The sidewalk café sat right on the edge of the pedestrian street, the air thick with the smell of coffee, milk, and chocolate. Orange lights shimmered on the river, people's shadows rippling across the water, blending with the waves in a hazy, dreamy dance.
"Beauty and the Beast? Yeah, total fake," Melvin said with a chuckle. "Wizards can turn into lions—there's a spell called Animagus for that—but once they're transformed, they can't walk or talk, let alone star in a love story."
Walking beside him, Claire looked downright mournful, letting out these long, dramatic sighs every few steps.
Melvin kept debunking the magic in Andersen's fairy tales while handing francs to the café worker. The whole mystical aura around magic and wizards was fading fast in his mind, and Claire was starting to worry her job might take a hit. All those creative pitches she'd been praised for? A big chunk of them came from her rock-solid belief in magic.
Her coworkers always raved about her "fantastical imagination," but only she knew the truth: magic and wizards were real.
Melvin took the coffee from the worker, sniffed the rich aroma, and glanced at his gloomy assistant. "The wizarding world has its own fairy tales. Lucky for you, I know one—about a French witch named Lisette Lapin and an Animagus."
Claire blinked. "You're not just making this up to cheer me up, are you?"
"What do you take me for? Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump—a classic from The Tales of Beedle the Bard that's been around for centuries." Melvin shot her a sideways look and launched into the story. "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a foolish Muggle king."
"Wait—what's a Muggle?"
"Non-magical folk. Regular people."
Melvin took a sip of the coffee and nearly gagged—it was awful. "The king believed magic should only be used by the noblest of people, and of course, he was the noblest. So he sent his army to hunt down wizards while hiring private magic tutors…"
The story of Babbitty Rabbitty was pretty straightforward. The king hired a con artist to teach him magic. The con man used tricks to scam money, but when his cover started slipping, he had to cover his tracks fast. By sheer luck, he found a real witch and threatened her into helping him keep up the lie.
You had the idiot king, the sneaky con man, and Babbitty the witch—who was just there for the show. The three of them caused absolute chaos. The con man double-crossed the witch midway, and the king sent soldiers after her.
"Babbitty ran to a low hedge and poof—vanished. By the time the king, the con man, and all the courtiers caught up, all they saw was an old tree stump. The hunting dogs were barking and scratching at it, so they figured she'd turned into the stump. But really, she'd turned into a rabbit and hid inside…"
No matter how many axes and swords hacked at it, the stump was nearly splintered to bits, and the king and con man could still hear Babbitty's cackling laughter. The witch claimed she'd cursed the king: any harm done to a wizard would hit him twice as hard, dooming him to a life worse than death.
The king, who'd seen real magic, dropped to his knees in terror, begging for mercy. He promised to call off the witch hunt and even built a solid gold statue of Babbitty in the castle.
"In the end, as the humiliated king and his nobles slunk back to the palace, that stump kept cackling behind them. Once the courtyard was empty, a chubby, long-whiskered old rabbit popped out, grabbed her wand in her teeth, and hopped away."
Melvin swirled the coffee in his paper cup, letting the scent drift.
"Definitely a fairy tale," Claire said thoughtfully, nodding. She took a sip of her coffee without flinching. "Polish a few details, flesh out the characters, and it'd make a killer movie."
Melvin listened to his assistant's muttering, secretly pleased. She was already assigning herself work before he was even back on the job—now that's dedication.
"But what's it got to do with France?"
"They say it's based on the real-life French witch Lisette Lapin."
Melvin scanned for a trash can as he talked. "Early 15th century, she was sentenced in Paris for practicing witchcraft. The night before her execution, she turned into a rabbit, slipped through the bars of her window, and escaped. People even saw a big white rabbit sailing across the English Channel in a cauldron with a billowing sail. She ended up as magical advisor to Henry VI."
"Historical setting included…" Claire mumbled.
Night had fallen, cars zipping along the roads, their headlights and streetlights reflecting on the water in a blaze of light.
Suddenly, Melvin sensed a ripple of magical creature energy. He looked up and saw a team of massive Thestrals pulling a carriage across the night sky. Their silvery manes glowed with starlight and moonlight, ruby-red eyes gleaming, bodies nearly as big as elephants. Their wings spread wide as they glided—pure majesty.
He was stunned. He'd traveled to North America, Britain, Budapest—wizards everywhere stuck to the International Statute of Secrecy. Even with Muggle-Repelling Charms, they worried about cameras catching evidence. He'd never seen anything this blatant.
No wonder Paris had nearly been burned by Fiendfyre—the wizards here had a serious chill vibe.
"What are you looking at?" Claire asked.
"Nothing…"
To avoid drawing attention, Melvin dropped his gaze. But the Thestral carriage seemed to notice him—it swooped down and landed in a nearby alley.
Footsteps hurried closer. Four wizards in black robes approached, eyes sharp as knives. They glanced at Claire, then locked onto Melvin.
The middle-aged Auror stepped up and fired off a string of French questions. Claire could hear him too.
Melvin looked confused.
"He's asking if you're a wizard," Claire translated.
At that, the lead Auror switched to English, voice cold: "British wizard?"
"Sort of. I'm a professor at Hogwarts…"
Melvin paused, suddenly remembering—he'd used an illegal Portkey to get to Paris. No registration with the French Ministry of Magic. Technically, he was an actual illegal immigrant.
