"Filthy luck!"
Rufus Scrimgeour stopped dead in the hallway of the Ministry of Magic. He stared down in annoyance at the large, dark stain marring the front of his robes—a spilled cup of what smelled suspiciously like expensive, imported coffee. He followed the retreating back of the person who had collided with him and hadn't even offered an apology, let alone an offer to help clean up the mess.
The culprit was none other than Hector Dagworth, the renowned Potions Master and a respected member of the Wizengamot, usually known for his meticulous, if arrogant, demeanor. Today, however, Dagworth looked utterly disheveled, his robes slightly askew, and his face a thundercloud of raw fury.
Rufus flicked his wand, muttering a quick Scourgify to banish the stain. He then turned to Hope Kirk, a reliable contact who worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement nearby.
"What in the name of Merlin was that?" Rufus demanded, his frown deepening. "Dagworth is never here, and certainly never in such a state. And why is he here this early?"
Hopkirk quickly glanced around the busy corridor, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "It's about that ongoing Trace violation investigation. They just had a monumental bust-up in the Director's office. Don't ask for details, but it didn't end well."
"A Trace violation?" Rufus scoffed, genuinely perplexed. "Why would Hector Dagworth personally involve himself in a minor incident, usually handled by a low-level Auror, related to underage magic? That doesn't track."
"It's not just any trace," Hopkirk insisted, leaning closer. "It's one that leads directly back to a piece of property Dagworth seems desperate to reclaim, and the Ministry is refusing to cooperate or drop the inquiry. He tried to offer a massive payment to simply make the whole thing disappear, but the Director flatly refused. Said the rules are the rules, regardless of who you are."
Rufus found this astonishing. Dagworth was an influential wizard. A simple financial inducement usually settled minor regulatory hurdles, especially for someone of his status. For the Ministry to dig its heels in on a Trace technicality, refusing a significant sum of money, indicated a strange political or personal vendetta was at play. Dagworth must have truly alienated someone important, or this 'Trace' was far more complicated than it seemed.
Hector Dagworth was indeed furious, stomping through the Atrium towards the Floo network. He knew the negotiations with the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, a bureaucrat rumored to spout unsettling, almost cruel rhetoric after a few sherries, were doomed from the start.
They refused the gold!
Dagworth had offered a considerable sum—a generous "thank you" gift intended to smooth over the entire issue once his Golden Membership Card was returned. He had clearly explained the circumstances: a minor, temporary lapse in judgment involving a foolish student. But the Director had been rigid, pompous, and utterly unyielding.
"There are no issues with the Ministry's investigation. We followed the Trace; the property is where the magic occurred. Until we receive a formal explanation or the individual responsible steps forward, the inquiry remains active." That was the final, non-negotiable position.
Dagworth stood before the green flames, struggling to regulate his breath. He desperately needed to speak with Brod one last time. Since losing that wretched card, Dagworth felt his control slipping. His nerves were frayed, his temper short, and the constant, dull ache of humiliation made him feel like he was constantly fighting off a nasty headache.
He stepped into the fireplace and named his destination: the secluded lake shore where Brod's hidden retreat was located.
When he arrived, however, the air was cold, damp, and empty.
The dilapidated pier and the small mooring boats were gone. The small, secretive cabin near the water's edge had simply vanished. In its place was nothing but the placid, grey surface of the lake, reflecting the low-hanging clouds. It was as if his entire memory of the place—the island, the mansion, Brod himself—was nothing more than a feverish delusion.
"What in the blazes is going on?" Dagworth muttered, pacing the shore, his anger turning to mounting panic. Everything is unravelling. He couldn't find Brod, and even the simple owl messages he'd tried to send earlier had gone unanswered or returned unopened.
Brod has changed the location. Or worse, he's actively hiding it.
The Master Potions maker knew enough about advanced magic to recognize the signs: Brod had used complex, powerful concealment charms and Disillusionment spells, likely layered with an anti-Apparition ward and a memory-altering enchantment to confuse the approach. He wasn't just hiding; he had become utterly untraceable to those who didn't know the exact sequence of entry.
Dagworth, a master of cauldrons and concoctions, was hopelessly out of his depth when faced with high-level defensive enchantment work.
Just as he was about to give up in defeat, a strange shimmer appeared in the air a few yards away. Slowly, silently, a small, wizened House-Elf materialized, its huge, doleful eyes fixed on Dagworth.
