As night deepened, London's clamor faded, and the Ministry of Magic, hidden beneath Westminster, fell into silence. Thanks to Muggle-Repelling Charms, the surrounding streets were eerily quiet, their residents lost in deep slumber.
In the dim, quiet night, one witch remained awake.
On a Westminster street, a lone warm yellow light glowed. Through an iron-framed glass window, a witch hunched over her desk, scribbling furiously.
Her hair was styled in stiff, potion-fixed waves, like hardened cement, paired with a broad, jutting chin that gave her an odd air. She wore jeweled glasses, her scarlet, elongated fake nails clicking, and her eyebrows were heavily drawn with charcoal, making her look particularly off-putting.
A charmed green quill danced swiftly across parchment, pages flipping one after another.
At a particularly juicy bit, Rita Skeeter grinned, revealing three gold teeth.
A cold breeze slipped through the window, raising goosebumps on her arms. She muttered under her breath, reaching to close it.
Just an ordinary evening breeze, a bit chilly—typical for London nights, especially in Westminster, influenced by the underground Ministry. Nothing unusual.
Yet, a faint unease stirred in Skeeter, the ace reporter for the Daily Prophet. A vague sense of malice pricked at her, as if a reader out there was cursing her name.
No surprise there. Her coverage of terrorist attacks, major events, and Ministry activities, plus her sensational biographies of legendary figures, often sparked controversy. Hate mail was par for the course.
Tonight, the malice felt sharper, disrupting her flow. Unable to regain her earlier focus, she rushed a conclusion, stuffed the draft in a drawer, and brushed it off. After washing up, she reviewed tomorrow's schedule.
"Two news articles, one magazine column… and the Nott family's cold buffet."
Skeeter's lips curled. Old pure-blood families like the Notts wouldn't invite a nosy reporter like her, but she planned to crash the party anyway, hoping to unearth some scandalous tidbits to shock the pure-blood elite.
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Wiltshire, Thefferton, southwest outskirts, Nott Manor.
A castle was being prepped for a cold buffet to celebrate Mrs. Nott's birthday.
Far from the city, the rural lanes were overgrown with low thorns and neat yew hedges. Under moonlight, they exuded a desolate, eerie vibe. Beyond the hedges, the manor's gates stood open, flanked by house-elves checking invitations.
After sunset, carriages arrived in a steady stream, rivaling the scale of the Malfoy family's Boxing Day gala.
The Notts, united through pure-blood marriage, were tied to the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Invitations extended to their extended kin, and aside from the Weasleys—seen as pure-blood pariahs—most wizards attended.
The house-elves, flustered, matched names to faces, ushering guests to the lawn where Mr. and Mrs. Nott greeted them warmly.
"Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy, it's been too long!"
"Mr. Crouch, Ms. Bones, didn't expect to see you here."
"Minister Fudge, this way."
"…"
As guests arrived, Mrs. Nott stepped back, letting different cliques form and mingle. She and her husband, champagne in hand, worked the crowd.
For these wizards, this wasn't just a birthday party—it was a networking and deal-making opportunity.
Thousands of candles floated overhead, mingling with the starry sky. A summer breeze carried the scent of grass and champagne through the open-air gala.
The lawn was split into two areas: a dance floor centered around a band, where young wizards twirled and chatted on the edges, and a dining area under a canopy, its long table laden with food and drink.
Older wizards, uninterested in dancing, gathered in small groups, sipping wine, admiring the manor and the young dancers, and discussing business.
Dressed in black-and-white formal robes, Melvin stood in the dining area, savoring the house-elves' cooking, particularly the Nott family's smoked, slow-roasted veal—better than Hogwarts' fare.
"Scotch eggs are decent…"
"Cream scones aren't as good as the school's…"
Melvin sampled his way through, nearly full, still waiting for Lockhart. He wiped his mouth, scanned the crowd, and sighed—no sign of him.
They'd arrived together, but in a blink, Lockhart vanished—likely basking in attention on the dance floor or flashing his perfect smile in some high-society circle. Utterly unreliable.
As Melvin eyed the beet salad, footsteps approached. He set down his utensils, put on a smile, and adopted his Hogwarts professor demeanor.
"Why do we have to be here, Tina?" an older wizard with graying hair and pale brown eyes grumbled.
"Theseus said you need to get out and talk to wizards, Newt, not hide in your suitcase with your creatures," a kind-faced, equally aged witch replied, her tone calm.
"You mean strange beasts, don't you?"
Newt's tone was wry, but he didn't press the point, instead muttering, "Why doesn't Theseus have to attend these things? Why isn't he here meeting the Ministry's extended family?"
Tina sighed. "He doesn't want to face the people sitting in those seats now."
Newt sighed too, his expression wistful. His brother was worse than ever, forcing him to attend events Theseus himself avoided.
"You can stay here. I'm going to say hi to Amelia," Tina said.
"Go ahead, dear."
Newt didn't mind. Tina had struggled with colleagues at MACUSA but had made friends in Britain.
As she walked off, Newt eyed the food table—not for himself. He picked up a bloody beef rib, slipping it into his pocket.
Melvin caught a glimpse of green legs twitching as Newt stripped the meat off and tossed the bone aside.
Noticing Melvin's gaze, Newt chuckled. "Pardon me, I came in a rush. The little guy hasn't had dinner."
"Don't Bowtruckles eat woodlice or fairy eggs?" Melvin asked with a smile, already guessing who this was.
Newt perked up at the mention of magical creatures. "I thought so too at first, but after sharing a few dinners, it insisted on trying meat. Turns out, these little guys are omnivores—beef's just as tasty to them as bugs."
Melvin nodded, following his lead. "I don't know much about Bowtruckles. There aren't any on Mount Greylock, where Ilvermorny is."
"You're an Ilvermorny graduate?" Newt's eyes lit up.
In his youth, he'd caused a stir in New York, earning a travel ban for years. Even after it was lifted, MACUSA kept him under watch, limiting his study of North American creatures—a lifelong regret.
"Melvin Levent, Hogwarts Muggle Studies professor," Melvin said, nodding. He was eager to discuss North American magical creatures with this expert.