The morning at Malfoy Manor was progressing placidly until the silence of the study was interrupted. Lucius was behind his desk, reviewing financial documents, when Dobby appeared with a dull crack. The house-elf was visibly trembling, holding in his hands a dagger that pierced through a yellowish parchment.
"Master... someone has just driven this into the main door of the manor," Dobby whispered, cringing before his lord's imminent reaction.
Lucius froze, his quill suspended in mid-air as a drop of ink fell, staining the parchment he was reviewing. Slowly, he raised his gaze toward the house-elf, his grey eyes flashing with a frigid fury.
"Who was it?" he asked in a voice that was pure venom. "Who dares to desecrate the entrance of Malfoy Manor in such a vulgar fashion?"
"I do not know, sir... by the time my senses detected the intrusion, the one responsible had already departed."
"Useless," Lucius spat with contempt, snatching the dagger and the parchment away in one tug.
He ignored the elf's sobs and unfurled the message. As his eyes ran over the lines, his brow furrowed in a grimace of incredulity. The text was written with impeccable formality, following the ancient protocols of dueling between Pureblood families—a tradition rarely invoked unless the resentment was absolute.
"Weasley?" he muttered, and the word sounded like an insult on his lips.
He couldn't believe what he was reading. Arthur Weasley, the mediocre Ministry official, issuing a formal challenge against the House of Malfoy? It was unheard of. He didn't believe Arthur had the courage—or the stupidity—to start an open war of such magnitude. However, the honor of his lineage had been called into question. Whether it was a tasteless joke or a genuine declaration, Lucius needed answers. He stood up, took his snake-headed cane, and headed to the Ministry to demand Arthur's head on a silver platter.
But upon arriving at the Ministry Atrium, the atmosphere was strange. Arthur was not at his post—he was at Hogwarts—and the employees' stares were fixed on Lucius with a mix of surprise and morbid curiosity. Some of his "allies" immediately approached to whisper the news that was already spreading like wildfire: one of the Weasley sons had shown up at the Ministry, openly challenging him in front of dozens of witnesses.
Lucius wasted no time in storming into the Minister's office to demand an explanation. That provocation was a stain he did not intend to tolerate. He was anxious to face Arthur, but the man's absence only increased his frustration.
As he left Fudge's office, Lucius was no longer just furious; he was intrigued. His analytical mind began to trace plans as he left the building. He wanted to know exactly what the Weasleys were planning and who the boy was who had had the audacity to drive a dagger into his door. No matter the outcome of the duel, Lucius would ensure he won. This was the perfect opportunity to finish sinking that decaying family and bury their reputation under the weight of a scandal the wizarding world would never forget.
...
Minerva crossed the threshold of Hogwarts with her heart in her throat. She did not stop to catch her breath; she accosted the first seventh-year student she found in the Entrance Hall and demanded a status report. As the young man spoke, McGonagall's anguish grew: the Castelobruxo students were, indeed, petrified. Andra's words were not the ramblings of a brothel regent, but a stark and terrifying reality.
Without wasting a second, she ran toward the Headmaster's office. The stone gargoyle leapt aside upon recognizing the password, and Minerva burst into the office like a whirlwind.
"Albus!" she exclaimed, her voice strained from exertion and agitation.
"Minerva?!" The old man started; at that very moment, Fawkes was stretching his wings to go in search of her. "What a relief to see you again," he tried to regain his mask of serenity, "I was just about to send for you. I am sorry to interrupt your rest, but the situation requires your help immediately."
"Albus, what is really happening?" she asked, ignoring protocols. "I've heard rumors... petrified students, something regarding the exchange with Brazil, and... a disaster at the Ministry."
Minerva delivered the news with caution; she did not want to admit, even to herself, that her source of information was the woman who had nearly broken her minutes before.
"I see news flies faster than owls," Dumbledore sighed, removing his half-moon spectacles to clean them with deliberate slowness. "The Castelobruxo matter is... under control, as much as it can be. However, I must resolve the Red matter immediately. I have to leave the castle and I am leaving you in charge. If you need technical details on the latest incidents, consult with Severus."
Dumbledore approached the fireplace and took a handful of Floo powder before Minerva could protest.
"Do not worry, I will compensate you for this sacrifice. Thank you for being here, Minerva," he added with a speed that betrayed his fear that she might refuse.
In a burst of green flames, the Headmaster vanished, leaving Minerva alone in the office, surrounded by the hissing of silver instruments and the voices of the old headmasters in the portraits.
...
Meanwhile, in Diagon Alley, the imposing facade of "Dragons of Albion" received a visit from the most renowned wizard of the age. Albus Dumbledore entered with a firm step, drawing the gazes of customers and curious onlookers alike.
He advanced toward the main counter with mechanical courtesy, greeting those present with slight nods until he stood before the receptionist.
