On the hardwood desk sat a stack of parchment files written in French, next to a sheet of hotel stationery covered in fifteen messy ballpoint-pen lines—one short note for each unsolved case.
"After years of quills, switching back to a ballpoint feels weird," Melvin muttered, sliding the parchments into a folder and keeping just his notes. "Terrorist attack, crime of passion, gang shootout, drug-debt payback… Paris folks don't exactly live quiet lives."
"Every single scene had wizard traces," Riddle reminded him with a chilly hiss.
Melvin tapped the pen against the paper. "In the terrorist and gang cases, witnesses heard loud cracks minutes after the chaos—like gunshots, but cops weren't there yet and no guns were fired. Auror Office thinks wizards Apparated out."
"Those were just regular witches or wizards in over their heads," Riddle said, sounding like he'd been there. "Scared of Muggle police, didn't want Ministry paperwork, so—pop—gone. Real dark wizards plan exits ahead of time. Blend in or vanish clean. They don't leave neon signs."
"Exactly what I figured."
Melvin crossed off the Apparition cases. "Then there's the Champs-Élysées love-triangle murder. Squib wife suspects rich husband's cheating, tails him, sees him with his mistress, stabs him seven times in the chest. During questioning? Blank stare, foggy memory—possible Imperius Curse."
Riddle snorted. "Some people will blame anything on Imperius to dodge Azkaban."
Melvin cleared his throat and ignored the jab. "Next: drug deal gone wrong and the gang war that followed. Same crew—main business is drugs. Midnight deal, one side flips, argument explodes, gold for the trade vanishes into thin air. Next day? Full-on turf war. Both bosses dead."
"Muggles and wizards both breed trolls for brains," Riddle said coolly. "Idiots who think with their fists. The gold was right under their noses, and they still blamed each other with zero proof."
"Auror Office thinks a wizard nicked the gold from nearby."
Melvin glanced at his notes. "Also, sewer rats at the scene—fat, healthy, no wounds, no disease. Suspected collateral from an Avada Kedavra."
"I saw the photos," Riddle said. "Weird. Dark magic, sure, but not Killing Curse vibes."
"No external injuries, hit by dark magic—how do you know it's not Avada?" Melvin asked. He knew plenty of dark arts now, but Riddle was the professor.
"Killing Curse doesn't hurt. Victims look peaceful—eyes closed, serene. These rats? Faces twisted, eyes bulging. And no dark wizard wastes Avada on rats. The 'collateral damage' theory is moronic. Those rats were spread out—farthest one maybe fifteen feet away. What spell covers that radius?"
"Area-of-effect magic…" Melvin mused.
Riddle shot him a look. "Stop dreaming. Nothing like that exists yet."
"Could some dark wizard have invented it?"
"You think dark magic is child's play? Every spell is born from pure malice. Takes genius and targeted hate. Only a handful of wizards ever pull it off." Riddle spread his hands, smug. He was that handful.
"Whatever it is, no average wizard cast it." Melvin circled the two cases. "Tomorrow I'll point Graves in this direction."
"If you can, bring me to the bodies," Riddle said, licking his lips—scarlet eyes gleaming. "I want to see how they died. Dark magic I haven't met? Unacceptable."
"Speaking of dark magic…" Melvin folded the paper and met those red eyes. "Cruciatus Curse. I've got a healer friend with a patient—long-term, heavy Cruciatus exposure. Total memory wipe, no rational thought left. Any treatment ideas?"
"Prolonged Cruciatus? Mind gone?" Riddle perked up—clearly more interested in the torture than the cure.
Melvin nodded. "Residual magic's cleared, their own magic's stabilizing, cognition's rebuilding bit by bit—but zero past memories."
"Sounds like a heavy Obliviate."
"Funny you say that." Melvin smiled. "Same friend has another patient—massive Obliviate. All memories gone, just instincts left. Mental age of a three-year-old. Any chance of recovery?"
"The answer's in the question, Melvin."
Riddle's shadow-smile was pure devil. "Buried memories need a jolt. Nothing digs deeper than Cruciatus—cuts to the bone, burns into the soul, unforgettable…"
Melvin rubbed his temples. Pain to break Obliviation? Magical history had cases—dissociative amnesia triggered by trauma, reversed by more trauma. Muggle medicine had parallels.
Could it work for the Longbottoms? For Lockhart?
The baby snake on the desk suddenly flicked its tail, jolted awake, looked around blearily, then curled back up and hissed sleepily:
"Hiss…"
Melvin's headache was growing.
