The flight went without major incident.
Nathael had paid a considerable sum—equivalent to several thousand Galleons—to ensure Celestia could travel with him in the cabin. Technically, it violated airline regulations, but a subtle Confundus Charm cast on ground staff and flight attendants guaranteed no one noticed that a white, sapphire-eyed cat wearing a cloak and a tilted hat was anything out of the ordinary.
Thus, the four of them—Nathael, Celestia, Draco, and Hermione—ended up in first class, surrounded by silence, reclining seats, plush blankets, and pillows. As for Celestia, they even served her Beluga caviar, which she sampled with elegant finesse.
Draco, seeing the luxury, sighed in relief.
"At least it's not like that crowded section I saw as we passed," he said, referring to economy class—packed with people, noise, and crying children.
"Not everyone can afford such luxuries," Nathael said, sipping his wine. "Even in the Muggle world, there are different social classes."
Draco simply nodded and sat back.
During the flight, however, the altitude and constant motion of the plane made him queasy. He tried reading a book Hermione had lent him, but the words swam before his eyes. Finally, embarrassed, he turned to Celestia.
"Could you… do that again?"
Celestia said nothing. She simply flicked her tail.
A wave of healing magic enveloped him—soft as a summer breeze. The nausea vanished. The tension in his shoulders melted away.
"Thank you," Draco murmured.
And soon after, he fell asleep.
Hermione, seated across from him, watched him with a thoughtful expression.
He's not so bad after all, she thought.
She imagined how Harry and Ron would react if they knew Draco had agreed to come to America with her, had eaten at her house, had been polite to her parents. Maybe… maybe she could convince them that not all Slytherins were as Ron claimed.
But then reality struck.
Ron would never accept it. To him, "Slytherin" was synonymous with Voldemort. And Draco… was a Malfoy.
She shook her head and looked out the window. Clouds drifted like endless fields of white cotton.
Celestia approached and leapt onto her lap.
"Want the spell too?" she asked with a feline smile.
"No need," Hermione said. "I'm used to traveling with my parents—holidays in France, in Italy… planes don't affect me."
Celestia purred.
"Good thing. Because I don't do it for free."
Hermione laughed softly.
"Cookies?"
"Top quality," Celestia said, settling in for a nap.
--------------
Upon landing at John F. Kennedy Airport, they gently woke Draco.
"We're here," Nathael said.
They headed to immigration.
Officers in green uniforms, wooden desks, and stacks of paperwork filled the room.
The officer looked at Nathael's passport.
"German, huh?"
Nathael smiled.
"That's right."
Then Draco's and Hermione's.
"British, right?"
"Yes," Draco said, his voice firmer than usual.
"Enjoy New York."
They passed through without issue.
As they stepped outside the airport, the contrast was immediate.
Cold.
A sharp, damp wind carrying the scent of wet asphalt and metal. It was very different from Wiltshire—very different even from London.
Draco hugged himself.
"Is it always this cold?"
"It's winter," Hermione said. "And this is New York."
She looked up.
Skyscrapers.
Towers of steel and glass seeming to touch the sky. Bright lights, giant billboards, yellow taxis swarming like mechanical bees, and Christmas decorations everywhere.
Draco blinked, astonished.
"This… is futuristic."
Hermione smiled.
"It's not the future, Draco. It's the present."
They took a cab to the Waldorf Astoria, a luxury hotel on Park Avenue. Nathael had already reserved a penthouse suite, paid for with money exchanged at Gringotts before their trip.
Upon arrival, they checked in seamlessly. The receptionist barely glanced at their passports before handing over the keys.
The suite was immense: three bedrooms, a living room with a view of the Empire State Building, a marble dining area, and a private terrace.
They settled in.
Half an hour later, they gathered in the living room.
Nathael looked at them both.
"Good. Now your first lesson begins."
He pointed to Draco.
