Savannah, Georgia. Graves Manor.
The neatly trimmed lawn gave off a distinct scent of earth and fresh grass. Goblins peered from beneath burrows and rocks, their beady eyes darting to the heir of the Graves family standing nearby.
Piquery Graves, two months shy of fifteen, was about to enter his fifth year at Ilvermorny. Dressed in a crisp black suit, his hair was slicked back with enough pomade to make a Bowtruckle slip right off. His brow was furrowed, his gaze heavy with frustration.
He was struggling with the Shield Charm. Despite practicing since the start of summer, nearly a month and a half, his progress was dismal—successful only two or three times out of ten, and even then, it could barely block minor jinxes from his peers.
To think, by fifth year, that Levent senior had been dueling at a professor's level, untouchable among students.
"Ugh…" Piquery sighed.
How was he supposed to revive the Graves family's glory and make their name shine again in the Magical Congress at this rate?
A faint tremor rippled through the lawn as another wizard approached. The goblins ducked lower in their burrows.
The soft crunch of grass announced a witch in a black-and-white pinafore dress, also a soon-to-be fifth-year. She jogged over, slightly out of breath. "Piquery, why are you still moping out here? The banquet's almost ready, and the Headmistress and Mr. Levent are arriving soon. Grandma says to hurry up and prepare to greet them."
Piquery's eyes lit up at the mention of the guests, though a flicker of nerves followed. "My Shield Charm's still a mess," he muttered. "Maybe I'll skip the banquet. Say I've got a stomachache, Nancy?"
Nancy let out an exasperated laugh, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the manor. "If you pull that, I don't know about your stomach, but your legs will definitely hurt—until school starts!"
Piquery blinked, confused. "Why?"
Nancy gave his shin a light kick. "Because your grandma will break them!"
Their playful banter floated across the lawn, carried by the breeze to the second-floor drawing room's balcony. As the two students climbed the stairs, a familiar voice teased, "Piquery, don't worry. A broken leg's no big deal for a wizard. Healed in a night—won't hurt until school starts."
The pair looked up sharply. There was Melvin, no longer in his Horned Serpent uniform, looking almost unfamiliar. After a moment of scrutiny, their eyes widened, and they shouted in delight, "Melvin! Aegir!"
As fellow Horned Serpent students, Melvin was their idol, the standard they chased. Before he left Ilvermorny, he'd dominated as the top student in their year. Outside of Quidditch, his trophies from dueling, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts could've filled a display case on their own.
Since his departure, Horned Serpent had lost its edge, with Thunderbird swiftly claiming those honors.
Though they'd known he was coming tonight, seeing their legendary senior in person sparked excitement.
"Long time no see," Melvin said, nodding with a smile.
Truthfully, he didn't remember much about Piquery Graves, only that he was the son of the Deputy Director of the Auror Office. Nancy Boot, however, stood out—she was a descendant of the Boot brothers, adopted by Ilvermorny's founder, Isolt Sayre. Horned Serpent students often joked about her ancestor's magical mishaps.
Nancy and Piquery were close, already pegged for an arranged marriage in America's wizarding circles. Sharp-eyed witches and wizards could see it: the waning Graves family would leverage the Boot family's vast resources to reclaim their place at the heart of the Magical Congress.
Poor Deputy Director Graves—decades of hard work outshone by his son's romance.
What would the overworked man think?
A wand rapped both students on the head, one tap each. An elderly Black witch with white hair stepped inside, scolding softly, "Mind your manners!"
The pair obediently chorused, "Headmistress Fontana, Mr. Levent."
Headmistress Fontana nodded warmly, greeting the older woman. "Madam Piquery."
Melvin echoed, "Madam Piquery."
Seraphina Piquery's face was etched with deep wrinkles, her sagging skin and sunken forehead belying a commanding presence. The last student to earn the approval of all four Ilvermorny house statues, she'd joined the Magical Congress after graduation, serving as its President from 1920 to 1928. Alongside Newt Scamander, she'd thwarted Grindelwald and his Pure-Blood faction's plot to dismantle the Statute of Secrecy.
Her other achievements were less grand—blocking Prohibition, refining magical creature protection laws.
British wizards knew her mainly through Rita Skeeter's biography of Newt Scamander, Man or Beast? The True Face of Newt Scamander. It painted Newt as a heartbreaker who'd had a fling with Seraphina before abandoning her. Thankfully, the book was only published in Britain, so Seraphina likely hadn't read it—or Rita Skeeter might've vanished by now.
This witch was no pushover. Her wand, crafted by Violetta Beauvais from swamp mayhaw and werewolf hair, craved dark magic like a vampire craved blood. Her brief presidency reflected her ruthless, uncompromising style, alienating colleagues and earning few friends.
This impromptu visit before leaving Ilvermorny was largely orchestrated by Headmistress Fontana, an old friend of the Graves family.
After brief greetings and a few minutes of small talk, the group moved to the dining room, enjoying the banquet while discussing business.
"Mr. Levent," Seraphina began, seated at the head of the table, her voice slow and deliberate. "I heard of you early on. Chosen by all four house statues, top grades, exceptional skill. We thought you'd follow my path—join the Congress, maybe even become President. But instead…"
"Life's like magic," Melvin said, slicing his steak unhurriedly. "Same spell, same wand movement, but the results can differ wildly. My ambitions don't lie in Congress seats. Power and politics pale compared to the mysteries of magic."
