Port of Felixstowe
The morning sky over the Port of Felixstowe was a pale, wintry gray. Snow fell in quiet veils across the silent docks, softening the edges of ships, cranes, and warehouses into indistinct white forms. The sea rolled in heavy, dark swells, its voice dull and steady beneath the moan of the wind. It was still early, too early for muggles to begin their routines. Only the sound of boots crunching on frost broke the calm as a group of figures appeared near the shoreline with a faint crack of displaced air.
At their head stood a tall man with brown hair and sharp blue eyes. His coat flapped lightly in the wind as he surveyed the port, his expression stern, controlled, and deeply focused. This was John Dawlish, senior Auror of the British Ministry of Magic, a man known for his precision and severity. Behind him, a dozen witches and wizards straightened their postures, waiting for his command.
"Inspect the port immediately," Dawlish ordered, his tone clipped and efficient. "Make sure none of the smugglers have slipped through. And remember—no muggles must suspect anything."
A few of the Aurors nodded briskly and disappeared with faint cracks as they apparated to various points around the dock. The snow swallowed the sound as Dawlish adjusted his gloves and scanned the horizon, eyes narrowing toward the sea. A low wind tugged at his robes, carrying the distant cry of a gull.
Behind him, a young witch lowered her hood, revealing short, spiky pink hair that gleamed vividly against the gray morning. Her clothes were a chaotic mix of muggle and wizard fashion: a faded Weird Sisters band T-shirt, worn jeans under her official robe, and pink accessories that matched her hair. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, clearly unimpressed by the early hour.
"So, Dawlish," she said with a lazy grin, "why did you have to drag me out here at dawn? I was asleep in my lovely warm bed until your owl decided to give me a heart attack."
Dawlish turned, expression tightening in irritation. "Tonks," he said in a tone that suggested he had already regretted every word he had ever spoken to her, "how many times must I remind you to show some respect for your seniors? And for Merlin's sake, look at your attire. We are on a Ministry operation, not attending a Weird Sisters concert."
Tonks rolled her eyes, clearly unmoved. "Alright, Mr. John Dawlish, the ever-serious senior Auror," she said dramatically. "First, I was called to the Ministry when everyone else is on Christmas holiday, and now you're criticizing my wardrobe. You really know how to ruin a girl's morning. Anyway, what's this all about? A mission involving muggles with magical materials, right?"
Dawlish clicked his tongue, ignoring the sarcasm. "Apparently someone sent a report to the Ministry late last night. Head Auror Scrimgeour assigned me and Gawain Robards to investigate. Robards is already handling the next port north of here."
Before Tonks could reply, one of the Aurors reappeared beside them, panting slightly, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Sir," he said, addressing Dawlish, "we've inspected the main port. Nothing suspicious there. But near the lighthouse, we found several crewmen—muggles—all unconscious. Someone cast a warming charm on them so they wouldn't freeze to death. We woke one, but he was disoriented. Said he was a crew member of the ship Marisol. He has no memory of what happened. None of them do. Their minds have been tampered with."
Dawlish's jaw tightened. "Clear their memories of anything unusual," he said. "Take them to the port authorities. Keep them under light observation until further notice. Make sure nothing about this incident leaks into the muggle press."
The Auror nodded and disapparated at once. Dawlish turned back to the sea, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the faint outline of a large ship anchored far off the coast. "We will start there," he said quietly. "Everyone, prepare. Apparate directly onto the deck and inspect the ship. Be cautious. Whoever was behind this might have left traps."
With a sharp crack, Dawlish disappeared.
Tonks sighed heavily, muttering under her breath. "Every Auror thinks they're Mad-Eye Moody these days," she said to herself, kicking at a patch of snow. "Just because the old man retired, now they all want to sound like him. Constant vigilance and all that." She shuddered as she remembered her grueling training under Moody. "Merlin, that man was terrifying."
She glanced toward the distant ship, squinting against the wind. "Well, I'm late anyway," she said with a resigned sigh, and vanished.
The moment she appeared on the deck of the Marisol, the smell of salt and cold iron hit her nose. The ship was massive, its wooden planks slick with frost. The sea rocked it gently, and the snow clung to its railings like white lace. Several Aurors were already combing through the deck, their wands raised, murmuring detection spells. Tonks drew her wand and joined them, pretending to inspect the ropes and cargo with half-hearted focus.
As she walked past a group of Aurors examining a pile of crates, she overheard Dawlish's low voice. He stood near the main mast, hands behind his back, speaking with grim authority. "Everything is too clean," he said. "No signs of a fight, no blood, no scorch marks. Yet the magical cargo is still here."
