More than a month had passed since the mysterious wizard had first appeared on MACUSA's radar.
During that time, he had somehow become one of the Magical Congress of the United States of America's highest-priority investigations—not because he had attacked the government, assassinated public officials, or committed acts of terrorism, but because he had done something far more unsettling.
He had appeared repeatedly at the center of incidents that should have been impossible... and then vanished without leaving behind a single reliable lead.
It was as though someone had simply appeared out of thin air, interfered with events across the country, and disappeared just as easily.
Ordinarily, such a mystery would have remained buried beneath dozens of other investigations. America was enormous, and MACUSA handled countless magical incidents every day. Yet every report involving the unknown wizard seemed to point toward someone very powerful.
The destruction of William Stryker's hidden mutant facilities.
The disaster surrounding Three Mile Island.
The unidentified magic during the battle near the Statue of Liberty.
The liberation of hundreds of captive mutants from illegal laboratories scattered across several states.
No witnesses could describe him clearly. No magical signature remained long enough to identify. No one could explain how he had entered or left heavily guarded areas.
It was becoming increasingly frustrating.
Inside MACUSA Headquarters, a large conference room had been converted into the investigation's temporary command center.
Senior Investigator Elias Hawthorne stood with his arms folded as he studied the floating map. His expression remained calm, but everyone in the room could see the growing frustration hidden beneath it.
Around the table stood nearly a dozen experienced Aurors and investigators, each carrying stacks of reports that seemed to grow thicker every week.
One younger Auror broke the silence with an exhausted sigh.
"We're chasing a ghost."
Hawthorne continued studying the map for several more moments before speaking.
"No," he corrected quietly. "Ghosts leave stories."
One witch flipped through several reports before looking toward Hawthorne.
"We've compared every magical signature recovered from these incidents."
"And?"
"They're similar."
"But incomplete."
"Almost like..."
She searched for the proper words.
"...he deliberately suppresses his magical footprint."
Hawthorne nodded once.
"I reached the same conclusion."
Another Auror leaned forward over the table.
"That's not easy."
"It isn't."
Suppressing magical residue required exceptional control. Most witches and wizards unconsciously left traces of their magic behind whenever they cast spells. Those traces lingered for hours—sometimes days—allowing trained investigators to reconstruct events.
Whoever this mysterious wizard was...
He either knew exactly how MACUSA investigated crimes...
Or possessed magical control far beyond ordinary standards.
Neither possibility was comforting.
A senior investigator adjusted his spectacles before adding another observation.
"He also avoids unnecessary magic."
The wizard spread several reports across the table.
"Notice the pattern."
He pointed toward photographs recovered from different crime scenes.
"Doors physically broken."
"Locks picked manually."
"Minimal spellcasting."
Another report.
"He walks instead of Apparating whenever possible."
The investigator looked up.
"Whoever he is..."
"...he knows we're looking."
It was becoming increasingly obvious that they were not dealing with an ordinary fugitive.
They were dealing with someone disciplined.
Someone who always planned several moves ahead.
For the better part of a month, MACUSA had thrown nearly every available resource at the investigation.
Observation teams quietly monitored magical markets throughout New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago.
Apothecaries were questioned regarding unusual potion purchases.
Innkeepers were discreetly interviewed.
Transportation records were examined.
Several magical ports were placed under observation.
Teams even infiltrated mutant communities, hoping the mysterious wizard might attempt contact.
Nothing.
No suspicious magical activity.
The investigation had reached a standstill.
One particularly frustrated Auror tossed another parchment onto the growing pile.
"I don't understand it."
Everyone looked toward him.
"He keeps helping mutants."
"So?"
"So eventually he'll make a mistake."
The Auror spread his hands helplessly.
"People always make mistakes."
"No," Hawthorne replied calmly.
"People become comfortable."
"Our mysterious wizard hasn't."
Just as the meeting seemed ready to end, someone knocked sharply against the conference room door.
An assistant hurried inside, breathing slightly harder than normal.
"Senior Investigator Hawthorne?"
"Yes?"
"We've received an urgent request from Information Services."
The assistant continued.
"Madam Agatha Kenway requested Auror investigators immediately."
Hawthorne frowned slightly.
