Tintin observed the two wizards who had sat down opposite him with mild fascination. According to Haddock and Lovegood, Alain Thomson and Allan Thompson had absolutely no family relation to one another. In spite of this, you'd have trouble telling them apart if not for the subtle flare of Thomson's(?) moustache. The men wore matching black suits and bowler hats, and each carried a wooden cane, inside of which they concealed their wands.

"Very good to meet you, Tintin," Thomson said, extending a hand. "We've much admired your work in the papers."

"To be precise, we're great admirers."

"I'm glad to hear it," Tintin replied.

"And how good it is to see you, Haddock." The Captain rolled his eyes and signaled to Tom for another drink. "He taught us everything we know at the auror academy."

"You're too kind," Haddock muttered. "I'm sure I can't take all the blame."

Thompson shook his head. "No, no, Haddock, it's all thanks to you,"

"Yes, to be precise, you're to blame."

"Xenophilius tells me you've been assigned the Quidditch Cup case," Tintin said.

Thomson nodded. "Indeed, we have. It has proven a tough nut to crack, however."

"We're stumped."

"Shocking," Haddock said as Tom handed him his drink. He suddenly upended the glass onto the counter. "Ow!" Tintin had pushed his heel onto the Captain's toes, and now gave him a warning glance. Haddock scowled back and busily mopped up the whiskey with a napkin, which he then wrung out back into the glass.

"Tell us about the case," Tintin said, turning back to the detectives. "What did you learn during the investigation?"

"I'm not sure we should be saying anything," Thomson said, glancing around the room. "Loose lips, you know."

"But seeing as how we owe Haddock so much, we suppose it couldn't hurt," Thompson continued. "We believed the former Death Eaters were involved to some extent-"

"When we tried to interview a few of them we were stonewalled."

Thompson winced. "Quite literally, as when we went to interview Lord Malfoy he wouldn't unlock the front gate."

"They all had solid alibis, however, so that led us nowhere."

"What about Crouch and Winky?" Tintin asked.

"The elf?" Thompson frowned. "Well, she was the only one around, the wand was found on her, and Crouch swore under oath that he didn't cast the Dark Mark."

"So that's it?" Tintin looked disappointed. "You still think it's Winky's fault?"

Thomson nodded. "We're afraid so. We have no other leads."

"It's been weeks since the Cup, and any evidence at the campground was completely erased or lost."

"Oh, come on," Haddock said, "There's nothing else? You two have found nothing of interest in a month's work on the job?"

Thomson and Thompson both pondered the question. "Well, one thing does come to mind," Thomson said.

"We are a little confused as to how the house elf got this particular wand."

"It didn't belong to Crouch?" Tintin asked.

"No, well, not Crouch Senior."

"The wand belonged to Barty Crouch's son."

"Barty Jr.?" Haddock sat up. "Now that is interesting."

"How so, Captain?" Tintin asked.

"Young Barty was a bad egg," Haddock explained. "Always had been. During the trials after You-Know-Who's death, it was revealed that he had been a Death Eater. Several turncoats testified that he'd been involved with the capture and torture of Frank Longbottom and his wife, Alice. Frank was one of the best aurors on the force. He'd have been in charge of the department by now, if Barty and that Lestrange witch hadn't driven him mad.

"At the trial, we found out that Barty Sr. would be the presiding judge. I was convinced he'd pardon his snot of a son, but Crouch did the right thing, though it couldn't have been easy. Young Barty got shipped off to Azkaban, where he died several years later." The Captain frowned. "How did the house elf get that wand? It should have been destroyed sometime after the trial."

"I'm afraid that question may never be answered."

The wispy, luminous white smoke stream shot out of an air duct and into the hectic whirlwind of the pressroom of Le miroir magique one hour to deadline. The headquarters of the newspaper occupied an 'abandoned' Art-Nouveau department store in the heart of Brussels. Rows of lavishly-ornamented desks and office-chairs were occupied by disheveled, exhausted witches and wizards frantically at work on typewriters or dictating messages to post owls and the in-house messengers; the machine-gun clack of typewriter keys and the harried shouts of the staff echoed off the marble walls. The room was lit by large globular gas-lit chandeliers and sconces by night; by day, however, a massive glass roof proved enough to light the main atrium. By the lobby, brass cage lifts rose and descended at a steady rhythm. The building was a bit worn down: several of the gas chandeliers were sputtering or disconnected, the carpets were frayed and stained, the desks marked by ink splotches and scorch marks from a hundred years of spilled inkwells and unattended cigarettes. The brass lifts and fittings were in need of a good polishing, and a few buckets were strategically placed to catch the drips from the cracks in the skylight. She was a ruin, but a beautiful ruin: the employees affectionately called her la grande-duchesse.