Tonks approached, curiosity lighting her eyes. "That's strange," she said. "If someone wanted to steal the goods, why leave them? And why use a muggle ship for this in the first place? There are dozens of easier ways to smuggle magical materials into Britain—faster, safer, and less obvious. Like enchanted trunks, pocket dimensions, space-expanded satchels—"
Dawlish cut her off with a scoff. "Those methods were banned years ago. Any idiot using them now would be caught within minutes. The Ministry traces every registered space enchantment. Only smugglers desperate or foolish would risk it."
Tonks smirked. "You mean like Newt Scamander? The man literally carried an entire zoo in a suitcase and got away with it."
Dawlish's expression didn't change. "And he is precisely the reason for the new laws," he said curtly. "Thanks to him, every customs officer in Europe now knows what an illegal expansion charm looks like. That is why smugglers resort to muggle ships. They think they can slip under our detection wards."
Tonks shrugged. "Still seems like a waste of gold."
Before Dawlish could reply, one of the Aurors shouted from the lower deck. "Sir! You need to see this!"
They hurried down the narrow steps into the hold, where the cold air grew heavy with the smell of damp wood and metal. Lanterns floated above the floor, casting flickering yellow light over stacked crates, barrels, and sacks of grain. In the center of the room, two men lay half-dressed and shivering, their skin pale from the cold. An Auror stood beside them, wand drawn.
"We found them stuffed inside this crate," the Auror reported. "Both are wizards. Likely smugglers or hired guards for the shipment. Whoever attacked the ship spared the muggles but left these two behind."
Tonks crouched beside the men, examining their frostbitten fingers. "Poor blokes," she said lightly. "If they were planning to smuggle something, they should've packed a bit more clothing. Not a smart career choice."
Dawlish shot her a warning glare, and Tonks raised her hands in mock surrender. "Just saying."
"Take them to the Ministry," Dawlish ordered. "Question them under Veritaserum once they recover. Seize all magical cargo and transfer it as evidence. Ensure the ship reaches the port so the muggles suspect nothing unusual."
The Aurors obeyed, beginning the slow work of levitating the crates out of the hold. Tonks leaned against a railing, watching the operation. "So that's it, then? We've got our smugglers, their cargo, and a ruined ship. Job done?"
Dawlish exhaled slowly, glancing around the hold. "Look closer," he said. "These materials are destroyed. The runes have been burned off. The enchantments—gone. Whoever attacked this ship was not after the goods. They sabotaged them. Then they erased the crew's memories and made sure we were alerted."
Tonks straightened, her playful tone fading. "You think someone wanted the Ministry to find this?"
"That is what it looks like," Dawlish said grimly. "They wanted us here. The question is why."
He moved to the deck again, staring out across the waves as the gray morning light thickened into snow. The wind grew sharper, whistling through the ship's rigging. "We need to know who this shipment was meant for," he said. "And who intercepted it before it arrived. That will tell us everything."
Tonks joined him, wrapping her arms around herself. "My guess? Knockturn Alley," she said. "That place is still the capital of shady business. If someone was buying or selling illegal goods, they'd be hiding down there."
Dawlish gave her a sidelong glance. "You seem to have grown more perceptive than I expected."
Tonks grinned and flicked her wand, changing her hair from pink to bright red. "Careful, Dawlish. Keep complimenting me and I might start thinking you like me."
Dawlish rolled his eyes. "Do not flatter yourself. Come on, we have more to do."
"Where now?" she asked, already dreading the answer.
"The next port," he replied curtly. "Robards is waiting for a report, and we have three more harbors to check. This is only the beginning. It will take days."
Tonks groaned audibly. "There goes my Christmas holiday. Merlin's stinky beard, why did I ever decide to become an Auror?"
Without replying, Dawlish disapparated with a crack, leaving her standing alone on the deck for a brief, silent moment. She looked at the snow falling over the sea, at the ghostly light spreading across the horizon, and sighed.
"Here we go again," she muttered, and vanished.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wiltshire, England
Malfoy Manor
Afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows of Malfoy Manor, turning the marble floors into pale rivers of gold. The grand hall was silent except for the faint ticking of a clock and the soft crackle of fire in the ornate hearth. The manor, with its chandeliers, white columns, and polished silver fixtures, gleamed with the cold perfection that marked every inch of Lucius Malfoy's life.
He sat in an armchair of dark green velvet, legs crossed, a quill resting idly in his hand. His eyes, pale and keen, scanned a letter written in a sharp, hurried script. His posture was composed, but his gaze betrayed concentration—a flicker of irritation beneath his calm exterior.
