Stepping into the metro station, it didn't feel so bad at first. But after discussing Obscurials in the train car, Mr. Graves snapped back to reality. The carriage was a mess of weird smells assaulting his nose: damp mold, sour sweat, food scraps, and the stench of the sewers.
The metro workers tried to cover it up with heavy air freshener and perfume, but it only twisted the odors into a grotesque monster—worse than the reek of a morgue. After pulling an all-nighter, Graves could barely breathe, his head throbbing faintly.
Ten minutes later, his eyes glazing over, Mr. Graves trudged behind Melvin, stepping out of the station. The occasional rushed passerby bumped his shoulder hard, but he didn't care much, greedily gulping fresh air, looking like he'd just survived a disaster.
They reached a cemetery converted from a medieval church, filled with gray-white stone carvings and brick walls. The lawn was lush green, uneven cobblestone paths winding through. People wandered among the tombstones and memorial walls, with pigeons perched on the ground and ledges.
It felt less like a cemetery and more like a park.
"Père Lachaise Cemetery..." Melvin read aloud.
Père Lachaise got its name from Louis XIV's confessor. Originally a small chapel, it became a lavish priest's villa, then a cemetery in the early 19th century. Now it's a famous landmark.
Beneath the ground lie plenty of big names: Balzac, Wilde, and even Chopin, whose body is here but his heart was sent back to Poland.
Besides Muggles, many wizards are buried here too. Two centuries ago, when the Lestrange family wasn't yet in decline, they built a grand mausoleum here.
As a registered Lestrange with Gringotts, Melvin figured he'd need to take a proper tour of this place once their business was done.
"Some lowlife gang picked this tourist spot for their deal—lots of people around, easy to slip away or hide in a crowd if things go south. They didn't expect to run into dark wizards..."
Basking in sunlight and fresh air, Mr. Graves regained some of his spark, striding ahead confidently.
Weaving through the bustling crowd, steering clear of the cemetery's famous sights and main paths, they took winding side trails. Soon, they reached a secluded corner in the southwest of the cemetery. A wide clearing held a lone bench, surrounded by dense bushes—perfectly hidden.
"Could've been a great spot for a date, but it turned into a gang deal gone wrong."
Mr. Graves stared at a reddish-brown stain on the bench's armrest, sighing deeply. It was dried blood.
Police tape hung on a nearby railing, some of it already torn. Melvin paced slowly, scanning the area. In a nearby sewer grate, he spotted a rotting rat. The photos in their files still showed its shape, but now the rat's remains were just fur and bones.
Graves scouted for good ambush spots, moving through the bushes. A typical dark wizard might use a Disillusionment Charm to hide and strike, but considering Second Salem and the Purifiers' skill level—plus the unpredictable nature of an Obscurial—they figured the dark wizard likely hid in the shrubbery.
Melvin crouched to inspect. The rats showed no bruises or scars, and any lingering magic had faded. Some ants and maggots lay nearby, but there were no other clues.
A faint stir came from the emerald on his ring—his pet snake, Yorm, sensing the rat's scent, maybe?
Speaking of Yorm, the snake had been extra well-behaved during this holiday. It stayed quiet in the emerald, not making a fuss, slithering out at night for a quick loop around the room or a bathroom break before snoozing. Feeding it once every few days was enough—hardly any pet could be this low-maintenance.
The thought eased some of his frustration over the lack of leads. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, Melvin brushed his thumb over the emerald.
A young snake slithered out, turning its head, its slit pupils gleaming with excitement. It was July, Paris in full summer glow—sunny, with lush cemetery greenery, warm but not stifling. Cold-blooded snakes loved soaking up the sun more than most creatures.
"Hiss..."
Yorm slipped into the grass, stretching its body, rubbing its scales against roots and leaves, wriggling playfully. It oddly reminded Melvin of a young dragon like Norbert rolling in the grass.
Melvin paused briefly, then refocused on sensing any lingering magical traces.
"An Obscurial... not like normal magic... not like a magical creature's either... no clear alignment... crude technique." Melvin recalled the faint magic on the body in their files.
He sensed something vague, like the faint scent of dahlias in the air—hovering just at the tip of his nose, almost tangible, but when he focused, it slipped away.
"Hiss..." Yorm's breath sounded behind him.
Melvin turned and saw it had caught a rat, toying with it in front of its face.
The poor rat, trapped by Yorm's tail, faced a flicking tongue and snake fangs inches from its head. Its peanut-sized brain couldn't tell play from predation. It flailed its limbs, realized escape was impossible, and its eyes rolled back as it fainted on the spot.
Yorm, bored, released the rat and went looking for a new playmate.
Melvin watched the rat, now "dead" from fright, lying there. Once Yorm slithered off, it flipped over, its tiny legs scurrying into the bushes so fast it left an afterimage.
"..."
Melvin shook his head, about to keep searching for clues when he heard Yorm again.
"Woof..."
A soft, delicate bark, with a lilt like it was whining playfully.
Melvin looked up. Yorm had found a Border Collie—black-and-white, with glossy, plush fur like a big stuffed toy. A collar hung around its neck; it must've come with its owner for a picnic in the park and wandered here by mistake.
Border Collies are smart, trained to stay calm in emergencies, but facing a snake that spoke dog, its canine brain short-circuited, leaving it dumbfounded.
The collie's face showed a very human-like confusion.
"Woof?" Yorm barked again.
The collie tilted its head: "Woof!"
"Woof woof..."
Realizing Yorm wasn't just mimicking but actually speaking dog, the collie bounced happily, quickly accepting this "new friend." It circled Yorm, wanting to lick its scales but holding back to avoid spooking it, keeping a polite distance.