Tintin, an island in the hurricane, sat among the chaos reading an evening copy of the New York Dowsing Rod. He glanced up from his message pile at the arrival of the Patronus and watched the smoke manifest into a sparrow which perched atop his typewriter carriage. "The Director would like to see you," it said before dissipating. Tintin stood up, nudging Snowy awake with his foot. "C'mon, boy. We're going upstairs."

They walked to the lift and traveled up to the penthouse level. Emerging into the reception room, Tintin could see the city of Brussels spread out through a picture window behind the secretary's desk. She looked up and gestured to the door. "He's expecting you," she said.

Tintin entered the room. A haze of cigarette smoke obscured the air and brought tears to his eyes. Behind a desk the size of a billiard table, the Director sat, a smoldering cigar resting in an ashtray beside his typewriter. He gestured to a chair. "Sit down."

Tintin obeyed with a thin smile: he knew the director's gruff demeanor was partly a charade. "You wanted to speak with me, Sir?"

"Where are you at on the Quidditch Cup investigation?"

"I've hit some turbulence, but I'm confident there could be a break."

"So you've reached a dead end. Good, because you're off the story."

Tintin sat forward in his chair. "What in Merlin's name for?"

"The readership has lost interest," the Director replied. "Two weeks without a payoff is a long time, and the public expect results."

"Can't you give me an extra week?" Tintin asked.

"I can't," the Director replied. "I need you for another story, something flashier. You're going to Scotland to cover the Triwizard Tournament."

Tintin frowned. "I thought Marcello was covering the event?"

The Director scowled. "Marcello's suffering from ennui again. I sent him to Rome to recuperate. I've assigned Remi to the task, but he needs a translator. You two have a history, and I need my two best reporters on the scene, in light of recent developments."

"Developments?" Tintin asked.

"You haven't heard? There's another champion."

"Did Ilvermorny decide to participate?" The Director shook his head. "Who's this fourth champion, then?" The Director unrolled an advance proof of the morning's Prophet for Tintin to see. A young wizard with a telltale lightning bolt scar was staring out from the triple-column photograph, giving the camera the glazed look of a shell-shocked soldier. "Harry Potter." Tintin sat back in the chair, suddenly dizzy. When the ground stopped rocking, he refocused on the Director. "I'll book a spot on the next portkey, then."

Tintin leaned out of the carriage and eyed the beasts at the reins warily. "I can't stand Thestrals."

"Aye," Haddock replied, shaking his head. "Bad memories."

Tintin nodded. He'd seen death before, and it pained him to be reminded of the grim casualties from his adventures. He stuck his head back into the compartment and was lost in thought for the rest of the ride.

They disembarked and entered the clock tower courtyard of Hogwarts. Naturally, Tintin was of the belief that Beauxbatons was the best wizarding school bar-none. Having spent a year as an exchange student at Hogwarts, he nursed a soft spot for the castle, with its hodgepodge of towers and cloisters and the many eccentricities inside its aged stone walls.

"Tintin!" Tintin and Haddock turned as a very large woman approached them from the direction of the lake.

"Madame Maxime!" Tintin stepped forward to the shake the woman's hand and quickly regretting it. "So good to see you again," he said, rubbing his crushed hand.

"We had too little time together during the first task," the headmistress replied. "So glad to finally see my pupil errant."

"I can't stay away forever, Madame Director," Tintin replied. "You'd miss me too much."

"He likes to stir the cauldron, our Tintin," Haddock said.

"He never stops, if I recall some less-than-satisfactory potions marks correctly." Maxime noticed the Captain for the first time. "Captain 'addock, a pleasure to see you as always."

"Likewise," Haddock replied. He held out a hand, only to quickly pull it away. "Forgive me if I don't shake," he said quickly. "...it's flu season, you know."

"How is Fleur, Madame Director?" Tintin asked.

Maxime puffed with pride at the mention of her star pupil. "She is marvelous, in spite of l'imbécillité of this entire tournament."

"You are referring to Mr. Potter, I take it?"

Maxime nodded. "I don't know how he pulled it off, but he'll pay, mark my words."

"I wouldn't go around threatening Mr. Potter, madame," Haddock said. "The last one to do it ended up dead."

Maxime looked horrified. "Mon Capitaine, you mistake me for a beast! Potter? Non, that young lamb is clearly as stunned about the entire thing as we are. Non, this is Dumbledore's doing: he and Monsieur Bagman have upset the scales for a guaranteed Hogwarts victory."

"Are you speaking ill of Fleur's talent?" Tintin asked.

"Do not put words in my mouth, young man; such a journalist, no off switch." Maxime replied, cracking a thin smile. "Enough of this talk, have you eaten yet? It's about lunchtime; the food they cook here is horrible, but at least we haven't been served anything boiled or fried."

"I think we'll join you," Tintin nodded, linking arms with the director.

"I assume there's no wine service," Haddock said.

"Not to worry, Captain." Maxime produced a thermos-size flask from under her robes. "I'll share if you promise not to tell."

"Of course, loose lips sink ships."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Don't encourage him, Madame."