"Please follow Winky," the house elf squeaked, bowing deeply. It then extended a surprisingly firm, dry hand. Dagworth, recognizing the silent request for physical guidance past the wards, reluctantly grasped the elf's palm.
The sensation was dizzying, a momentary twist that felt like walking through thick, cool water.
When his feet touched solid ground again, Dagworth found himself standing on a paved courtyard. The air here was warmer, and the sound of trickling water was present. Before him, seated at a rustic iron table beneath a pergola, was Brod, smiling serenely and beckoning him forward.
"I presume your trip to the Ministry was less than satisfactory?" Brod asked, his tone gentle, though his eyes held an inescapable, knowing glint.
"Less than satisfactory is an understatement!" Dagworth stormed over, collapsing into the chair opposite him. He seized the teapot, poured a cup of rich black tea, and downed it in one desperate gulp. "That fool wouldn't budge! I offered him five hundred Galleons to call off his cursed Aurors, and he acted like I'd insulted his lineage!"
"That's unfortunate. But I wasn't asking about the Ministry," Brod said, calmly pouring himself a fresh cup. "I was asking if you managed to retrieve the card from Albert."
Dagworth slammed his cup down, the clatter echoing in the quiet courtyard. "That little brat is utterly infuriating! He's too clever by half. He knew I would try to reclaim the Golden Membership Card, so he's hidden it. He even used some sly little trickery to get the drop on me."
"'Sly tricks'?" Brod repeated, leaning back slightly, clearly unconvinced.
"Of course! What else would you call it?" Dagworth huffed, crossing his arms. "I warned you not to get involved with children who use cheap, cunning ploys."
Brod simply shook his head, looking disappointed. "I warned you, Hector: do not underestimate him, and do not treat this like a child's prank. That card is gone because you pursued it with a level of antagonism he simply responded to. And now you've sealed it by attempting bribery at the Ministry."
"What was I supposed to do?" Dagworth protested, gripping the edges of the table. "I spoke to that old woman—the Head of the Wizengamot—and she denied everything, categorically refuting any involvement in this whole mess. I am completely trapped!" He rubbed his eyes, frustration etched onto his face. "Do you think it's easy being stuck between the Ministry's stubbornness and a cunning schoolboy? I just want my card back."
"He told you what he intended to do with the card, didn't he?" Brod pressed, his voice even.
Dagworth frowned, searching his memory. "Who, the boy? Yes, I believe he was utterly insolent. He threatened to melt the Golden Membership Card down and sell it to Muggles for scrap gold."
"Precisely as I foresaw," Brod nodded, the expression on his face darkening slightly. "Do not, under any circumstances, try to coerce him or use brute force, Hector. It will backfire catastrophically. You will not succeed, and you will only make things infinitely worse for yourself."
"But why?" Dagworth demanded, bewildered. "Why do you grant this child such immense importance? Is it just his raw talent, his skill with Charms, or some other… factor I am missing?"
"My judgment is perhaps sharper than yours in this regard," Brod said, smiling faintly. "Perhaps I am simply better at identifying a truly dangerous opponent."
Dagworth scoffed silently at the perceived arrogance, but remained quiet.
Brod watched the Potion Master for a moment, then spoke again, his tone turning serious. "If you truly want your Golden Membership Card back, you must resolve the issue with the Ministry. You need to smooth over the Trace issue, which is what is giving Albert the leverage. Do not ignore this warning.
Albert Anderson is not simply a talented student. He is a young man who entered the Forbidden Forest at night, evaded a large swarm of Acromantulas, and returned safely with two companions—not through luck, but through planning and ability. He was twelve years old at the time. His wand is redwood; it favors those who master the art of turning misfortune into an advantage."
Brod emphasized the point: "He didn't enter the Forest recklessly; he went in with an exit strategy, fully expecting danger and having already calculated a method of escape. If you try to run headlong into this confrontation, you will find yourself running into a reinforced steel wall, and the blood will be entirely your own."
Dagworth, however, was too clouded by his own irritation to fully grasp the gravity of the warning. He rose from his seat, pacing for a moment. He hadn't succeeded at the Ministry, and he couldn't even find the card. He needed to step back. A new strategy was required. He decided that since his attempt at direct confrontation had failed, he would resort to a higher authority.
He resolved to write a highly diplomatic letter to Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard who could potentially mediate this ridiculous standoff and perhaps prevent the inevitable, escalating disaster that awaited him in his next encounter with Albert Anderson.