Late at night, along the Seine River, on the right side of Saint-Germain Boulevard.
In the dimly lit square, the fountain in the round pool sprayed water at a slow, steady pace—the speed it ran at after sunset.
The water trickled softly, everything quiet except for the occasional flap of owl wings. Centered around a Gothic-style lamppost, the surrounding Haussmann buildings formed a courtyard-like structure, guarded by four plane trees.
As one of Paris's oldest monastery ruins, Place Fürstenberg looked just like the idyllic scenes described in poems.
A sturdy Thestral pulled the carriage down quietly onto the ground. The streetlamp was old and worn out, its pale yellow bulb illuminating faint carvings on the stone—probably a sign from the monastery days, pointing toward the area for parking visitors' horses and carriages. Since the mid-16th century, this spot had been used to stable guests' rides.
Out of the carriage stepped a quirky middle-aged man, dressed in a long-tailed black robe. If he walked the streets in daylight, folks might mistake him for some attention-grabbing performance artist.
He hurried over to a statue on the side, pulled a slender wooden stick from his sleeve—his wand—and tapped it lightly.
The ground started to tremble faintly, and a crisp sound echoed from afar, like dry branches snapping in autumn. Seventeen tree roots burst from the soil around the fountain, glowing with a faint blue light between their tendrils. They intertwined with the statue, growing into an elaborate giant birdcage.
The Thestral dragged the carriage inside the cage, and the roots snapped shut. From the clanging collision, it didn't sound like wood at all—more like some kind of steel metal.
With a soft clinking noise, the birdcage sank into the ground, carrying the carriage and the wizard aboard down to the hidden French Ministry of Magic buried underground.
Inside the carriage, Melvin stared at Mr. Graves's outstretched hand, his eyes narrowing. "What investigation team? When did I join? How come I don't know about it myself?"
"Then I'll just have to tell them you're not here to assist my investigation—you're an illegal black wizard sneaking into the country, and you'll have to go through their review process." Mr. Graves said it casually, glancing out the window.
I'd screwed over Mr. Graves too many times in the past—this could count as making it up to him.
Melvin shrugged helplessly and shook the hand.
"Finally, I get to win one..."
The elevator reached the Ministry atrium, and Melvin followed Mr. Graves out of the carriage, looking around. That's when he got a clear view of the full birdcage elevator: the steel twisted like tree roots, yet followed some kind of pattern, with curves just right, giving off a subtle beauty—like something out of the Art Nouveau style.
It was deep into the night, so this level's round hall was dead quiet.
The French Ministry's atrium was an elegant palace-like building, with ceilings nearly thirty feet high, as grand as Versailles. Exquisite marble columns supported arched domes, and in the center hung a spherical crystal chandelier. The ceiling was a mosaic of green iron and silver glass, inlaid with silver runes outlining magical creatures and astrological patterns.
A low, warning growl echoed, and something seemed to be guarding behind the lamppost. A French Auror stepped forward to calm it, followed by a few slender, sleek Nifflers—no, wait, these were Demiguises? Actually, upon closer look, they were sleek, black-furred creatures with silver-blue eyes and no visible pupils—likely some French variant of guard beasts, perhaps related to Matagots or something similar in the wizarding world.
"Guard cats..." Melvin eyed the creatures while flicking a strand of blue flame from his fingertip, infused with dragon-gifted magic—similar to how one might use a bit of magical essence to soothe beasts like in the Care of Magical Creatures classes.
"Meow~"
The little things immediately stopped hissing, their calls turning soft and playful. Their raised fur settled down, and they curled up on the ground, tails swishing back and forth.
The Auror up front smiled pleasantly, thinking his calming had worked.
Mr. Graves chatted quietly with the Auror captain, reaching some agreement, then looked up at Melvin. "The International Affairs Department is off duty—they've got their own stuff to handle. We have to go to the archives ourselves to register. Someone's on duty there; just follow the process and cooperate."
Melvin had no objections, of course.
He just couldn't figure out why the French Aurors were okay letting two foreign wizards wander the Ministry at night, especially one who'd entered illegally... Melvin couldn't come up with an answer, so he chalked it up to trust in Mr. Graves.