The snake and dog chatted back and forth, hitting it off.
Within minutes, Yorm climbed onto the collie's neck, wrapping around like a living collar, then directed it to Melvin.
"Woof woof!" Both Yorm and the collie barked in unison.
"..."
Melvin eyed the odd duo, hesitating. "Yorm, are you saying it can help me find clues?"
"Woof!" Yorm replied, and the collie proudly raised its head.
Melvin stared at the snake-dog combo, both sticking out their tongues—one hissing, the other panting—in a weirdly harmonious rhythm.
This was the wizarding world—anything could happen.
He paused, then accepted the absurd reality, reaching out to pat the dog's head. "I'm looking for someone. The rats and that bench over there have their... scent. Can you help me track it?"
"Woof!"
The collie shot off, sniffing the bench, then the rats, before diving into the bushes, tail wagging. Halfway in, it turned back and barked twice, as if urging Melvin to follow.
Melvin trailed casually behind the snake-dog team.
On the other side, Mr. Graves, who'd watched the whole thing, was stunned, blinking hard, his face blank. He wondered if his sleepless night and exhaustion were making him hallucinate.
...
This spot was even more remote, clearly neglected for ages. The streetlamps and trash cans were abandoned and overgrown.
As they ventured deeper into the cemetery, the grass grew taller, nearly waist-high, like waves swallowing the view, hiding the collie and Yorm.
Melvin could no longer see the duo, only following the faint trail they left in the grass. The tough weeds erased their marks quickly, but occasional barks guided him, letting him tail them from a distance.
After about half an hour, Melvin pushed through waist-high grass into a wide clearing.
The quiet meadow was littered with faded plastic bags and old trash, left who-knows-how-long ago.
One area looked freshly cleared, with neatly cut grass stumps, divided into sections. Some had just newspapers or picnic blankets tossed down; others were fancier, with pitched tents.
The snake-dog duo sat nearby, wagging their tails at a little girl.
Melvin sensed faint magical traces and frowned, stepping closer quietly to study the sudden appearance of this girl.
She looked about six or seven, wearing an ill-fitting short-sleeve shirt. Though a girl, her hair was cropped short like jagged grass—probably a quick, careless cut by her parents.
Crouching, she seemed half the size of the collie, her small face pale, with faint brows and lips. Her blue eyes were empty, her body thin and frail from long-term malnutrition, a collar around her bony neck, her collarbone starkly visible.
She clutched a handful of tender grass, speaking patiently to the snake and dog: "This one's bitter, not tasty. This one's sour—most don't like it, but I think it's okay. This one's sweet; I'll share it with you."
The collie and Yorm, grass leaves in their mouths, tasted the juice quietly, not making a sound.
"Are you slaves too?" The girl noticed the collie's collar, patting its head fondly. "I hope your master doesn't whip you—or at least not with a spiked one."
"Woof?" Yorm called softly.
"I haven't been whipped in a long time!" The girl grinned. "But getting hit's fine. Mommy says that's how it is for slaves. As long as we wear the collar, everything we are belongs to our master. They give us food, teach us things, so we should obey their orders. If we don't mess up, we won't get whipped."
Melvin stayed silent, realizing they'd found the right place.
"But I haven't seen Mommy in a long time..." The girl lowered her head, her voice sad.
Yorm, green grass juice still on its mouth, stared with deep slit pupils, barking in confusion.
"No, we can't run. They'll find us anywhere." She tilted her neck to show the collar—black, not cloth, plastic, or metal, its material unclear. "Made from Doxy wings and Bicorn horn. Once it's on, it locks, can't be removed, and tightens until you can't breathe."
Melvin sensed searing magic in the collar—not just bonding materials but also powdered Erumpent horn, rigged to explode if needed.
In this quiet cemetery corner, a young girl sat cross-legged on the grass, recounting her plight in a flat tone, revealing a warped mindset. Melvin felt a deep despair clinging to her like a shadow.
"Huff... huff..." Graves caught up, slightly out of breath. "Melvin, this place is way too remote. If it weren't for a Point Me spell, I'd be lost. How'd your snake track this?"
The girl's attention shifted, spotting Graves's wand. Her pupils shrank. "You're... wizards!"
The collar lit up with dim runes, sending a warning signal. Instantly, noise erupted from the tents as several figures rushed out, dressed in grimy Muggle clothes like vagrants.
They eyed Melvin and Graves warily, pulling out sleek black Glocks, aiming at their heads and chests. They spread out silently, forming a circle, gun barrels glinting coldly.
"You think those Muggle weapons can take down two wizards?" Graves asked coldly. "Tell us where the Purifiers are, or you'll spend the rest of your lives in Azkaban!"
The cultists fired, the piercing sound shaking the grass. Flashes and smoke briefly clouded the view as they pulled the triggers relentlessly.
"Bang bang bang..."
Gunshots rang out, the acrid smell of gunpowder stinging the nose.
But not a single bullet drew blood. Several yards from the wizards, the bullets froze in midair, suspended like a miracle—straight out of a spell like Arresto Momentum.
"Is he your master?" The girl's voice trembled with urgency. "Tell him to run, or when my master returns, they'll make me bite them... and they'll die!"
Before she finished, new runes glowed on the collar. Her face twisted in despair, tears spilling from her blue eyes, streaming down her gaunt cheeks: "I don't want to hurt anyone anymore."
"Woof?"
Yorm tilted its head, watching her for a moment, then slithered closer to her neck. Its barley-like fangs gleamed, as if offering a snake's kiss.
The young snake bit the collar gently. Like an overbaked doughnut, it had no resistance, snapping crisply with a light crunch.
With a soft clink, the collar fell to the ground.