The wrought-iron gate, twisted into the shape of blooming branches, swung open. Delicate, radiant fairies fluttered along the path, their glow lighting the way. Melvin thought this felt less like a dinner party and more like some grand ceremony—fancier than even a Merlin Order of Knighthood.
This was the Rozier family's old estate on the banks of the Seine, just outside Paris, still as mysterious and imposing as ever. Every window glowed with bright, elegant light, and neatly dressed house-elves guided Melvin through the grounds to the main hall, where the most important guests were entertained.
The hall was draped in deep red velvet carpets, with the Rozier family crest hanging proudly on the walls. Candelabras carved from gold and studded with emeralds and sapphires screamed old-money wizarding opulence.
The French Ministry of Magic was a relatively new institution, and before its founding, there'd been no formal wizarding council. Families like the Roziers, alongside Beauxbatons, kept order without rigid laws. Even after the Statute of Secrecy came into play, enforcement was lax. Internal power struggles were common but rarely turned violent—no Dark Lord had risen to plunge France into war.
The last real upheaval was Gellert Grindelwald's doing, though it was contained quickly, barely rippling through the wizarding world. This stable, lenient environment let families like the Roziers amass serious wealth.
The dining room was massive, with a long table flanked by candelabras casting soft shadows. House-elves lurked in those shadows, ready to serve at a moment's notice. Madam Rozier sat at the head of the table, dressed in a stately gown, her smile as carefully crafted as a charm.
This dinner was even grander than the last. The table stretched longer, the spread of food more lavish.
"Professor Levent, congratulations on your Bravery Medal," Madam Rozier said, raising her glass with a smile. The wine swirled in her crystal goblet, but her plate was spotless—she hadn't touched a bite.
"It's no big deal," Melvin replied, his voice echoing slightly in the grand room, making the candlelight flicker. "The Ministry's ceremony is set for November, but Hogwarts doesn't get a break then, so I probably won't make it."
Christine and Mr. Rozier exchanged a glance—one shrugged, the other sighed. The table's vibe shifted, like they were back at that last dinner, where the hosts and guests made small talk while the Roziers played supporting roles.
Christine, as part of the hosting family, had been roped into wearing an elegant green satin gown with a lacy chiffon shawl. The candlelight bathed her in a warm glow, like a figure stepped out of an oil painting.
Madam Rozier sipped her wine. "Thanks to your recent capture, the Rozier family has benefited greatly. If you'd like, Professor, we could arrange for the ceremony to be held early."
Melvin raised an eyebrow. "Awarding medals on All Hallows' Eve? Isn't that the tradition?"
Madam Rozier's smile turned smug. "Actually, there's no strict rule about when it happens."
With the Purifiers' dark wizards behind bars and New Salem's bribed officials exposed, the Ministry's faction wars had settled. The Roziers' chosen candidate had climbed the ranks, boosting their influence. Madam Rozier had the clout to pull strings and move the ceremony.
"Sounds nice," Melvin said, nodding. "But changing tradition like that—wouldn't it ruffle some feathers?"
"It'd take some convincing of the neutral families, but it's not too tough," she replied.
"Just for a medal ceremony? Seems like a lot of effort for something small."
"For others, maybe. But for you, Professor, I think you'd appreciate what we're willing to do."
Madam Rozier's tone carried a hint of something more. When Melvin gave her a curious look, she smoothly pivoted to business. "That content creation deal we discussed last time—it's got real potential. But first, we'd need to bring the Mirror Network to France. The Roziers are a trustworthy partner for that."
Since their last rushed dinner, she'd spoken with Vinda a few times. Vinda was all-in on the Mirror Network's prospects, dropping hints about profits in Budapest—nothing specific, just enough to suggest the Roziers could set up a branch in Hungary.
"Business again?" Christine cut in, shooting her mother a look. "I thought this dinner was to thank the professor."
Her brow furrowed, pretty but annoyed. Last time, the talk of the Mirror Network was a lure to get the family's help. The case was closed now, and the Roziers had made plenty of profit. Christine didn't want to keep milking Melvin for more—she wasn't sure why, but it didn't sit right.
Madam Rozier opened her mouth to respond, but Christine jumped in, steering the conversation away from deals and profits. "Melvin, I'm about to take over as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but I'm still figuring out the teaching thing. Got any tips?"
"Not sure I'd call it expertise," Melvin said with a grin, glancing at the Rozier couple. "I subbed for a few Defense classes at Hogwarts. Two years ago, when I first got there, Professor Quirrell left early, so the deputy headmaster had me handle the practical exams for the younger students. Ended up failing the whole lot."
"Everyone failed?" Christine's eyes lit up, intrigued.
"Yeah, it was…"
Madam Rozier listened to their pointless chatter, swirling her wine to let the aroma bloom. Her blue eyes, so like Christine's, half-closed, hiding her thoughts.
Sure, most dinners didn't involve business talk, but before Melvin left, he slipped them Wright's contact info for the Mirror Club to handle negotiations.
---
Night deepened. In her room, Christine pored over the lesson plans and guidebooks Melvin had left her. The plans were for Muggle Studies, and the book, The Gift of Fear, was a Muggle text about surviving dangerous situations.
Page after page, it was clear Melvin didn't stick to dusty old textbooks. His teaching wasn't about passing OWLs or NEWTs—it was about opening students' minds, sparking new ways of thinking. His goal wasn't grades; it was something bigger, longer-lasting.
