The Waldorf Astoria was quiet when Nathael and Celestia returned to the suite. The city, however, was not. From the fortieth floor, New York unfolded like a tapestry of light—millions of golden, white, and red points pulsed in perfect disarray, a chaos breathing life, history, and future all at once. Christmas seeped into every corner: garlands hung from lampposts, and decorated trees glowed behind shop windows, as if the Muggle world had woven its own version of magic from wires, lightbulbs, and sheer will.
When Nathael opened the suite door, he found Hermione and Draco seated at the dining table, surrounded by scrolls, leather-bound notebooks, and a pair of quills that floated gently through the air, transcribing their words without touching the paper. Both were absorbed in their writing—brows furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted, fingers smudged with both Muggle ink and magical residue.
"Good evening," Nathael said, slipping off his cloak with a fluid motion. Celestia leapt from his shoulder and settled onto the sofa with an elegant yawn.
Hermione looked up immediately, her eyes shining with a mix of nerves and pride. Draco, however, closed his notebook with near-ceremonial precision, as if every gesture were meant to be watched and remembered.
"We've been working on what you asked," Draco said, his voice firmer than usual. He stood and walked toward Nathael with measured steps. "About how airplanes work."
Nathael nodded, arms crossed, his expression open and free of judgment.
"Excellent. Do you mind if we listen here, or would you prefer a more… inspiring setting?"
Without waiting for an answer, Nathael strode to the balcony's sliding doors and threw them wide open. Cold air rushed in like a revitalizing breeze, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and something indefinable—the energy of a city that never sleeps. Manhattan's lights stretched out like a river of fallen stars, with the Empire State Building as a lighthouse in its midst.
"Come," Nathael said softly.
Hermione sprang up at once. Draco hesitated only briefly before following without doubt. Both stepped onto the balcony and leaned against the marble railing—one on each side of Nathael. Celestia followed in silent steps and sat between them, her tail curled neatly around her paws, watching the city as if absorbing every glimmer.
"Go ahead, Draco," Nathael said, resting his forearms on the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Draco took a deep breath, as if preparing for a complex spell.
"The airplane… works with engines. Not magic, but fuel—a kind of liquid that burns, and when it does, it expels gases at high speed, propelling the craft forward. That's called… thrust. When the plane moves fast, air flows over the wings in a way that creates… lift. That's what raises it off the ground. It doesn't fly by will—it flies by physics. By laws… that Muggles have deciphered through observation, trial, failure… and trying again."
He spoke carefully, choosing each word as if afraid to offend magic with his explanation. But there was a new spark in his eyes: genuine curiosity, unmasked by sarcasm or superiority.
Nathael listened in complete silence. He didn't nod, didn't interrupt, didn't correct. He simply watched the city, as if each of Draco's words lit a new light in his mind.
When Draco finished, Nathael turned to him—not with the gaze of a teacher evaluating a student, but with that of a hunter who'd just uncovered a vital clue.
"Do you think the magical community could create something like this… from scratch?" Nathael asked, his voice low but clear. "Not an enchanted object, not a spell disguised as a machine… but something built with the same logic as Muggles. Something that works by principles, not by magic."
Draco frowned, surprised by the question.
"No," he answered instantly. "It's not possible. At least… I've never seen it. Schools have means of transport, yes. Durmstrang uses a massive ship that emerges from the lake, and Beauxbatons… a carriage pulled by winged creatures. But they're… ordinary vehicles. A ship. A carriage. What makes them extraordinary isn't their design—it's the magic that animates them."
Nathael nodded slowly. He straightened and crossed his arms again, this time with a thoughtful expression.
"Exactly. And that's the difference. We use magic as a shortcut. We want to fly, so we use a broom. We want to travel far, so we Apparate. We want power… so we open an ancient grimoire. But Muggles… they had no shortcuts. No wands. No spells. Only their minds… and their world."
He paused and swept his open hand toward the city.
"Look at those lights. Each one is electricity—not magic. They've learned to capture lightning, tame it, and make it flow through wires into their homes. In most magical houses, we light our spaces with enchanted candles, Lumos spheres, lamps that never go out. But they… invented a way to do it without magic. And not only that—they made it accessible. Anyone can turn on a light with a button."
Draco now stared at him, eyes wide, as if each word was dismantling a belief he'd held since childhood.
