Evening, the east bank of the Danube
The streets near the cruise dock were fairly wide, bustling with a steady stream of people. Wheel ruts crisscrossed the roads, a sign of thriving activity.
Melvin sat in a hotel restaurant beside the opera house, savoring Hungarian-style stew. The main ingredient was chicken, paired with onions and tomatoes, seasoned with bay leaves and paprika, slow-cooked until the meat fell off the bone. A dollop of sour cream was added before serving, enhancing the aroma.
He'd expected it to be some kind of dark culinary arts, but it was surprisingly delicious.
Kettleburn and Hagrid sat nearby, while their Thestrals were stabled in the hotel's back courtyard, guzzling local plum brandy. The faint sound of flapping wings and stomping hooves drifted in.
This was a wizarding hotel, its dining room packed with traveling witches, wizards, and other sentient beings. The chatter was lively, a mix of languages, with plenty of English speakers among them.
"Have you heard? The Dark Lord's back in England!"
"Merlin's boots! For real?"
"It's news from Hogwarts. Pubs across Britain are buzzing about it. They say he's plotting a comeback… You know Dumbledore's reputation. He hasn't denied it publicly, and at a student meeting, he stressed it's no hoax."
"What happened? Did they beat him again?"
"It's complicated. Seems his old wounds haven't healed. Last year, he possessed a dark wizard to sneak into Hogwarts, trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone to recover. Harry Potter and his friends caught on. Three first-years faced a dark wizard head-on, and not a scratch on them. The Dark Lord just slipped away again."
"Merlin's trousers! That's incredible. Got any details?"
"Pubs in Britain have those mirrors. Go see for yourself. They usually show it on weekends. If one pub doesn't have it, try another. You're heading there to trade anyway, right?"
"A movie? Like Muggle stuff? The Ministry allows that? It's not banned?"
"They tried suing, but Dumbledore shut it down. The school made the thing."
"…"
Crunch.
Melvin bit into a crispy chimney cake.
The dough, wrapped around a conical mold and baked, formed a hollow, caramelized tube, dusted with sugar, cinnamon, walnuts, and coconut. Each bite burst with sweet, fragrant flavor.
Maybe he'd been in England too long, but these treats tasted surprisingly good. Hard to say if they were just that delicious or if the diligent house-elf chefs had worked some magic.
Compared to a certain groundskeeper's rock cakes, these were a feast.
"How's it taste, Hagrid?"
"Bloody brilliant!"
"…"
Professor Kettleburn couldn't help but grin. The half-giant had a strong jaw, fond of chewing tough stuff, but his taste buds still knew quality.
"Professor, what's the deal with the Purists?" Hagrid asked, mouth full.
"The Purists were a wizarding group founded by Grindelwald in the early 20th century. Aside from a few diehards, most were young folks swayed by his charisma, hooked on impractical dreams of wizard supremacy, calling themselves his followers—Saints…"
Kettleburn explained in detail.
Meanwhile, the wizard merchants and travelers kept gossiping about the Dark Lord, their voices mixing with the distant sound of Muggle boat horns outside.
When Melvin first arrived, he'd been surprised but soon adjusted, eating while recalling the notes he'd skimmed on the journey.
Local wizards followed the Statute of Secrecy, never leaking magic to Muggles, but they weren't isolationists. They blended into the city, living and working like ordinary residents, creating a harmonious balance unlike London or New York.
Budapest was split into Buda and Pest. The east bank, Pest, was flatter and mostly Muggle, thriving with activity. The west bank, Buda, built into hilly terrain, was less accessible and primarily wizarding territory.
The Purist remnants likely chose Buda for its defensible landscape.
As for a local Ministry? No need to worry.
Not every country had a Ministry or the means to form one. In smaller regions with few wizards—not even matching an English county—there were no taxes, no mines, no natural resources to trade for Galleons, making stable wizarding governments impossible.
Places like Albania were practically dark wizard havens, with no local groups bothering to clear them out.
After the Austro-Hungarian Empire's collapse, this region faced similar issues.
Romania, blessed with a dragon reserve, drew steady income from breeding and tourism, attracting merchants and service providers, gradually building a Ministry.
Hungary had dragons but no reserve or stable wizarding government.
Capable wizards emigrated to other countries or moved near Durmstrang or Romania. No one bothered with the thankless task of starting a Ministry.
The Purist remnants, hunted by the International Confederation of Wizards, had nowhere to go. They considered Albania, but its dark wizards were worse—murder and theft were routine, with Killing Curses and Fiendfyre lighting the nights. Compared to them, the Purists seemed almost saintly.
After years of hiding, they settled on Buda's defensible terrain.
With no Ministry, the low-profile Purists dropped their "greater good" rhetoric and stabilized.
Close to Durmstrang, Ukraine, and Romania, the area became a hub for less-than-legit trade. Pubs, restaurants, and clothing shops sprang up, forming a robust wizarding ecosystem.
Barter or goblin currency—whatever worked. The hunted remnants weren't picky, setting no strict rules and maintaining a safe trading environment, avoiding dark wizard tactics like murder or forced sales.