The sound of footsteps echoed lightly across the marble. Narcissa Malfoy entered, elegant in soft blue robes, her blonde hair gathered loosely at her shoulders. She carried herself with her usual grace, though her expression softened slightly when she saw her husband. Without a word, she sat beside him on the matching chair, folding her hands neatly on her lap.
"What are you reading, Lucius?" she asked gently, her voice calm and melodic.
Lucius did not look up immediately. He finished the line, folded the parchment once with precision, and then set it on the table beside his cane. "A letter from our associates in Knockturn Alley," he said in a low voice. "It appears the shipment they were expecting has not arrived. The goods were due this morning. They suspect interference."
Narcissa arched a delicate brow. "Interference? By whom?"
He waved a hand vaguely. "They do not yet know. The letter was cautious, which means they fear that the Ministry may have caught wind of it."
She hummed softly, leaning back against the chair. "I see. And here I thought you were simply reading the Daily Prophet again."
Lucius gave a faint smile. "Hardly. There are more interesting correspondences than that newspaper."
Narcissa smirked slightly, then reached over and touched his sleeve. "Anyway, what do you want for dinner tonight? I thought I might cook something myself for once. It has been years since I—"
"Let the servants handle it," Lucius interrupted quietly. "Whatever they prepare will do."
Her hand stilled. For a moment her composure faltered, her expression flickering into something almost sad. Then she smiled again, though it was thinner now. "Then I shall tell the chef to make roasted duck with rice. You always liked that."
Lucius merely nodded, still half lost in thought. After a pause he said, "The Yule Ball was last night at Hogwarts, wasn't it?"
"Yes," she said softly. "Last night."
He turned his head toward her, his voice gaining a hint of irritation. "Did Draco send a letter? I told him to write as soon as he could. Did he invite Eira White as his partner or not?"
Narcissa sighed, her lips curving downward. "Apparently, that girl rejected our son's invitation."
Lucius's eyes hardened. "Rejected?" He leaned forward slightly, his tone sharp. "I told him this was his opportunity. I told him to get close to her. To make himself indispensable in her circle. Yet he cannot even manage an invitation?"
Narcissa crossed her legs and looked into the fire. "Lucius, she is not an easy girl to approach. You know that as well as I do. Since her grandfather took her to France, she has been beyond everyone's reach. And when he died, we all thought she would be vulnerable. But instead, some no woman—Emma Bloom—emerged and took control of the White family's affairs."
Lucius frowned, his thin lips curling downward in a gesture of mild disdain that did little to mar the aristocratic sharpness of his features. He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully, before responding in that cool, drawling voice that carried the weight of old pure-blood privilege.
"Yes, I have seen her a couple of times when I visit the Ministry," he said, his pale eyes narrowing slightly at the memory. "Always scurrying about with that insufferable air of self-importance, surrounded by her little flock of admirers. One wonders how someone so utterly ordinary manages to insert herself into matters far above her station."
"She is clever," Narcissa continued. "Far too important to Eira and the White family. They say she runs the entire family's finances, both here and in every other country where the Whites hold influence. And recently, Eira's aunt, Isabella Voclain, the former French Minister of Magic, moved into White Manor here in England. It seems the Whites have gathered quite the defense around their young Matriarch."
Lucius's fingers drummed once against the armrest. "I see. So all our invitations were ignored because of their influence on Eira."
"Indeed," said Narcissa. "Everyone believed that after Elijah White's death, the girl would be left unprotected," she continued, her voice lowering. "An orphan, easy to influence, to guide, to court. Yet she spent three years abroad under French Ministry protection, and when she returned, every time we or another family sent an invitation to the girl, Emma Bloom attended in her place or simply declined. They have isolated her intentionally. It is their way of shielding her from foreign political influence."
Lucius's expression darkened. "That cannot continue. We must have her within our circle, or she may become untouchable. And if that happens, she will become dangerous."
Narcissa smiled faintly, her voice soft but steady. "Do not worry. She is back in England now and attending Hogwarts. They share the same house. Our son will have his chance yet. You underestimate him."
Malfoy said with a frown "You are right. She cannot remain isolated forever. England is not France. Sooner or later, she will have to deal with our kind."
"It seems so," Narcissa said softly. "But I would not despair. She may be distant, but she is still young. A little charm, a little persistence…"
Lucius studied her face for a moment, then sighed. "I hope you are right, Cissy. The Malfoy family's future may depend on it. You remember what happened generations ago. One of our ancestors proposed to a White daughter and was publicly refused. I do not intend to see history repeat itself, to have a Frenchman take her and the throne of the White empire just as her ancestor did. I will not allow our bloodline to suffer that humiliation again."
