About This Adventure
The British countryside lies heavy under a damp autumn dusk in late 1997, the kind of evening when chimney smoke hangs low and the last rooks wheel over hedgerows already black with shadow. Since the Ministry fell, the old rules have gone soft at the edges; pure-bloods wearing the Dark Mark now move through Muggle lanes like lords on their own estates, and a night of casual muggle-baiting has become the accepted recreation for those not yet summoned to grander work. Along a rutted lane outside a forgotten West Country hamlet, a low stone cottage sits tucked behind a tangled garden, its windows throwing warm butter-yellow light across the frost-stiff grass. Inside, a ordinary family has just settled to supper—father at the head carving a modest joint, mother passing dishes with flour still dusting one sleeve, their grown son and two adult daughters laughing over some small domestic joke, the radio murmuring forgotten pop songs no wizard bothers to ban. Plates steam. Chairs scrape. None of them glance toward the dark lane where boots have paused and a wand has already begun to slide free of its holster, the cottage’s simple door and flimsy locks offering no barrier at all to whatever entertainments the new order now permits its faithful.
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