Heading down the corridor, the silver lights weren't too dim, and the floor had faintly glowing runes. Portraits hung on the walls and pillars. Some were ordinary black-and-white prints—if they detected an intruder, they'd morph into the intruder's face.
Others were magical oil paintings; the subjects were resting with eyes closed but snapped them open at any noise, staring straight at the two of them—kinda creepy, like the moving portraits at Hogwarts.
"The British Ministry of Magic was established in the 14th century, and the Magical Congress of the United States in the 16th. French wizards naturally love freedom and don't want a government bossing them around, telling them what to do. It wasn't until the late 18th century that the Ministry was formed."
Mr. Graves explained, "These wizards worship nature; their motto is casting spells, curses, and summons—like incantations for charms, hexes, and conjuring."
"Late 18th century... the French Revolution?" As a Muggle studies expert, Melvin was sensitive to key dates, his expression a bit odd. "Casting spells, curses, summons... that matches liberty, equality, fraternity?"
"You got it, Professor."
Probably because the past year chasing Second Salem and the Purifiers had been so stifling, Mr. Graves was actually cracking jokes, teasingly calling Melvin "Professor." "The structure here is simpler—not many departments. The Auror Bureau is basically like the Auror Office, the Justice Department is the Law Enforcement Squad..."
Listening to the Auror's rundown, they reached sub-level three.
The French Ministry's archives was like a treehouse room—tall and deep, locked up, so you could only peek through the stained-glass windows. Rows of bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, holding all sorts of books and documents—reminiscent of the vast libraries in wizarding schools, but more organic.
In the side hall next door, with polished granite tile floors, sat an elderly old wizard.
Mr. Graves knocked lightly on the door and went over to handle the handover. The old wizard was grumpy at first, but after learning Melvin was a Hogwarts professor and a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class, things went smoothly.
Registering identity and wand, handling entry procedures—it took less than ten minutes.
A quill scratched on parchment, sketching a simple portrait of Melvin, similar in style to those black-and-white hallway images: basic lines outlining his features, rough but expressive, with an ink mark from the wand's tip below.
The old wizard filed the archive, rolled up the parchment, and hung it on a tree. Vines then carried the roll to the next room.
Mr. Graves's eyes lingered on it, muttering something to the old wizard—seeming to make a request. The old wizard's iron-gray eyes swept coldly; it wasn't going well.
Then Mr. Graves shifted aside, revealing Melvin behind him, as if to say it wasn't his request but that of this Order of Merlin holder.
The old wizard glanced over, stared at Melvin for a moment, then reached into the tree-shaped bookshelf, rummaged around, and tossed a file bag to him.
Mr. Graves smiled happily, pulling Melvin out as he explained: "I had him pull records of suspicious deaths in Paris recently—cases the Muggle government classified as natural but with questionable magical traces around them."
"So that's why you were so eager to invite me to the investigation team?" Melvin ignored his grin. "Why not have the French Aurors pull them for you?"
"The French Aurors take Second Salem and the Purifiers seriously, but they don't get how dangerous these guys are. Their investigations are stuck on black wizard criminals, just ramping up patrols. They've been rejecting my plans for weeks, and we're still spinning in circles with no leads." Mr. Graves said.
"Rejecting your plans isn't because they don't understand the threat—it's because they do." Melvin gave him a sideways look as they boarded the departing birdcage elevator. "They don't want to provoke a bunch of vicious dark wizards in Paris. They're planning to lock down and patrol for a while, forcing Second Salem to move again."
Mr. Graves froze in place.
The lift left the magical palace, passing through a stretch of quiet darkness. The streetlamps of Place Fürstenberg shone on them again, their faint, clear light chasing away the chill in their hearts.
The young professor's calm voice echoed in his ears: "As long as these terrorists relocate, no matter where, as long as it's not in France and not threatening French wizards or Muggles, they've done their duty."
"No wonder they've been subtly blocking my deeper investigations." Mr. Graves murmured.
"Are you still going to keep digging? They'll soon know you accessed the files—they might sue you or find ways to stall your investigation." Melvin asked softly.
