A biting wind whipped across the landscape, turning the water's surface into a jagged sheet of hammered slate. Beneath a ceiling of heavy, bruised clouds, the Highlands held their breath, caught in that bleak February limbo where skeletal trees rattled with frost and the sun was merely a pale, forgotten ghost behind the mist.
It was a particularly cold winter morning at the Carter home, though the cottage was formally known as "Raven's Cottage." Legend had it that during the early days of its construction, a vast colony of ravens lived in the forest behind the estate. In those days, the ravens' cries would echo through the halls whenever a window was thrown open.
Perhaps it was merely a family joke, but it was one that rang true: almost every member of the Carter family had been sorted into Ravenclaw. While a few had strayed to other houses, the majority remained fiercely proud of their bronze-and-blue heritage. Where others chased fame or gold, the Carters chased knowledge and wisdom, quietly building their fortune and providing for their descendants in a low-key manner. They believed that one's true wealth and intellect should never be fully disclosed, lest others find a way to misuse them.
Their strategy worked. Today, the Carters are an affluent family within British wizarding society, though few realize the true extent of their riches. Their home boasts a meticulously maintained library, housing the collected wisdom of generations. To the rest of the world, however, the Carters are simply a "good old pureblood family"—a bit nerdy, perhaps, but unremarkable. Consequently, their name is rarely whispered in the halls of power.
On this early morning, as the wind rattled the windows and formed thick layers of icicles, Mr. Carter was in a frantic hurry. He needed to check a series of urgent documents and have them signed by the Head of his Department, Mr. Crouch Senior. From there, the papers had to be delivered to the French Ministry of Magic by three o'clock.
As an employee of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, travel was a necessity. Mr. Carter dealt primarily with the French, and it was during one of these frequent trips that he had met Mrs. Serena Carter—formerly Miss Serena Roche, a potioneer from a modest French pureblood family. To this day, the family still uses her childhood home on the French coast as a summer retreat for their children.
Downstairs, the air was thick with the sharp, medicinal tang of dried ginger and crushed fluxweed. While the rest of the house woke to the smell of tea, the basement—Serena Carter's domain—was a sanctuary of rhythmic bubbling. Serena stood over a row of three copper cauldrons, her wand conducting the heat with practiced precision. For Serena, brewing healing potions for St. Mungo's wasn't just work; it was a rhythmic meditation.
The cellar door creaked open, and the frantic clatter of dress shoes on stone broke her concentration.
"Serena, have you seen the Portkey permit for the Calais crossing?" Mr. Carter burst into the room, his cloak half-fastened and a stack of parchment tucked precariously under his arm. "I've checked the study twice, but the desk is a mountain of memos!"
Serena didn't look up from her cauldron, counting the seventh clockwise stir of a bright turquoise liquid. "Check the mantelpiece, Adrian. Between the bust of Rowena Ravenclaw and your collection of owl feathers."
"The mantelpiece! Right. Of course." Adrian paused, his eyes darting to the bubbling cauldrons. "Is that the Wiggenweld Potion? The color is marvelous this morning."
"It's a batch of Pepperup for the hospital's winter rush," she corrected gently, finally setting her wand down. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to her husband, reaching out to straighten his crooked collar. "You're agitated. Crouch won't be pleased if you arrive looking like you've been chased by a Hungarian Horntail."
Adrian sighed, leaning into her touch for a brief second. "Crouch is never pleased, Serena. He lives on a diet of rules and cold tea. If I don't have these signatures by ten, the French Ministry will stall the trade agreement for another six months. They are quite particular about their cauldron-bottom standards, and I'm the only one who can translate the technicalities without causing a diplomatic incident."
"Then go," she said, giving his shoulder a firm, encouraging pat. "The children are still asleep, and I have three more hours of simmering before these are ready for bottling. I'll keep a pot of coffee warm for when you return."
"You're a marvel," Adrian muttered, grabbing a small, rusted pocket watch from the workbench—his Portkey. "I shall see you for dinner. Hopefully, with a signed treaty and my head still attached!"
With a sharp crack that echoed against the stone walls, he was gone, leaving only the scent of ozone and the steady, comforting hum of Serena's brewing to fill the quiet morning.