Seraphina studied him, her movements slow with age. After a long pause, she nodded thoughtfully. "Admirable…"
She turned to Fontana. "The Scourers and New Salemers—we've been investigating them for decades. The Barebone name traces back to a 17th-century Scourer who posed as a No-Maj, married several, and fathered over a dozen children…"
The Graves family had suffered under the Barebones' influence, as had Seraphina's short presidency. Replaced in her prime, she'd used Congress resources to investigate during her term and continued with family resources afterward, yielding some results.
Whether by fate or a curse for harming wizards, the original Scourer Barebone's descendants were all No-Majs or Squibs. Unable to touch the magical world they glimpsed, their envy twisted into hatred, fueled by Barebone's manipulations. They despised wizards and the Congress.
But in the early days of the Congress, with its harsh crackdowns on dark wizards, they could only bide their time. After the first Barebone's death, as the Statute of Secrecy solidified, later generations saw no magic, inheriting only faint, warped resentment.
Had things progressed naturally, the Barebones might've forgotten magic, dismissing it as ancestral fairy tales. But Bartholomew Barebone met the witch Twelve Trees, gaining access to the magical world's secrets, triggering the Congress's biggest security breach. When officials tried to Obliviate him, he resisted fiercely, even attempting to kill an Obliviator. He was jailed for firing a gun in public.
Mary Barebone, his descendant and a product of that botched Obliviation, believed Bartholomew was framed and killed by wizards. She founded the New Salem Philanthropic Society, sparking further trouble.
"The Barebone behind the dragon egg theft might be Mary's hidden descendant or an adopted child—a No-Maj," Seraphina said. "We've traced him to Mexico, where he's raising magically gifted children, using ancestral records to manipulate an Ilvermorny graduate into teaching them magic while secretly brainwashing them."
She shook her head, sighing. "No-Maj methods of indoctrination from childhood are more potent than any Imperius Curse."
No wonder they'd inspired wizards to swear unbreakable vows at the cost of their lives. This control surpassed even Voldemort or Grindelwald.
Melvin's mood grew heavy. "Teaching wizards to respect No-Majs and understand modern science—that's the point of Muggle Studies."
Fontana sighed. "Ilvermorny lacks a Book of Admittance or Quill of Acceptance. We can't precisely identify every magical child on the continent, leaving gaps for Barebone to exploit."
Silence fell over the table.
Piquery and Nancy, listening to the adults discuss such weighty matters, stayed quiet, eating carefully to avoid clinking their cutlery.
"Has the Congress located them?" Melvin asked.
Seraphina shook her head. "Mexico's No-Maj society is messier than its wizarding one. A dark wizard can hide their wand and blend into a neighborhood. Even sending every Auror wouldn't uncover them."
Melvin frowned. "So we wait for them to surface again?"
"They need regular magical supplies. By monitoring wizarding markets near Mexico, we'll eventually pinpoint them," Seraphina said, her tone sharp. "Once we do…"
Piquery and Nancy shivered, burying their faces in their plates, exchanging nervous glances.
Are we supposed to hear this?
Silence returned. The truth was clear, but the hunt was stalled. Melvin had no solutions, and as a closely watched figure by the Congress, he couldn't get involved.
He could only wish the Deputy Director luck with his promotion.
The Barebone matter paused there, as did the banquet's appetizers and aperitifs. The main course followed.
"Enough about those dregs," Seraphina said, her sharpness softening. She smiled warmly at Melvin. "Mr. Levent, I hear your Mirror Club is thriving in Britain and Romania. Interested in expanding here?"
Melvin grinned. "The Mirror Club welcomes new partners."
The broader the mirrors' reach, the greater the profits and influence. The Graves family, though weakened, still had deep roots and wealth. Seraphina, a former Congress President, brought connections and insight—an ideal partner.
But there were drawbacks. Unlike Britain's loose pub-owner alliances, negotiating with the Graves family would be tougher.
Melvin sipped his wine, laying out terms. "…If needed, all mirrors must promote specific content as directed by the club. Anyone can produce programs, but I retain full control over final content approval."
Seraphina's brow creased. The mirrors' profits were substantial, and as the club's founder, Melvin had the leverage to set terms. But the Graves family—and Seraphina herself—preferred total control.
After careful thought, she made her choice. Control trumped short-term gains. "Mr. Levent, I hope you'll reconsider. The Graves family operates pubs in thirty-four states and could spread the mirrors across wizarding communities quickly. If the club's terms were more flexible, we'd offer a share of the profits."
Melvin barely hesitated, smiling as he shook his head. "The club operates as a unit. The terms are the same in Britain and Romania. Yielding to Graves would betray our existing partners."
Profits weren't his concern—he'd make plenty either way. Content was his path to magic's deeper mysteries.
Seraphina's expression soured, her aged voice rasping. "The Graves family's support would far outweigh other wizards'. Perhaps you should think it over."
The negotiations had collapsed.
"I will," Melvin said with a nod, not dismissing her outright.
Candlelight flickered on the table. Headmistress Fontana savored her veal, smiling faintly.