Inside the briefing room of the Woolworth Building, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy weight of professional failure. President Picquery's silence was more terrifying than a shout, but Leonard Knox had never been one to let a silence go unchallenged when common sense was being ignored.
"Let's stop dancing around the obvious," Leonard said, his voice raspy but firm. He stepped toward the center of the room, ignoring the warning glances from his peers. "The objective of this breach wasn't just chaos—it was surgical. They came for Henry Jones, the man who's been pulling the strings of the magical black market from London to New York. Releasing those creatures wasn't a random act of cruelty; it was a smokescreen. One half of the distraction was to keep the executioners busy, and the other half was to embarrass this Congress so thoroughly that we'd be too busy answering to the International Confederation of Wizards to notice where Jones went."
Leonard's bluntness hit like a cold bucket of water.
"Knox, shut your mouth. No one invited a junior field agent to lecture the President," snapped a short, stocky wizard named Roca. He had a face like a pug and a temperament to match. He stepped forward, his chest puffed out as he tried to physically intimidate Leonard.
"I'm the one who was on the ground when the first ward snapped, Roca," Leonard shot back, his eyes narrowing. "I have a responsibility to tell the President the truth, even if it hurts your feelings or your career prospects."
Roca let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Responsibility? It's your fault Jones ever made it to American soil! If you'd done your job back in Britain, we wouldn't be scrubbing dragon dung off Broadway right now."
Leonard's fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. He stepped into Roca's personal space, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Our operation plan was leaked. We were walked into an ambush. If you want to talk about fault, let's talk about whose office had the itinerary for the transport." He slammed his hand onto the mahogany table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"Enough!" President Picquery's voice cut through the tension like a blade. She didn't look at Roca or Leonard; she looked at the holographic map of New York that shimmered into existence above the table.
"Roca, stand down," she commanded. "Regardless of who is to blame for the past, we have three immediate priorities. First, Henry Jones is a fugitive on American soil; he must be back in a cell by dawn. Second, every single creature that escaped must be neutralized or contained. And third, we must regain control of the narrative. If the No-Majs find out a magical prison break leveled a skyscraper, we are looking at a century of war. This is a disgrace to the Congress!"
Her hand swept through the hologram, and a series of red pulses erupted across the map—hotspots of magical activity. "This is an unprecedented disaster. Every available Auror is to be deployed immediately. Activate Congressional Riot Prevention Plan Two. Go!"
The room exploded into motion. A chorus of determined voices signaled their assent as Aurors began to Disapparate in rapid-fire cracks, heading into the night to begin the massive cleanup.
"Knox, stay," Picquery said, her voice dropping.
Leonard, who had been halfway to the door, froze. He turned back, looking at the President with genuine surprise. "Madam President?"
She waited until the room was empty of everyone except the two of them. The silence was heavy. She walked over to him and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "This chaos... it's a filter, Leonard. It shows us who is competent and who is compromised. Right now, I can't trust the men who were supposed to prevent this. But I can trust the man who fought through it."
She looked back at the holographic map, her face etched with a weary kind of determination. "If Jones had escaped and the creatures hadn't, you'd be the hero of the hour. You might even be sitting in the Head of the Auror Office's chair by next month. But this breach... it changes everything. Your term of service just became indefinite. I need you on the inside."
She leaned in closer. "You were right. There is a traitor in our ranks. Someone gave them the keys to the kingdom. I'm giving you a special mission, Leonard. A cleanup of a different kind. Root out the rot. Find the traitors. Bring order back to this Congress before it burns down from the inside."
Leonard felt a jolt of pure, electric adrenaline. It was the kind of excitement a new recruit feels on their first day, but tempered with the grim knowledge of what "internal cleanup" actually meant. "I won't let you down, Madam President."
While the political storm raged inside the Woolworth Building, the physical world outside was being put back together by sheer force of will.
Allen and Professor Flitwick stood on the street corner, watching as a squad of Aurors performed a synchronized Repair Spell. It was like watching a film being played in reverse. Bricks flew up from the pavement, slotting back into the walls of the shattered buildings. Twisted metal uncurled, turning back into the frames of shiny black cars. Broken glass lifted from the gutters and fused back into pristine windowpanes.
The Muggles nearby were being ushered away, their eyes glazed and distant as their memories of the "terrorist tractor" or "bombing" were reinforced by subtle mental nudges. To them, it was just a long, confusing day that ended with a headache.
