Head Office – Major Investigation Department
"Enter," came the voice—smooth, cultured, and carrying a subtle authority that demanded compliance without needing to shout.
Inside, the office was spacious but dimly lit, its tall windows shuttered against the city skyline. The walls were lined with shelves of leather-bound tomes and heavy crystal decanters filled with amber liquid. A large map of the world dominated the wall behind the desk—its continents traced not in mundane geography, but in shifting magical ley lines, glowing faintly like veins of light.
The man behind the desk was simply "Professor" to most, though those who had known him long enough knew better than to assume that was his real name. His age was impossible to place—his hair silver at the temples, but his eyes sharp and unyielding. A dark robe hung over his tailored suit, giving the impression of a scholar who had long since traded classrooms for strategy rooms.
"Lord Rowen," the Professor said without rising, his voice low but carrying across the room. "It's been too long."
Thaddeus inclined his head, closing the door behind him. "Professor."
"Sit."
Thaddeus took the chair opposite the desk, resting his cane against his knee.
The Professor leaned back, steepling his fingers. "France is in chaos, England is drifting toward instability, and yet our friends across the Atlantic are still under the quaint illusion that Europe is the eternal center of the magical world."
His gaze drifted briefly to the glowing map. "That, my dear Rowen, is a mistake. The Old World clings to old power, old families, old grudges. But the future—our future—belongs here, in the New World. The United States should be the axis upon which magical governance turns."
Thaddeus allowed himself a faint smile. "Ambitious, as always."
"Ambition is only dangerous when it's unfocused," the Professor replied evenly. "If MACUSA wishes to lead, we must first extend our reach. France and England are the key entry points into Europe. Without influence there, we remain provincial—powerful in name, irrelevant in practice."
Thaddeus adjusted his cufflinks. "And for that influence?"
"Families," the Professor said simply. "Old, powerful ones—names that open doors no law or treaty ever could. We court them first, then create their problems, then solve them… and in the end, we own them."
The Professor's eyes sharpened. "That brings me to the White family. What became of our arrangement with Elijah White?"
Thaddeus's smile faltered. "Elijah is dead. A year now. Negotiations died with him."
"Yes," the Professor murmured, as if confirming something already known. "I heard whispers of his passing. Tragic, but predictable. And now?"
Thaddeus exhaled. "A girl. Young—too young to be taken seriously in European circles. Eira White. I assume you've seen the papers."
"I do not waste time on propaganda," the Professor said sharply. "I want truth, Rowen. What is she?"
"I met her once," Thaddeus said, leaning back. "Briefly. Sharp eyes, polite enough. But… untested. Whether she will be an asset or a liability remains to be seen."
The Professor's fingers drummed against the desk. "She matters. The Whites are not merely wealthy; they are embedded into the very fabric of magical Europe. Their influence runs through finance, politics, and bloodlines. If we control her, we control much more than one girl. We control a nexus of power."
Thaddeus inclined his head. "You want me to court her family."
"I want you to bind them to us," the Professor corrected. "Subtly, of course. She must think it's her choice. But we should Influence her behind the scenes to make that decision, Rowen, no coercion. We need allies who will speak for us in the Wizengamot and the French Ministry's inner councils without ever admitting they speak for us."
The Professor paused, then said, "And what of the Black family?"
Thaddeus raised a brow. "They're all but gone. I've heard the last descendant is on the run—wanted in Britain for a variety of charges."
"Exactly," the Professor said. "We offer sanctuary. We rebuild them under our protection. A name like 'Black' still carries weight in the Old World, and with the right… guidance, they could be a blade aimed exactly where we need it."
Thaddeus tapped the silver head of his thunderbird cane thoughtfully. "A dangerous blade."
The Professor smiled faintly. "The best kind."
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the office wards filling the space.
"Of course," the Professor continued, "Europe is only part of the puzzle. We must tend our own garden as well. MACUSA is… fractured. Too many departments pulling in different directions, too many leaders with personal fiefdoms. Our secrecy laws are outdated. Our enforcement divisions are underfunded while our diplomacy is undermanned. And don't get me started on the isolationists in the Grand Assembly who think we should avoid entanglements altogether."
Thaddeus gave a dry chuckle. "The same people who would scream the loudest if Europe ever got the upper hand over us."