"Did she say why?"
"No, sir."
"Only that it concerns our unidentified wizard."
Hawthorne immediately gathered his notes.
"You."
He pointed toward two investigators.
"Come with me."
Within moments, the three of them were striding quickly through the bustling corridors of MACUSA Headquarters.
Employees stepped aside as they passed.
Whatever had prompted Agatha to interrupt an active investigation...
It had to be important.
Agatha Kenway was already waiting when Elias Hawthorne entered the public information office.
The elderly witch had worked behind MACUSA's information counter for nearly forty years, and in that time she had developed a reputation for remembering everything. Names, faces, accents—Agatha noticed details most people ignored. It was precisely why Hawthorne took her request seriously. Agatha did not summon Auror investigators without reason.
She stood near her desk with a carefully written parchment in one hand, her spectacles perched low on her nose. The moment Hawthorne stepped inside with two investigators behind him, she looked relieved.
"Thank Merlin you came quickly."
Hawthorne inclined his head politely. "Madam Kenway. You said this concerns our unidentified wizard."
"I believe it does." Agatha gestured toward the chairs beside her desk, though she remained standing herself. "A young wizard came to my counter just now. At first, I thought he was simply another curious visitor asking after public records. That happens often enough. Tourists come in wanting to know what is happening in America. But this one was different."
Hawthorne opened his notebook immediately. The two investigators with him exchanged a glance before quietly taking positions near the wall.
"What did he ask?" Hawthorne said.
Agatha closed her eyes for a moment, clearly replaying the conversation in her mind. "He said he was researching unusual magical incidents over the past few months. His words were polite, carefully chosen, and vague enough that a less attentive clerk might have handed him harmless summaries and sent him away."
"But you didn't think he was harmless."
"I didn't think he was random," Agatha corrected. "There is a difference."
Hawthorne's quill paused above the notebook.
Agatha continued. "He did not ask about crime statistics. He did not ask about cursed artifacts, smuggling, illegal creatures, or ordinary violations of magical law. The moment I mentioned incidents connected to mutants, his attention sharpened. He tried to hide it. But he was listening too carefully."
One investigator frowned. "Did he mention the unidentified wizard directly?"
"Not at first," Agatha replied. "That was what made it interesting. He let me lead the conversation. He asked broad questions, then narrowed them only after I mentioned the right reports. When I spoke of a mysterious wizard connected to mutant incidents, he became very still."
Hawthorne looked up sharply. "Still?"
"Too still," she said. "The way people become when they hear something important and don't want anyone else to notice. After that, he asked whether the wizard had attacked anyone."
The room went quiet.
Hawthorne slowly lowered his quill. "That was his concern?"
"Yes. Not whether he had been captured. He asked whether he had hurt anyone." Agatha's expression softened slightly. "When I told him the reports suggested the opposite—that the wizard avoided harming anyone and appeared to be helping mutants—he looked relieved."
One of the investigators shifted uneasily. "Relieved?"
"Very much so." Agatha tapped the parchment in her hand. "I have worked here long enough to recognize curiosity, guilt, fear, and recognition. That young man was not learning something new. He was confirming something he already suspected."
Hawthorne's eyes sharpened.
The first real lead in weeks.
"Describe him."
Agatha immediately handed over the parchment. "I wrote everything down the moment he left."
Hawthorne read quickly.
Male. Approximately eighteen years old. British accent. Polite. Dark blond hair. Average height. Slightly nervous but controlled. Introduced himself as Dennis Creevey.
The name meant nothing to Hawthorne, but names rarely did at first. He passed the parchment to one of the investigators. "Run it."
The wizard stepped toward a nearby records mirror and tapped it with his wand. Silver light spread across the glass before rows of text began appearing across its surface.
"Dennis Creevey," the investigator muttered. "British national. Entered the United States three weeks ago through magical immigration processing. Declared purpose of visit: tourism."
Hawthorne's expression did not change, but his thoughts immediately sharpened.
"Tourism," he repeated softly.
Agatha snorted. "If that boy is here for tourism, then I'm the Goblin Queen of Chicago."
The second investigator coughed into his hand, poorly hiding a laugh.
Hawthorne ignored it. "Did he arrive alone?"
