence. The two men Azeal had bound slowly stirred, dazed and trapped. Emma stood breathing, some of her cloak wet with spray. She wiped her wand along the back of her hand as if brushing away crumbs.
They moved through the crates. The stench beneath canvas and oak was thick with the musk of beast and the metallic tang of alchemical preservatives. Bones wrapped in oilcloth were stacked beside casks of strange powders. Nets of feathers and sacks of scales. Pipework of carved bone and small boxes that hummed faintly with trapped charmwork.
Emma reached for a statue that had been wrapped in silk and leather. It was small, no bigger than a man's torso. It was carved from stone dark as old blood and its face held a cruel geometry. When she brushed dust from its shoulders, a faint shimmer ran along its surface like a living thing waking.
She lifted it carefully as if it weighed more than its size allowed. The stone hummed faintly against her glove. She looked up at Azeal and spoke in a voice that acknowledged no ceremony.
"Inform the Ministry and the Daily Prophet," she said. Her tone was flat but it carried command. "Do so without names. Leak them what they need to publish. Make sure the story is public by tomorrow or the day after. If the Ministry tries to hide it, ensure there are other channels that will force their hand. This cannot be covered up."
Azeal's face took on the quick calculation of a man who kept lists. "Will they not trace it?" he asked.
"She will not allow tracing." Emma's mouth curved in a cold suggestion of a smile. "We will not sign our names. We will send a file to a contact in the other magical newspapers who owes us favors or are our people. We will use channels in France and Belgium and the Netherlands. We will make the scandal too wide and loud for the Ministry to smother. The truth must be a fire the Ministry cannot afford to smother without revealing itself."
Azeal nodded, already composing lists of names and contacts. "What of the statue?"
"For now, hide it." She wrapped the statue in oilcloth again and tucked it into a chest beneath a false bottom. "Take it to a secure place. Keep it where only we know. When the time comes, I will tell you what to do. Until then, the fewer who know, the better."
"And the other ships?" Azeal asked. "How do we handle the remaining five?"
She looked out through the hatch toward the black sea and the spinning lantern light. The wind tossed the fringe of her cloak as if it wanted to speak. "Extend the investigation," she said. "Inform our counterparts in neighbouring countries. Let the French Ministry and the Belgian Ministry know something has been found in our waters. Let them cooperate or be complicit. We will make sure those ships are boarded and inspected under official sanction. And when they come near our shores again, make sure there are men waiting to take them as we did tonight."
Azeal paused, then a small smile of resolution crossed his face. "I will set the teams. We will not fail."
"Good." Emma hefted the an alchemical substance under her arm as if it were a book. "Take two dozen and move. Start with Dover and Portsmouth. Send word to men in Cork and Dunkirk. Make this net wide. And then begin the operations. Leave no trails."
Azeal bowed. He turned to the hold where the groaning ship still threatened the night with its hidden teeth. He barked orders and in moments a dozen of House White's men were moving like a practiced crew. They tied the remaining crates, sealed the false bottoms, and prepared manifest copies that would be sent by invisible channels to those who would not be able to ignore them.
Emma stood for a long moment, listening to the sea. At last she raised her hand and uttered the single movement that made the world tilt if anyone were watching. A crack of sound and snow sprayed the deck as she vanished.
Azeal watched the empty space where she had been and then he turned to the men around him. There was work to be done and the night was already shortening to the midnight. He breathed the cold air and said without sentiment, "Move. We do not linger."
They moved like a shadow army, efficient and silent. The sea took back its quiet as if an accusatory hand had been removed. In the hold a crate thumped softly as if to mark a new beat.