The more she read, the more she felt his perspective shining through. It was like sitting in on a Muggle Studies class herself. Her view of Muggles shifted without her realizing it. Natural sciences were nothing like alchemy, but some methods overlapped. Social sciences were even stranger, almost like studying the rules of the heart and human nature. How did Melvin see the relationship between Muggles and wizards? Christine's curiosity grew.
As the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, what should she teach? Textbook answers for exams, or ways of thinking to face real dangers?
Her quill hovered over the parchment, ink blotting as her thoughts drifted.
Seven hundred miles away in Hungary, Aunt Vinda and Abernathy were probably poring over ledgers, bickering over recent profits—one hotheaded, the other patient.
Melvin's Ironclad Shield charm flashed in her mind. She'd seen it stop dark wizards, hold back a rampaging dragon, and even withstand an Obscurial's combined assault. It was like whenever he cast that spell, any crisis could be solved.
Christine sat at her desk, lost in thought, then leaned down and started drafting her own lesson plans.
Inspired by a Muggle Studies professor, she began exploring new ways to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.
---
"Dear Bravery Medal recipient, Mr. Levent, I've been waiting for you," Graves said seriously.
Melvin, still carrying the faint scent of wine, stepped through the iron gate and spotted Graves by the roadside. He wore the French Ministry's Auror uniform, his Woolworth Building badge glinting, staring at Melvin expectantly.
Melvin blinked, surprised. "You're staking out the Rozier estate at midnight? What's the emergency? Some bigwig looking for me? Why not just send a house-elf?"
Graves gave a knowing grin, and Melvin grimaced. "It's not a bigwig," Graves said, a bit sheepish. "It's a death row prisoner. The boy from the Obscurials, the one who didn't get a lobotomy—Picani."
"He wants to see me?"
"Let's walk and talk…"
Graves and Melvin strolled along the Seine, their figures flickering in the shadows under a faint hum of magic.
"The other two New Salem cults hiding in Paris got nabbed," Graves explained. "They're locked up in the French Ministry's prison, and tonight's an urgent interrogation. We need an outside witness for their crimes. Picani's got a clear memory and sharp mind. He's not a Purifier, so he's perfect for it."
Graves' voice blended with the night's mist. "Mr. Bonnell asked me to persuade Picani. I spent all afternoon with him in the special prison. He wouldn't budge—until I mentioned the little girl from Père Lachaise, Bastard."
"I pieced together their statements and spun a story. Bastard showed up above the Louvre, delaying their hunt for the Granger family. She slipped away when no one was looking and hasn't been seen since. She's not among the captured cultists either."
They hurried along Paris's main streets, nearing the Ministry. "He seems to think you let her go on purpose and wants to talk to you alone."
"And you're indulging a death row kid why?" Melvin shot him a flat look.
Graves sighed. "Mostly pity. He's not even ten. His life's barely started, no happy memories to cling to. When he heard about his death sentence, he didn't even react—just said the Ministry prison's been good to him, decent food and water."
Melvin sighed too, thinking of a young wizard who should've been a first-year at Ilvermorny, sitting in a classroom, not a cell. A pang of pity hit him.
They reached Fürstenberg Square and took the birdcage elevator into the Ministry. Graves led the way to the basement's special prison, moving like he'd done it a hundred times.
The room was spherical, its walls coated in a mercury-like liquid—thick, slow-moving. Woolworth Building's death row used the same potion. Any magic touching it fizzled out; any living thing touching it drowned, their happiest memories siphoned off to fuel the potion's destructive power.
The boy sat on a platform in the room's center, like a castaway on a desert island. His collar was gone, but brass shackles bound his wrists and ankles, faintly glowing with runes.
After the Aurors' cleaning, dressed in prisoner's clothes, he looked less ragged. No lingering stench, regular meals, clean water—he thought this place wasn't half bad.
"Graves said you wanted to see me," Melvin said through the observation window, studying the thin boy with hollow, lifeless eyes. "What's your name?"
The boy's gaze sharpened slightly. "Pi… Picani."
The cultists called him Picani—little bastard. He didn't have a real name, or maybe his mother gave him one, whispered it while he slept, but he couldn't remember.
Melvin paused, avoiding the name. "What's up, kid?"
"Bastard…"
Picani tried to meet Melvin's eyes but flinched, years of conditioning as a slave kicking in. Melvin's presence stirred memories of that day.
In a sky choked with fog and leaden clouds, his Obscurial form had been devoured by flames. It was like being back at New Salem's start—his once-invincible Obscurial power turned to kindling. He'd fled through fire and mist, trapped by an invisible iron wall, screaming in terror as the flames consumed him.
The boy shuddered, the burning pain flooding back. He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself, then spoke like he was reciting a prayer. "Wizard, your magic cage is unbreakable, your flames burn everything. Bastard couldn't have escaped, but they've got no trace of her… She's safe, right?"
Melvin went quiet for a moment, then said, "Her name's Bastian now."
Picani, who'd learned to read his masters' intentions without being taught, caught the answer in Melvin's words. A flicker of joy lit up his eyes.
"Bastian… Bastian…" he murmured, emotions tangling on his face.
"It's a French name. Means someone respected," Melvin said, watching him. "You and Bastian friends?"
Picani shook his head. "We were just from the same orphanage. Barely talked. After becoming Obscurials, we were moved to Texas, hidden there, then brought here."
"So why care about her?"
"No reason. Just wanted to know if someone like us—a slave—could get a good ending."
With his last question answered, Picani relaxed, sitting on the floor. The silvery potion's glow illuminated the scars on his body. He stared at the ceiling's blurry reflection, starting to talk about how the Purifiers trained Obscurials.
---