"Indeed." The Professor's voice cooled. "That is why we need victories abroad—to silence those who believe the New World should remain a quiet backwater. We will prove that we can set the tone for magical politics, not simply follow it."
He leaned forward now, the map behind him pulsing faintly as ley lines shifted. "Think bigger, Rowen. France's Ministry is weak, distracted by internal feuds. England's leadership is complacent, its alliances fraying. Both are ripe for subtle… persuasion. And once they lean on us for stability, the rest of Europe will follow."
Thaddeus studied him. "And if they resist?"
"Then we remind them," the Professor said softly, "that the Old World's empires have all fallen, one by one, while the New World has only just begun to rise."
A silence stretched between them—thick with the weight of centuries-old ambition and the cold, methodical patience required to reshape the balance of power.
Finally, the Professor stood, moving toward the map. His fingers traced a glowing path from New York to London, then down to Paris. "We begin with influence. Then trade agreements—favors for access. Scholarships for promising young witches and wizards who will spend their formative years here, in our institutions, learning our ways. When they return to Europe, they will carry our ideals back with them, woven into their thinking."
Thaddeus rose as well. "Cultural infiltration."
"Call it what you like. The French will call it diplomacy. The British will call it modernization. But it will be ours."
He turned back, his eyes locking with Thaddeus's. "You will handle the Whites. Keep me informed. And if this girl proves uncooperative… well, there are always other heirs willing to be molded."
Thaddeus retrieved his cane, inclining his head in a gesture halfway between respect and camaraderie. "And the Blacks?"
"Find him," the Professor said simply. "Before someone else does."
As Thaddeus reached the door, the Professor's voice followed him, quiet but unmistakably sharp.
"Rowen… the New World is the future of our civilization. Do not disappoint me."
Thaddeus had almost reached the door when the Professor's voice stopped him again.
"One more thing, Rowen," he said without looking up from the map. "Sit. There's more to discuss."
Thaddeus arched a brow but returned to his chair, resting the cane against his leg once more.
The Professor began pacing slowly behind the desk. "Before we extend our reach abroad, we must deal with fractures at home. MACUSA is not the unified body it pretends to be. You've seen it yourself—departments hoarding authority, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement squabbling with the Committee on No-Maj Relations, the Magical Resources Office lobbying for budgets as if they're merchants haggling over apples. It's pitiful."
Thaddeus allowed himself a faint smirk. "Some of us enjoy watching the Assembly tear itself apart."
"Enjoyment," the Professor said sharply, "is not the same as control. Our enemies—both here and overseas—count on our infighting. Every wasted session in the Grand Assembly is another opportunity for someone else to dictate the terms of the magical world."
He stopped pacing and turned, eyes narrowing. "We've grown soft. Comfortable. Our Aurors are overworked and underpaid, morale slipping. And what does the Assembly do? Cut their funding. The same isolationists who block our foreign policies refuse to see the cracks forming under their feet. If we are to lead, we must first ensure our house does not collapse around us."
Rowen drummed his fingers on the armrest. "I assume you have a solution."
The Professor's lips curved faintly. "Reform. Strategic appointments to key posts. And—this is critical—a unifying foreign policy victory. Nothing rallies the domestic scene like the illusion of strength abroad. When the public sees us shaping events in Paris and London, they will stop questioning our competence here."
Thaddeus nodded slowly. "It's an internal distraction built on external victories—just enough to make the public feel powerful, even arrogant, as if they're the ones running the world."
The Professor's lips curved faintly. "And when they believe that, they will never question us—our behavior, our work, or our purpose here. We'll keep their eyes fixed on the outside, while inside, we rule without interference or distraction."
The weight of the statement lingered in the room.
At last, the Professor waved a hand toward the door. "Go. See to your assignments. The Whites, the Blacks, and any other thread you can weave into our net. The world is shifting, Rowen, and we should be the ones who decides where it lands."
Rowen rose, retrieving his cane. "Understood, Professor."
As he stepped into the hallway, the noise of the atrium greeted him once more—quills scratching, memos fluttering, the machinery of MACUSA grinding on. But beneath it all, he could feel the truth of what had just been said: the New World was reaching for the Old, and he was one of the hands making it happen.