…
BOOM!
London's last international Portkey of the night fired up in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, yanking a cluster of travelers into the void. Space popped empty with a faint ring.
Two thousand miles in a blink.
The redheaded Weasley clan landed in a dizzy heap, clutching each other.
Outside the Egyptian Ministry's arrival hall, another redhead was already waiting.
Tall, lean, long hair tied back, black leather robes, earring shaped like a fang—Bill Weasley looked like he'd walked out of a rock concert in the desert.
"You guys came at night? Daytime's easier."
"You'd have to take leave during the day," Mrs. Weasley shot back, then launched into mom-mode. "Bill, what are you wearing? Those boots, that hair—aren't you hot in the desert?"
"I've got rooms booked. Follow me." Bill ignored the nagging like a pro and grinned at his siblings. "Gringotts gave me extended leave. Next few weeks? Pyramid tours on me."
George and Fred scoped the hall. Ron stared at Bill like he was a Quidditch star. Even Percy—usually insufferable—was quiet and respectful. Bill had been Head Boy and prefect, graduated with twelve N.E.W.T.s. Role model material.
Only Arthur clapped his eldest on the back like an old buddy.
Bill sighed. "You didn't have to come to Egypt. I'm home for Christmas anyway. Taking leave now means I might miss it."
"No biggie—early Christmas!" Arthur beamed. "Used Ron's prize money, sure, but I won 700 Galleons from Witch Weekly! Covers the trip and leaves enough for a shadow mirror when we get back. Gotta support Professor Levent—he's done so much for us."
Bill shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. Spend it all, save nothing—classic Weasley finances.
But he didn't rain on the parade. Mom never let them go hungry. "That Levent guy close with Ron?"
"Decent enough. Why?"
"Egyptian wizards want in on shadow mirrors. Gringotts, Ministry, even the Alchemy Research Center—they're working on global signal coverage with Portkeys instead of Floo. Want to talk to the professor."
Arthur scratched his bald spot. "I'll have Ron ask when we're back."
…
"So pretty."
The sweet-faced little witch leaned on the windowsill, nightgown be damned, cheeks in her hands, staring at the city lights.
The Seine glittered in the distance, outlining the Louvre and the Opéra. Grand. Gorgeous.
Beside her, a sharp-minded woman flipped through a newspaper at the little table. Brown eyes curious behind lashes. Thin paper, no color ink—but the photos moved and waved at her.
"Mom, stop reading. Nothing important." Hermione plopped down beside her. "But Lihen Bookstore is amazing—even in Paris, they deliver the Daily Prophet so I stay updated on wizard news.
"I've planned the next few weeks.
"We have to see the old abbeys—wizard traces everywhere. The Louvre too—tons of magical artifacts. Maybe a wizard market for my essay.
"Professor Binns capped the paper length, but I could start early Muggle Studies notes. Professor Levent always says blend wizard and Muggle views—Paris is perfect."
The paper turned a page. Hermione hugged her mom's arm and chattered on. The woman's eyes softened—pure affection.
Sending Hermione to that far-off Scottish boarding school? The magic was wild, but her daughter's growth? That was the real wonder.
If she ever got the chance, she'd thank Professor Levent in person.
…
"Morning, Mr. Owl."
Melvin fought a grin.
Graves had dark circles like a spectacled owl—obviously up all night poring over files. He'd dragged himself here at dawn, terrified Melvin would vanish.
Graves ignored the jab. "Ran into Bonnel this morning. Told him we're off patrol today—just us on the case."
Bonnel—the bland Auror captain from last night. Forgettable face. "He ask why?"
"Nope."
"He doesn't know you pulled the files?"
"Probably not."
Graves frowned, unsure, then checked his watch. "Doesn't matter. Fifteen cases—we've got a week. Let's move."
"You're not planning to investigate them one by one, are you?" Melvin's face screamed really?
"How else?" Graves blinked.
"Now I know why you never got promoted." Melvin shrugged. "Hand me the files. I'll break it down. From now on, I'm lead investigator. You're my assistant."
"Your… assistant?"
Graves gritted his teeth. Yesterday he'd invited Melvin. Today he was demoted. Rude.
But it meant Melvin had a plan. Smart move inviting him. Graves suddenly felt clever.
He pulled out the parchment files. Melvin filtered, connected dots, turned chaos into a roadmap.
Graves' sleep-deprived brain snapped awake—better than Bubbly Brain Elixir.
"…So we focus on these two cases. First, scene recon. Then Muggle police—see if we can examine the bodies up close."