"ID? Entry papers," the Auror demanded, hand out.
Melvin sighed. He'd spent years skating the edge of the law, and now the outlaw was about to crash.
A breeze blew through, the mood turning weird. The Aurors shifted subtly—stepping back, forming a circle, hands slipping toward their pockets where their wands were stashed.
Years of teamwork had honed their instincts. No words needed—they were sure this was an illegal dark wizard. They didn't attack right away, not because they feared resistance, but because of the hostage.
"British dark wizard—surrender," the Auror growled. "Hurting a hostage is a serious crime. Think carefully."
"Hostage?"
Melvin turned. Claire squinted at him, pulling a goofy face like she was enjoying the show.
It was almost 10 p.m. Cooperating meant getting locked up overnight, a morning trial, fines, and registration. No good options. The air thickened—battle was seconds away.
Then more footsteps. Someone broke the standoff, shoving into the circle—an old familiar face.
From his time at the Woolworth Building, Melvin had learned to dodge the law. And now, at the exact moment he was about to go down, that same old friend showed up again to bail him out.
"Mr. Bonnel, Melvin—stand down. Everyone calm," Mr. Graves said, stepping between them. He repeated it slowly in French so both sides heard.
The middle-aged Auror looked the same as last time—hair neatly combed with a few gray strands, dark gray robes, French Magical Congress badge on his chest. Clearly on official business in Paris.
"Mr. Graves—long time no see."
Melvin smiled, gratitude genuine. Graves was his lucky star. Every time he was in legal hot water, the guy appeared like magic to save his skin.
"I told you to follow each country's laws!" Graves snapped, storming over.
The local French Aurors realized it was a mix-up and stood down. The lead Auror talked with Graves in hushed French, occasionally glancing at Melvin—half wary dark wizard, half idiot thief.
While the captain briefed his team, Graves turned, face blank, and muttered, "Not teaching at Hogwarts—what are you doing in Paris?"
"Come on, sir—it's summer break. Can't a professor travel?" Melvin said, all innocent.
Graves ignored that. "How'd you get here?"
"Friend hooked me up with a Portkey."
"No legal exit through the British Ministry?"
"Sure, but smuggling's faster."
Graves rubbed his temples. "You're gonna end up in Azkaban."
The Auror team finished talking and lined up. The captain relayed the outcome to Graves, eyeing Melvin and Claire.
Graves glanced at Claire and frowned. "They say Claire's a Muggle. Under the Statute of Secrecy, her memory of tonight gets wiped."
"Isn't there a diplomatic exception?" Claire's eyes went wide. "I'm an American Muggle, not French. What gives them the right to erase my brain?"
Why is Miss Raven just like Melvin?
Graves felt exhausted. "Melvin, talk some sense into your assistant."
Claire turned, glaring warily at her old boss. Melvin said nothing—just gave her the look.
Back at the Goshawk Theater, that eye signal meant: agree for now, don't argue, I'll handle it.
Claire shut up. Graves pulled Melvin into the carriage while a robed Auror approached, drew a thin wand, and aimed it at her eyes.
Obliviate.
Nothing happened. No feeling at all.
Claire blinked, watched the Aurors hurry off, tilted her head, and smirked.
Boss still delivers.
…
The ruby-eyed Thestrals beat their wings and lifted off. Inside the carriage, the wizards felt no lurch—Melvin remembered Professor Kettleburn's Aethonan. The wingbeats slowed; they were airborne.
The carriage glided over Paris, heading for the French Ministry of Magic.
"Coffee or hot cocoa?" Graves asked. The room looked like a meeting space—or an interrogation room. Add bars, and it'd be a cell.
"Hot cocoa. Paris coffee's not my thing."
Melvin sat nearby, eyeing the space. Seamless Extension Charm—roomy, but bare. Just tables and chairs. Ministry gear.
The Aurors chatted quietly in French, relaxed around Graves. Melvin figured a joint op between the two countries.
"French border control's pretty lax. Normally, they'd let a smuggler tourist slide. But you picked the worst time—lockdown," Graves said, shaking his head.
"Lockdown?" Melvin whispered. "What happened?"
"Second Salemites again."
Graves sighed. "Four months ago, I found a Scourer hideout in McLennan County, Texas. Digging deeper, they were tangled with a new Protestant cult—worse than we thought. Cults, brainwashing, drugs, weapons, Muggle politicians, military oversight…"
"Those keywords scream trouble."
Melvin fake-gasped, eyes wide. "But for wizards? Easy—drop some Living Death Draught mist, knock 'em out in minutes."
"That was the plan. But the Muggle FBI was investigating too—and they raided first." Graves clenched his fist. "They didn't know real wizards were inside. First wave of Muggles got slaughtered. Escalated fast—talks failed, full firefight."
"War?"
"War." Graves nodded. "Woolworth tried contacting the Pentagon. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement offered strike teams, but some idiot Muggles blocked it—their arms dealers were profiting!"
"Very Pentagon."
"Yeah. With their blessing, fighting dragged on two months. Muggle cult got wiped out, but the Second Salemites escaped. We tracked Portkey traces—straight to Paris…"
Graves held out his hand. "Welcome to the investigation team, Melvin!"
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