"Your task is to investigate how an airplane works—not just 'it flies,' but how it's designed, how it's controlled, how it communicates with air traffic control. Understand Muggle logic—their precision, their ingenuity."
Draco frowned.
"Why?"
"Because," Nathael said, "magic isn't the only kind of power. And if you don't understand the world around you… you'll go blind."
Then he looked at Hermione.
"You, on the other hand, have a more subtle task.
You need to understand how the Muggle world appears to someone who's lived their entire life in the magical world."
He paused.
"And perhaps… Draco can help you with that."
Hermione looked at Draco. Draco looked at her.
Both nodded.
"Perfect," Nathael said. "While you two research, Celestia and I will go to Chinatown."
"Chinatown?" Hermione asked.
"Yes. I have information to gather."
"Will you be long?"
Nathael didn't answer directly.
"We'll see. But I don't think so."
He put on his cloak.
"When I return, I expect you to be finished. Then… we'll do a bit of sightseeing. New York has much to offer."
-------------------------
Chinatown, New York
Chinatown's streets were a labyrinth of colors, scents, and sounds. Red lanterns hung from balconies. Shops with glowing Chinese characters shimmered in golden light. The air smelled of ginger, soy, incense—and something older… something magical.
Nathael walked with firm steps, Celestia at his side, her small hat tilted slightly to one side.
"Are you sure it's here?" Nathael asked.
"The rumors point to this place," Celestia said. "And hunters' rumors rarely lie."
They arrived at a small shop, nearly hidden between a restaurant and an herbal pharmacy. The sign read: Wing's Antiquities.
Inside, the air was thick—laden with the scent of dust, aged wood, and something only magic could name.
Behind the counter, an elderly Chinese man with piercing eyes and a black tunic embroidered with red dragons watched them.
"Samuel Tze Wing," Nathael said in perfect Mandarin.
The old man didn't seem surprised. He studied Nathael.
"A Grauheim. Rare in these lands—you rarely leave Europe or Asia."
Then he looked at Celestia.
"And you… are of the White Lineage. Rare. Powerful."
Nathael pulled out a gold coin. It bore no seal, no inscription—only a faint glow revealing the forbidden magic woven into its core.
"I need information."
Wing took the coin, turning it between his fingers.
"This coin… cannot be forged. Only a true hunter would use it."
He looked at Nathael again.
"What information is worth such a coin?"
Nathael glanced around. No customers—only shelves filled with artifacts: vases etched with hidden runes, mirrors reflecting distant worlds, daggers whispering temptations.
"I'm searching for an artifact," he said quietly. "One that tracks souls."
Wing tensed.
"Tracks souls?"
"Yes."
The old man fell silent for a long moment.
"I don't have one here. They're… extremely rare."
"Have you seen one?"
"Yes. Thirty years ago."
Nathael leaned forward slightly.
"Where?"
Wing studied him. Then sighed.
"It's not free—and the coin isn't enough."
"What do you want?"
"My grandson… Wing Kid… sold something without my permission. To a No-Maj."
"What did he sell?"
"A Mogwai."
Nathael frowned.
"That Chinese magical creature that transforms if the rules are broken?"
"Exactly," Wing said. "He gave it to a man who claimed to be an inventor."
Wing pulled out a business card he'd been given.
Nathael read it: Rand Peltzer – "Fantastic Ideas for a Fantastic World: Turning the Illogical into the Logical" – Kingston Falls, Pennsylvania.
"And you want me to retrieve it?"
"Yes. Bring it back… and I'll tell you where I last saw the soul-tracking artifact."
Nathael and Celestia exchanged a glance.
"We accept."
Wing nodded.
"Good. Whatever your reason for seeking that artifact… I hope it's not already in the hands of someone who shouldn't possess it."
Nathael stepped out of the shop, New York's cold wind stinging his face.
"A Mogwai," Celestia said. "A fine training exercise for Draco and Hermione."
"Yes," Nathael said. "And I hope they've broken the rules—otherwise, it'll be boring."