He respected this stubborn middle-aged Auror: always on the front lines, passed over for promotions but never complaining, with simple morals and a strong sense of justice, though clueless about politics and favors.
"I'll keep checking until they deport me back to New York!" Mr. Graves said firmly.
"Sounds like I might get dragged in too." Melvin chuckled lightly. "But hey, I agreed to your invitation. Copy the files for me too, Mr. Graves."
Mr. Graves was touched, using his wand to duplicate the file bag and hand over the copy.
As Melvin tucked it away, he suddenly remembered something and asked, puzzled: "You don't even speak French—what do you need the files for?"
"I don't, but I can get a translation." Melvin weighed it; it felt hefty—Paris hadn't been peaceful lately. "It's late; I need to head back and sleep. Come find me at the hotel tomorrow morning. Good night, sir."
"Good night, Professor."
A sudden crack of Apparition rang in the air, and the young professor vanished on the spot, leaving only the middle-aged Auror's shadow stretched long by the streetlamp.
...
Late at night, at the hotel.
The suite's amenities lived up to the pricey tag—bright lights, full furniture, comfy vibe. After a bath, the young professor sat at the desk by the window, with a dozen parchments spread out in front of him: the suspicious case files he'd just gotten.
Melvin clasped his hands, staring ahead, reading at lightning speed, occasionally pausing to ponder. But if someone watched his eyes, they'd notice he skipped over the scribbly French text, lingering only on the pattern photos—much like scanning for clues in a Potions textbook diagram.
"In the last two months, there've been fifteen deaths with suspicious magical traces around them—twice as many as the two months before. If Second Salem's dark wizards are behind it," Melvin mused, "the French Ministry's hush-hush approach isn't working at all."
The spacious suite was empty otherwise. A sleepy young snake—perhaps a pet like Nagini in vibe, but smaller—curled up on the desk, its slit pupils dilating as it drifted into dreams. Above a golden cup (reminiscent of a Horcrux-like artifact), a phantom figure was busy reading the files, absorbing info from the outside world, fully focused and not looking up—so no one echoed his thoughts.
A few minutes later, Riddle finished reading and snorted coldly, sneering with disdain: "Second Salem, the Purifiers... heh, what a bunch of idiots."
"Oh? Why do you say that?"
Melvin played along curiously—he was genuinely interested in what Voldemort thought of his dark wizard counterparts abroad.
"A pack of sewer rats, rats wherever they flee... no, calling them rats is too kind. They're bedbugs!"
Riddle's scarlet eyes were full of mockery. "They were the first wizards to reach the New World. If they'd played it right, they could've built a nation where wizards rule Muggles, even turned the New World into a magical continent. But these bugs had no long-term vision—just selling out fellow wizards for Muggle gold. They failed to rule Muggles, failed to build their own regime, and got crushed by the later Magical Congress."
Melvin watched the furious phantom and found it amusing.
As fellow dark wizards, Riddle couldn't help projecting a bit.
One had inherited Slytherin's magical research in school, dug up Herpo the Foul's Horcrux method, become the first dark wizard to make multiple Horcruxes, founded the Death Eaters—but under the shadows of the Ministry and Dumbledore, he had to hide post-graduation, researching dark magic for decades before becoming the Dark Lord who stirred up storms.
These North American dark wizards started with the New World: local wizard shamans were weak, Muggle society chaotic, no proper magic schools. It was a gift from the heavens, meant to be a wizard's paradise on earth, yet they handed it over to the later Congress.
Thinking of his own future peak and fall—unexpected downfall, body destroyed, remnant soul drifting who-knows-where—Riddle was a bit off-balance.
Melvin shook his head: "Look at the files. Catching them will make it better."
"Before that, I have a question." Riddle snapped back, looking up. "How'd you know I speak French? Did the diary tell you that too?"
"I guessed."
"Based on what?"
"Voldemort is a French name."
Melvin blinked innocently—of course, he wouldn't say it was trivia from his past life.
"..."
Riddle was silent for a moment: "Let's look at the case files. Starting from April 19, fifteen death scenes with suspicious magical traces. First up, Hasso Metro Station..."