The market offered everything: alchemical items, ancient magical artifacts, dragon materials, potions from renowned masters, Celestina Warbeck's albums, even random Muggle appliances.
Prices and terms depended on the deal.
Its safe, reliable reputation spread, and over years, the market grew.
Some wizards tried to push for a purge at the Confederation, but since the Purists had "disbanded" and their leader was locked in Nurmengard, most nations stayed neutral, awaiting the president's stance.
President Dumbledore respected the vote.
The matter fizzled out.
Melvin found the remnants intriguing.
When Grindelwald was active, the Purists aimed to expose the wizarding world, spark war, overturn the Statute, and enslave Muggles like house-elves.
After his fall, the scattered, hunted wizards found refuge in a Muggle city, creating Budapest's unique blended community.
In some ways, they were ahead of Britain's Ministry or America's Congress.
Cracking this market could open the world for the magical mirror, but getting them to follow the Mirror Club's rules was tricky. No clear solution yet.
Step by step, then.
Crunch!
Hagrid tossed the last chimney cake into his mouth like a snack, chewing it with a gulp of sour-cream-laced stew. Melvin and Kettleburn waited for him to finish before heading to the counter to pay.
Total: 2 Galleons, 7 Sickles.
The hotel owner and clerk, a kindly old wizard with a slight London accent, chuckled as he teased the trio. "If it weren't for the big guy, three regular wizards wouldn't spend over a Galleon."
"Aber, when did your place get so cheap?" Kettleburn shot back.
"'Cause you've got three bigger guys in the courtyard!"
"Haha…"
Kettleburn and the owner caught up like old friends.
"Aber?" Melvin's mind stirred. That surname, that accent—maybe a relative of Old Tom? A family chain of wizarding hotels?
Hagrid seemed to think the same, staring at the owner, eyes glinting with curiosity, searching for any resemblance to Tom.
White hair and beard, slightly bulging eyes from a lean face, cloudy irises, a gentle gaze, and an aged but spirited appearance.
Kettleburn, clearly close with him, made introductions. "This is my colleague, Professor Levent, and Hagrid."
"So young! Welcome to Budapest!"
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Aber."
"…"
At the title, Aber's eyes flickered with something odd, but he shook it off, smiling warmly. "Just Aber's fine. How long are you staying? Besides dragons, there's plenty to do. The Turkish bathhouse at the street's end is worth a visit."
"Will do, sir," Melvin replied.
He didn't push the conversation. Greeting as a friend of a regular left an impression without overstepping.
Kettleburn was worn out from the day's travel, so no big plans were made. Tomorrow, they'd visit the market and see the dragons. After dinner, they strolled for half an hour, tried the bathhouse, and returned to their rooms.
Fresh from a hot bath, Melvin slipped into local-style pajamas—slightly loose, soft fabric, still faintly damp with steam. Comfortable.
In adjacent rooms, he could hear Hagrid and Kettleburn's snores through the wall, their rhythms gradually syncing.
As Melvin drifted toward sleep, a faint argument echoed from the corridor. One voice was calm and slow—Aber's. The other, sharp and high, sounded like a witch.
Melvin opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.
This was someone else's turf, with its own rules. Aber had run this place for decades; he likely didn't need an outsider's help. If it was a local dispute, a visitor meddling would only cause trouble.
"You're just going to let him rot in that tower?" the sharp voice demanded.
"If that's his wish…"
"His wish? That old fool put an Imperius Curse on him!"
"You know no Imperius lasts decades. That man wouldn't do such a thing."
"Want to test my Imperius?"
"Stop this nonsense, Vinda."
"Soul out—"
A clear pulse of magic made Melvin sit up. He took two deliberate steps, letting his footsteps echo, and paused at the door. When the argument quieted, he opened it. On the balcony at the corridor's turn, a white-haired witch stood in the moonlight, her figure shadowy.
Though old, she retained traces of youthful elegance. Her black satin robe was tightly cinched, her white hair neatly combed, and her deep emerald eyes lent an air of grace even to her wrinkled face and neck.
Melvin wondered if there was some romantic history between the two old wizards.
Meeting their gazes, he feigned sleepiness, mumbling, "Mr. Aber, need any help?"
At the title, the witch shot Aber a mocking glance.
Aber paused, apologetic. "Sorry, our old-folks' squabble disturbed your rest. Nothing serious. We're old friends."
"Alright then. Sweet dreams."
Melvin yawned, shook his head, and closed the door.
Listening from behind it, he heard only fading footsteps. Just a spat between old friends, it seemed. But pulling an Imperius Curse over a heated argument? This place's vibes were wild.
Melvin lay back down, sleepless.
Not because of the witch's Unforgivable Curse.
Each time he'd called the owner "Mr. Aber," they'd reacted oddly. It wasn't a taboo name like Voldemort's, so there must be a hidden story behind it. Old wizards always had secrets.
Uncovering them might help crack the market, but prying felt wrong.
Maybe Kettleburn could shed some light.
Lulled by the snoring next door, Melvin drifted off.
Deep in the night, faint arguments and magical pulses came from the courtyard, hushed to avoid waking the hotel's guests.