The return journey to New York unfolded in an almost sacred silence. Outside, snowy fields passed like white curtains in an empty theater. Inside the car, the heater whispered softly, and the gentle music Nathael had put on hours earlier still echoed in the corners of the cabin.
Kate stared out the window, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she were cold despite the warmth.
Hermione, seated beside her, watched with concern. Draco, on the other side, pretended to study the landscape—but his eyes followed Hermione with quiet attention.
"Why don't you like Christmas?" Hermione finally asked, her voice soft, almost afraid of the answer.
Kate didn't reply at once. She only bit her lower lip and hugged her knees tighter.
Nathael, from the driver's seat, kept his eyes on the road—but his fingers tapped lightly on the wheel.
Celestia, curled up in the passenger seat with the mogwai sleeping beside her, opened one eye. The little creature—resembling a teddy bear with large, expressive eyes—slept peacefully, oblivious to the tension in the car.
Kate sighed. Then, slowly, she spoke.
"I was nine," she said, her voice low but clear, as if recounting a story she'd told a thousand times—yet it still hurt just as much. "My mom and I were decorating the tree—golden lights, red baubles, cotton snow on the branches… all the classics. My dad worked in the city, but he always came home in time for dinner. That year… he'd promised to dress as Santa."
She paused. Swallowed hard. Her knuckles turned white.
"Hours passed. He never came. My mom called his office. No one answered. Then she called his coworkers. His friends. No one knew anything. Dinner grew cold. The candles burned out. And Christmas… just turned gray."
She looked at her hands.
"The next day, the police started searching. My mom cried in silence. I played with my presents, waiting for him to walk through the door in his red suit and fake beard."
Another silence. Longer this time.
"One night, days later… it was snowing. I couldn't sleep. I went downstairs and tried to light the fireplace. But… there was a smell. Strong. Acidic. Like something… rotting."
Hermione held her breath.
"My mom called the fire department. They came with flashlights and tools. Opened the flue. At first, they thought it was an animal—a cat, a bird—something that had fallen in."
Kate took a deep breath. Her eyes filled with tears, but she wouldn't let them fall.
"But it wasn't an animal. It was my dad. He'd tried to climb down the chimney as a surprise. He was carrying the presents in a sack tied to his back. But he slipped. Fell wrong. Broke his neck… instantly."
Draco closed his eyes. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand.
"Since then," Kate finished, voice breaking, "I've hated Christmas. I hate the trees, the lights, the carols… everything that smells like fake joy."
Without thinking, Hermione hugged her.
"I'm so sorry, Kate."
Kate nodded silently—and this time, a single tear did fall.
Draco looked out the window, but his expression was no longer indifferent. There was understanding now—perhaps even compassion.
In the front seat, Celestia twitched an ear.
With a subtle gesture—so small only Nathael noticed—she cast a calming charm. A gentle wave of tranquil magic flowed through the car, easing the tension, soothing the pain without erasing it.
Nathael, without a word, reached out and changed the music.
A slow, instrumental melody—rich with strings and quiet sorrow—began to play through the speakers.
"Thank you," Kate murmured, still holding Hermione.
"You're welcome," Hermione replied.
The rest of the journey passed in this new stillness. It wasn't joy—but it wasn't forgetting, either. It was companionship. And sometimes, that was enough.
Hours later, New York greeted them with its usual chaos: lights, honking horns, voices, dirty snow on sidewalks, and the rumble of the subway beneath the asphalt.
They checked back into the Waldorf Astoria. The penthouse suite awaited them—identical to the one before, as if time hadn't passed at all.
"Rest," Nathael said, leaving the suitcases by the door. "Celestia and I will go deliver the mogwai."
Celestia already had the little creature in a backpack Hermione had lent her. Gizmo poked his head out briefly, let out a high-pitched chirp, and fell back asleep.
Kate retreated to her room without a word.
Draco and Hermione sat in the living area, facing each other, saying nothing—lost in their thoughts.
Nathael and Celestia left.
The trip to Chinatown was quicker this time. The streets were just as crowded, just as magically ordinary. Red lanterns still hung like glowing hearts.
They arrived at Wing's Antiquities.
The old man stood behind the counter, leafing through a book bound in dragon hide. Seeing them, he looked up.
"You brought it back," he said, unsurprised.
"Mission complete," Nathael said, placing the backpack on the counter.
Celestia unzipped it with a careful claw.
Gizmo peeked out—and upon seeing the elder, his eyes lit up. He leapt from the bag and ran to him, chirping happily as he hugged the man's leg.
Samuel Tze Wing smiled—a true, rare smile.
"Foolish grandson," he murmured, stroking the mogwai's head. "You never should have sold him."
He bent down, lifted the mogwai into his arms, and carried him solemnly to a back room, where a small altar—crafted from sandalwood and etched with protective runes—awaited.
He returned minutes later.
"Thank you," he said, regarding Nathael with respect. "Now… I'll keep my word."
He sat on a nearby stool and gestured for Nathael to do the same.
"As I told you, the last time I saw a soul-tracking artifact was thirty years ago."
He paused, as if reliving the memory.
"It was in a small town in the northwest of the United States—Forks, in Washington. A damp place, always shrouded in fog, where the trees are so tall they seem to touch the clouds. Back then, the artifact was in the hands of a blond young man. He was a wizard—but not the kind we know… He had a bond with the forest spirits. He'd befriended the local natives—specifically, the Quileute tribe."
Nathael frowned.
"The Quileute?"
"Yes," Samuel said. "An ancient tribe. They guard secrets even vampires don't know." He paused, weighing his words. "They say their ancestors didn't just speak to animals—they could become them. Not through magic… but through spirit."
Celestia purred softly.
"Interesting."
"The young man," Samuel continued, "wasn't seeking power. He sought answers. He wanted to know if his brother—who'd vanished years earlier—still had a soul. The artifact showed him something. I don't know what. But after that, he disappeared. And the artifact… vanished with him."
He looked at Nathael.
"If you want to find it, start in Forks. Speak to the Quileute. But… be careful. They don't trust outsiders. And they trust even less those seeking something as forbidden as that artifact."
Nathael nodded.
"Thank you. You've been a great help."
He stood. Celestia was already on his shoulder.
Before he left, Samuel stopped him.
"Why are you searching for it?"
Nathael met his gaze honestly.
"I'm a Grauheim. You must know—finding treasures is in our blood."
The elder nodded. Nothing more.
Outside, New York's damp air wrapped around them like a heavy blanket.
Celestia settled onto Nathael's shoulder.
"Forks, Washington," she said. "Ready for another journey?"
Nathael smiled.
"Always."