Narcissa's eyes glimmered with amusement. "Then let us hope our son is more persuasive than his ancestor."
Their quiet conversation was interrupted by a knock at the grand double doors. The sound echoed through the hall. Narcissa turned her head, her expression smoothing back into polite calm. "Come in," she said evenly.
The door opened, and a liveried butler entered, bowing low. "My lord," he said, "Lord Crabbe has arrived and requests to see you."
Lucius frowned faintly. "Winston Crabbe? What is he doing here? I did not summon him."
"Perhaps," Narcissa murmured, "it concerns the letter you just received."
Lucius nodded once. "Very well. Send him in."
The butler bowed again and departed.
Narcissa rose, smoothing her robes. "Do not invite him for dinner," she said coolly. "I have no appetite for his company."
Lucius merely gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment.
Moments later, the doors opened again, and Winston Crabbe stepped into the hall. He was a short, heavyset wizard in his late fifties, dressed in an opulent but slightly ill-fitted robe of deep burgundy trimmed with gold. His round face shone faintly from the warmth, and his short fingers glittered with too many rings. He smiled, though the expression was tight.
"Lucius," he said quickly, "we have a problem."
Lucius stood to greet him, though his expression remained cool. "Welcome, Winston. I assume this is about the delayed shipment?"
Crabbe gave a curt nod toward Narcissa and then turned back. "Yes. Unfortunately, I've received news this morning—the ship has been intercepted near Felixstowe Port."
Lucius's eyes narrowed. "Who told you this? I've received no such information."
"One of my relatives works for the Auror Office," Crabbe said, lowering his voice. "He told me the ship was caught at dawn. The Ministry was already there. Aurors, several of them, including John Dawlish himself."
Lucius's hand tightened slightly around his cane. "Are you certain?"
"I sent men to confirm," Crabbe said. "It is true. The Marisol was seized and towed into port after inspection. The Aurors found magical goods aboard, and two smugglers have been taken into custody."
Lucius's expression chilled into something more dangerous. "And do these smugglers know anything?"
"Not yet," Crabbe said. "They are being interrogated under the supervision of Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour himself."
Lucius's eyes flickered. "Scrimgeour. Of course." He exhaled slowly, then said, "Send someone to silence those men once the questioning ends. No loose ends."
Crabbe inclined his head. "Already arranged. Our people inside the Department will handle it. By the time Scrimgeour signs the report, the suspects will have conveniently perished during transport."
Lucius nodded in approval. "Good. What about the other ships?"
"They are still at sea," said Crabbe. "I have warned them to change course. If they follow the same route, the Ministry may be waiting."
Lucius's gaze drifted to the tall windows, where the winter light dimmed slightly behind passing clouds. "Make sure they arrive safely. This incident cannot repeat. The loss of one cargo is inconvenient. The loss of two would be disastrous."
Crabbe hesitated, shifting his weight. "It is easy for you to say, Lucius. A single shipment might be nothing to you, but for some of us, it is months of investment."
Lucius turned his head slightly, his eyes cold. "I am sure you will recover your losses, Winston. You always do."
Crabbe smiled awkwardly and bowed his head. "Of course. I only meant—well, you understand how these matters are."
Lucius gave no reply. The silence stretched until Crabbe cleared his throat. "I should be going. I need to visit Lord Rosier before the evening. He will want to know about this as well."
"Give him my regards," Lucius said quietly. "And keep me informed of any new developments."
Crabbe bowed once more and left. The door closed softly behind him, and the room fell silent again.
Narcissa turned to her husband. "Is it serious?" she asked softly.
Lucius's gaze followed the faint drift of smoke rising from the fireplace. "Not particularly. The goods were minor—nothing we cannot replace. I suspect this particular shipment was compromised long before it reached the coast. It may even be my own doing."
"Your doing?"
"I asked for something… special to be included this time," he said vaguely. "Perhaps that drew unwanted attention."
He rose from his chair, moved to his desk, and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from a drawer. The quill glided over the surface with soft, precise strokes as he began to write. "I will pay a visit to the Ministry this evening," he said without looking up. "A polite conversation with a few old acquaintances. I want to see what Scrimgeour really knows."
Narcissa stood as well, smoothing the folds of her robes. "Then I will not wait dinner for you."
Lucius did not answer. His hand continued to move over the parchment, his expression composed, but his eyes distant.
As Narcissa left the hall, the winter light dimmed further, and the flames in the fireplace cast long shadows across the marble. Lucius paused for a moment, sealing his letter with a soft press of wax.
There was no anger on his face, only calculation.
The wind howled faintly outside, carrying with it the distant cry of crows over the frozen fields.