"I would like to speak with Mr. Tenebrius Akaichi," Dumbledore requested in a neutral tone that admitted no argument, though it still felt polite.
"Oh... we are very sorry, Mr. Dumbledore," the young woman replied with a respectful but visibly nervous bow. "But our boss... hasn't shown his face here in quite some time. Lately, it's almost impossible to locate him. All administrative authority has fallen to Mrs. Tonks."
"I see," Albus nodded. He wasn't surprised; he already suspected that Tenebrius's identity would vanish at some point. "Could I see Miss Tonks, then?"
The receptionist blushed, fiddling with a parchment on the counter. It was evident she found it embarrassing to admit the owners' detachment from the business.
"Well... we will try to contact her, but the truth is... she hasn't been very present these days either," the young woman confessed, looking down.
Dumbledore waited with patience. His presence in "Dragons of Albion" was like a beacon of white light in an environment of magical modernity. Finally, one of the waitresses—a young girl who looked like she had barely put away her school uniform and who felt intimidated by the Headmaster's figure—approached nervously. Out of courtesy, she offered him a table and a butterscotch sundae.
Many knew of Albus's weakness for sweets. He, sensing the girl's kindness and the trembling in her hands, accepted the gesture with a warm smile. As he savored the ice cream, he had to admit, with a certain resignation, that his red-haired pupil had achieved something laudable: the business was a resounding success, rescuing dozens of young people from job uncertainty after graduation.
Shortly after, the echo of firm footsteps resonated inside the premises. From one of the private doors emerged a woman who retained the bubblegum-pink hair of her youth, but whose aura had matured drastically. Tonks wore dark jeans and a worn leather jacket, projecting an image of intimidating authority. Her right hand was covered by a metallic glove with a liquid sheen that seemed to melt into her skin, hiding an arm that was pure magical armor. The most striking thing, however, was the pink feather boa around her neck—an accessory that seemed to have a life of its own.
"Hello, Professor Dumbledore. It's been a while since we crossed paths," Tonks said with confidence, taking a seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. "I hope the sundae is to your liking; it's one of our new additions. We had some commercial friction with Florean Fortescue over it, but we are... reaching a friendly agreement."
Dumbledore observed her with a melancholy curiosity. Her appearance, her way of speaking, and the absence of her usual clumsiness made him sigh internally at the inexorable passage of time.
"Certainly, time has passed," Albus replied, setting the spoon aside. "You've grown, Nymphadora. You've changed much since that girl who turned the school courtyard into her own stage for mischief."
Tonks let out a dry laugh, a sound that evoked bittersweet memories. For the old man in front of her, only a year had passed; for her—ever since she met that "weird" student who turned out to be her "soulmate"—her life had transformed into an odyssey from Auror training, passions, the loss of her father, the subsequent adventures and misadventures... ending with the arrival of her son. She had lived an entire lifetime in the breath of five years.
"I'm not going to deny it... life has curious ways of changing us..." she said with renewed confidence, regaining for a moment a flash of her youthful attitude. "Though I assure you I'm still capable of sneaking a Stink Pellet into Snape's office, and with much better aim than before. It's just that now... well, responsibilities take away my time for simple diversions."
"That is what happens with growing up, Nymphadora. Obligations arrive and the freedom of childhood vanishes," the Headmaster commented, trying to maintain the tone of a chat between old friends.
"You haven't the slightest idea," Tonks replied, softly stroking the pink feather boa. The accessory stirred and vibrated slightly under her touch.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. For an instant, it seemed to him that intelligent eyes emerged from among the feathers and stared back at him. His senses, honed by decades of arcane studies, warned him that the garment was not fabric, but a peculiar and powerful living being. However, it was not the time to be distracted by the management's exotic pets; he was there for an urgent reason, and Tonks knew it perfectly well.
"And what exactly have you come for?" Tonks asked, leaning back in the chair with familiarity. "I don't think it's to supervise a former student... and much less to convince me to finish my final year. That ship sailed long ago, Professor, and I doubt Hogwarts can teach me anything more impressive than what I've already seen outside its walls."
At that moment, a waitress approached with a silver tray. She placed a dark glass bottle with a reddish, dense content in front of Tonks; the label showed an engraving of forest fruits. Without a word, Tonks took the bottle, ripped the cork out with her teeth with savage dexterity, and took a long swig directly from the container, like an expert tavern-keeper.
"I don't touch alcohol anymore while I'm looking after Ditto," she commented as an excuse, wiping the corner of her lips before taking another sip of the fruit blend.
Dumbledore maintained an expression of absolute bewilderment. There were too many unknowns in Nymphadora's current life, but he decided it was not the time to unravel that knot. He set aside his grandfatherly kindness, and his eyes regained that steel-blue glint that preceded storms.