The records mirror continued scrolling.
The investigator's expression changed. "No."
"There were nineteen other British arrivals processed within the same time period. Same declared purpose."
"Tourism?"
"Yes, sir."
Agatha looked utterly unimpressed. "Twenty British witches and wizards arrive in America at nearly the same time, and one of them begins asking questions about the unidentified wizard. That does not sound like tourism to me."
"No," Hawthorne said quietly. "It does not."
He walked to the office window and looked out over the bustling floor below. Witches and wizards moved through MACUSA Headquarters as though nothing significant had happened. Clerks carried files. Visitors waited at information desks. Aurors strode toward lifts and fireplaces with the brisk urgency of law enforcement.
"What do you think he knows?" one investigator asked.
Hawthorne considered the question carefully. "Enough to suspect who our mysterious wizard is."
"And if he knows the name?"
"Then he is the most valuable lead we have found since this investigation began."
Agatha folded her arms. "He didn't seem hostile."
"I don't believe he is."
"Then why not approach him directly?"
Hawthorne turned back toward them. "Because if he knows the mysterious wizard and wishes to protect him, he will lie. If we pressure him, he may warn the man before we can follow the trail. If he is frightened, he may disappear. And if the other nineteen came here with him, we don't know whether they share his intentions."
That last point settled heavily over the office.
Agatha's expression grew more serious. "You think they are hunting the same man."
"I think twenty British magicals did not cross the Atlantic for sightseeing." Hawthorne looked toward the records mirror again. "Find where they are staying. Quietly. Do not alert immigration, do not send uniformed Aurors, and do not question any of them yet."
One investigator nodded. "And Creevey?"
Hawthorne's answer came without hesitation. "We watch him."
The younger investigator looked surprised. "We are letting him go?"
"For now."
"Sir, if he has the identity of the mysterious wizard—"
"Then he may lead us directly to him," Hawthorne interrupted. His voice remained calm, but the firmness beneath it ended the argument. "Arresting him now gives us one frightened British tourist who may or may not talk. Following him gives us the possibility of reaching the man who has evaded us for months."
Agatha studied him for a moment. "And if he does not lead you anywhere?"
"Then we move to phase two."
The room became quiet.
The younger investigator asked, "Which is?"
Hawthorne closed his notebook. "We detain Dennis Creevey, question him properly, and find out exactly what he knows."
No one objected after that.
Within the hour, four discreet surveillance teams had been assigned to Dennis Creevey.
They were not ordinary patrol Aurors. Hawthorne selected investigators accustomed to long observation assignments—people who could follow a target through crowded streets without drawing attention, blend into cafés, rotate positions, and vanish the moment they were noticed. No team would remain close for too long. No face would appear twice in the same hour. No wand would be drawn unless absolutely necessary.
The order was simple.
Watch and wait.
By evening, Dennis Creevey had no idea that six pairs of eyes were following him through New York.
He moved without the caution of a trained operative, but not without awareness. That interested Hawthorne when the first reports arrived. Dennis looked over his shoulder occasionally, paused before entering shops, and avoided speaking too openly in crowded spaces. He was not professionally trained, but he was not careless either.
The first surveillance witch followed him into a small café tucked between a magical bookshop and a tailor specializing in self-repairing robes. Dennis chose a corner table near the back, ordered tea, and spread several maps infront of him.
From two tables away, an investigator disguised as a middle-aged wizard reading the evening paper lowered his eyes just enough to observe what Dennis was marking.
Mutant incidents.
That detail reached Hawthorne within minutes.
"He is following the same trail," one subordinate said.
Dennis had not marked locations because magical traces had been found there. He had marked places where people had been rescued, where mutants had vanished from illegal captivity, where someone had intervened before disappearing. He was not thinking like an investigator trying to locate a fugitive.
He was thinking like someone who knew what kind of person the fugitive was.
In the café, Dennis leaned over his map, completely unaware of the enchanted beetle resting beneath his table. He studied the marked locations for several minutes before whispering softly to himself.
"So where are you hiding, Harry?"
The beetle caught every word.
For the first time in weeks, the senior investigator smiled.
"Harry," he murmured.
A name.
Not a surname. But a name was more than they had possessed that morning.