The heavy doors of the Congress opened, and Leonard stepped out. He looked exhausted, his clothes singed and dusty, but he brightened when he saw the Professor.
"Filius! You're still in one piece," Leonard called out.
"Barely!" Flitwick squeaked, his usual cheer returning as he hopped off a stone ledge. He went to give Leonard a friendly pat, but Leonard, in his excitement, tried to lift the Professor up for a hug. Flitwick, ever mindful of his dignity, gave Leonard a sharp, playful kick to the shin. "Put me down, you giant oaf!"
Allen watched the exchange, his lips twitching. It was a bizarre way for two grown men to greet each other, but it felt remarkably human amidst all the cold, clinical magic. He bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud, knowing Flitwick's pride was a sensitive thing.
"Listen, I'd love to take you out for a proper drink, but I've just been handed a pile of work that would make a goblin weep," Leonard said, checking his watch. "You can't stay in the city tonight. It's going to be a mess of checkpoints and sirens. You'll go to my house. Jessica should be there—she's a sweetheart and a brilliant hostess. She'll get you settled."
He scribbled an address on a piece of parchment and pressed it into Flitwick's hand. Before the Professor could even ask for directions, Leonard spun on his heel and Apparated away with a violent crack.
Night had truly fallen now. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with clouds that promised a fierce New York snowstorm. The wind was picking up, whistling through the narrow streets and biting through their cloaks.
"Professor," Allen said, shivering slightly as he looked down the long, dark street. "Is there... perhaps a more efficient way to travel? I noticed we've been walking for quite a while."
Flitwick stopped dead, his face flushing a deep crimson that was visible even in the dim streetlights. He'd been so caught up in the nostalgia of being in America and the excitement of the duels that he'd completely forgotten he was traveling with a student. As a Ravenclaw, he prided himself on logic, but even the best minds can be distracted by a good fight.
"Quack? I mean—yes! Of course!" Flitwick blustered, waving his wand as if he'd planned it all along. "I was simply... taking in the local architecture! It's important to understand the urban layout of a new country on foot, Allen. But, ah, I suppose for your sake, we should hurry."
He stepped to the curb and held his wand high. For a moment, nothing happened but the whistling of the wind. Then, a pair of blindingly bright headlights cut through the gloom. With a sound like a thunderclap, a massive, triple-decker bus in a violent shade of purple materialized out of thin air. It screeched to a halt, its tires smoking.
The doors hissed open. A young wizard with messy, wind-blown hair and jeans that were more holes than fabric leaned out.
"Boarding? Or just enjoying the view?" the conductor asked with a lazy grin. "Where to, gents?"
Flitwick handed over the address. The conductor whistled. "Way out in the suburbs, eh? That'll be thirty silver Sickles for the pair of you. We're running a special tonight—three extra Sickles each gets you a New York hot dog and a coffee that'll melt your teeth."
Allen reached for his coin purse, but Flitwick beat him to it, counting out thirty-six Sickles with practiced ease. "On the school's account, Allen. Don't mention it."
The interior of the bus was a chaotic mess of brass-framed beds and velvet curtains. There were no seats; instead, the beds slid around the floor as the bus accelerated. Allen and Flitwick grabbed two beds side-by-side, gripping the frames as the bus roared back into motion.
The ride was a blur. The bus didn't seem to care about physics or traffic laws. It hopped over cars, squeezed through gaps that were inches wide, and accelerated to speeds that made the snow outside look like warp-speed stars in a sci-fi movie.
Allen accepted his coffee, which was indeed hot enough to cause internal damage, and a hot dog that tasted suspiciously like magic and onions. As the bus jolted and swerved, he found himself being lulled by the rhythmic thumping of the tires against the magical road. He collapsed back onto the bed, watching the lights of New York flicker past.
Ten minutes later—a journey that should have taken an hour—the bus slammed its brakes.
"End of the line, kid. Sleep tight," the conductor said, nudging Allen's foot.
They stepped off the bus onto a wide, snow-covered road. Before they could even find their balance, the bus did a violent 180-degree spin and vanished into the darkness with another thunderclap.
In front of them, nestled behind a low stone wall, was a cozy, well-lit villa. The windows glowed with a warm, inviting yellow light that promised safety and a hot meal. They checked the brass number on the gate.
It was Leonard's home. The "Snowy Night" had finally brought them to a place of rest.