"And as for war…" Nathael lowered his voice, his expression turning grave. "Today, a Muggle soldier can kill an average wizard in seconds. No wand. No spells. Just a firearm."
"A… firearm?" Draco asked, incredulous.
"A pistol. A rifle. It fires metal projectiles at such speed they pierce the body before you can say Protego. A bullet can reach your head before your brain registers the gunshot."
Draco paled. His right hand instinctively touched his wand.
"But… we're wizards. We're superior."
Nathael shook his head—not with disdain, but with sadness.
"We're not superior, Draco. We're… different. And that difference won't protect you if you don't understand it. Muggles have broken barriers we consider trivial… but they've done it with ingenuity, with science, with work. And that… that's something you must learn to respect."
He turned to Draco and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I want you to look beyond lineage. I want you to take what's useful from their world… and make it yours. Not copy it. Improve it. With your mind, your magic, your vision. Because if you achieve that… you won't just be a pureblood wizard. You'll be a complete wizard."
Draco didn't reply. He only nodded, his gaze fixed on the city's lights, as if seeing them for the first time.
Then Nathael turned to Hermione.
"Your turn."
She blinked, as if waking from a dream. She bit her lower lip, thoughtful, then began speaking in a soft but steady voice.
"From what Draco has told me… and what I've observed… the magical world, at least among pureblood families, lives in a bubble. They use magic for everything—cleaning, cooking, dressing, traveling. And their wealth… doesn't come from work, but from inheritance. Draco told me his family owns lands, properties, and that his father… trades in objects he doesn't fully understand."
Celestia purred softly, a sly smile in her eyes. Dark artifacts, she thought. Of course he doesn't understand them. No one truly does.
Nathael nodded.
"And you? What do you think of all this?"
Hermione hesitated. She looked at Draco, then at the city, and finally at Nathael.
"I wouldn't say… special," she said at last. "But yes… advantaged. Compared to me—a Muggle-born—or a half-blood… they have access to knowledge, objects, contacts… that will take me years to earn."
Nathael nodded, satisfied.
"Good work."
He stepped back from the railing and returned to the suite's interior. The three followed and settled into armchairs before the fireplace, where blue flames burned softly—magical, but silent.
Nathael crossed his legs, interlaced his fingers, and fixed them with a serious but warm gaze.
"I'm going to tell you something very few know," he said. "Records are scarce—most were destroyed or hidden. But in ancient times, for a family to be deemed pureblood, it wasn't enough to have a long lineage. They had to possess something unique… and irreplicable by others."
He paused. Looked at them both.
"The Grauheims, for example, are recognized for our mastery of ancestral magic. It's not a title—it's a real, refined skill. The Malfoys…" He glanced at Draco. "Were, in origin, masters of binding magic. They didn't just protect treasures—they sealed pacts, imprisoned curses, crafted barriers even the most powerful couldn't break. The Blacks… had an innate affinity for dark magic: they could wield it without corruption, even creating new arts still banned by the Ministry today."
"But over time," Nathael continued, "the title 'pureblood' became a status symbol, not a mark of skill. Families began marrying only among themselves to keep the 'pure' bloodline, forgetting what made them special in the first place. And so, the true meaning was lost."
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper.
"But I'll tell you something more. That ability… didn't come from nothing. The first Malfoy, Armand, was an ordinary wizard. But through circumstance, study, talent, and practice, he awakened something in his blood—an affinity for binding magic. And that affinity… passed to his descendants. It's not inherited magic. It's dormant magic… waiting to be awakened."
Draco stared at him, eyes bright, as if hearing his family's true story for the first time.
Nathael looked at Hermione, then Draco.
"And the same can happen with anyone. Half-blood, Muggle-born, pureblood… we all carry that potential within us. Because magic… isn't a privilege of lineage. It's a universal gift. Mysterious, yes. Uncontrollable, sometimes. But present in all."
He stood and walked to the window, back turned to them.
"You two… are my students. And you're talented. More than you believe. So I promise you this: I will awaken the blood in you, Draco. And in you, Hermione… I will ignite what the magical world has ignored for centuries."
He turned and smiled.
"Because it doesn't matter where you come from. It matters where you choose to go."
In the silence that followed, only the crackle of the fire and the city's distant hum could be heard—a city lit without magic, yet brimming with promise.