As the ballet performance neared its end, the lively orchestral music softened into a somber tone. Cool blue lights bathed the stage, where a simple tombstone was adorned with flowers and vines. Dry ice props sent white mist curling upward, and ghostly figures appeared, adding a touch of mystery.
The lights above the audience flickered on, pulling the crowd out of the performance's spell. People leaned back in their seats, exhaling, whispering to their neighbors.
Judging by the thunderous applause during the curtain call, it was a stunning show. The dancers and music left a lasting impression.
"You guys planning to put this ballet on the Mirror Network?" Melvin asked from the back row. "You thinking of adapting it, or just showing the original?"
"My mom's got two plans," Christine replied. "Short term, we'd pull the performance straight from memory and broadcast it. Long term, we'd hire Veela to learn the choreography and music, then adapt the story to fit a wizarding vibe."
Melvin nodded, watching the performers exit the stage in an orderly line. "Per the Mirror Club's rules, showing Muggle footage directly requires their consent and proper licensing."
"Licensing…" Christine echoed, the word sounding a bit foreign.
"It's the exclusive rights Muggle creators have over their work—literature, art, tech stuff—to stop others from using it without permission," Melvin explained. "The Mirror Club set up copyright rules early on to prevent wizards from profiting off stolen Muggle content."
He added, "If the Roziers need help, I can introduce you to a Disney exec. They're pros at handling copyrights."
"Can they help the Roziers get the theater troupe's approval?" Christine asked, frowning. "I mean, if wizards negotiate with a Muggle troupe and something goes wrong, it could lead to a major magical exposure. That's a serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy."
"You'd need to pose as Muggles, maybe set up a shell company…" Melvin grinned. "That's why I said you need someone experienced."
"She's a wizard working in the Muggle world?"
"Nope, she's a Muggle. Used to be my assistant when I worked at a theater…"
Melvin stood to leave with the others but paused. He spotted a wizarding newspaper left on a front-row seat—probably Mr. Delacour's, forgotten in his enchantment with the show.
As the theater emptied, Fleur and Gabrielle stepped out, holding hands to avoid getting separated. Ahead, their parents strolled arm in arm, whispering sweet nothings like lovesick teenagers. Middle-aged wizards acting like young couples—completely shameless, not even worried about setting a bad example for the kids.
"Was the ballet fun?" Fleur asked, looking down at Gabrielle.
The little girl's eyes were hazy. She nodded, then shook her head. No surprise there—a six-year-old wouldn't grasp a love story. She probably thought the fancy, synchronized dancing was cool but sat through the plot in a daze for hours.
Fleur ruffled her sister's hair. "Got it. Next time, we'll let them go on their date alone. We can stay home, read storybooks, play with Caramel, and you can practice some simple spells with my wand."
Gabrielle flashed an angelic smile, swinging her sister's hand back and forth. "And read the newspaper!"
"Newspaper?"
Fleur froze, remembering her dad had bought a paper on the way and tucked it into his sleeve. He'd skimmed it before the show, and Gabrielle had peeked over his shoulder. Glancing at her parents, still hand in hand and swaying, their sleeves looked empty—no sign of a newspaper.
Where was it?
Fleur's eyes widened.
She quickly stopped her parents' lovey-dovey moment, and the family turned into a frantic mess, hopping around like startled rabbits.
"Don't panic, don't panic! They haven't cleaned the theater yet. We can still get it back!" Mrs. Delacour hurried back toward the entrance.
Mr. Delacour, sweating buckets, trailed behind. Leaving a wizarding newspaper in a Muggle theater? If that hit the headlines, he'd be dragged to the Ministry's court by morning. "Merlin's beard, a breach of the Statute like that starts at three years!"
"You're cozy with Veela, too. They'd call it interspecies chaos and slap you with five," Fleur teased.
"Fleur, not helping!"
They pushed against the exiting crowd, but halfway back, two young spectators stopped them—a man and a woman, their faces hard to make out in the dim light. The man stood with a faint smile, while the woman, in a Parisian accent, asked, "Excuse me, sir, did you lose something?"
"Yes, yes!" Mr. Delacour's heart pounded.
"Here's your newspaper."
She handed over a rolled-up wizarding paper, its make and ink clearly different from Muggle ones. Luckily, it was tightly rolled, showing only half a page of text—no moving photos exposed.
Mr. Delacour took it, thanking them profusely, though his eyes kept darting to the young man. That slight smirk was unnerving.
"Um…" He wanted to ask if they'd unrolled it but hesitated. Asking outright would sound too suspicious.
Before he could decide, Fleur gasped in delight. "Professor Rozier! You're here for the ballet too?"
Christine nodded with a smile. "I'm here with a friend, checking things out. We were right behind you but didn't want to interrupt your show. Be more careful in the Muggle world—don't leave magical stuff lying around. We covered cases like this in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Won't happen again. Thank you so much, Professor Rozier!"
While the teacher and student chatted, Mr. Delacour stood there, dumbfounded but relieved. At least he wasn't facing a trial or having to Obliviate strangers.
As Christine waved goodbye to the Delacours, Melvin chuckled. "Not gonna introduce me?"
"I did. I said you're a Hogwarts professor—the Melvin Levent who's been making waves lately. They just asked me to pass on their thanks, no interest in meeting you."
Christine's eyes narrowed. "Maybe it's just me, but when I mentioned the museum incident, they seemed to… keep their distance from you."
"Maybe it's just a language barrier," Melvin said, brushing it off. "Anyway, back to the ballet adaptation. I liked how the ghosts got revenge on the jerk—making him dance uncontrollably to his death. It's a lot like the Dancing Jinx."
Christine nodded, like a student seeking advice after class. "But how would ghosts cast spells?"
Melvin's gaze drifted to her shoulder, where a few strands of hair rested on her pale, graceful neck. He paused. "You could tweak it so the ghosts have pets. There's a venomous spider in southern Italy—Taranto—called a tarantula. Its bite makes people dance wildly until they drop dead."
On Paris's nighttime streets, lamplights flickered one by one, older ones dimmer, casting shadows and light in patches.
A rustling sound cut through the dark. Melvin looked up to see a shadowy figure swooping low—an owl with sharp eyes, staring right at him. It landed, wings flapping, and dropped a note.
"For me?" Melvin asked, surprised.
He took the short note from the owl's beak. The handwriting was familiar: "Professor! Bastian needs help."
---
Late at night, in a luxurious hotel suite, the elegant bedroom was lit only by a dim sidelamp. The crystal chandelier hung dark. A girl lay weakly in bed, frowning even in sleep, a thin blanket rising and falling with her steady breaths.
Melvin stood by the carpeted bedside, a few feet from the Obscurial girl. Behind him, at the doorway, Hermione and her parents peeked in, careful not to disturb Bastian, who'd finally fallen asleep.
After getting the note, Melvin had parted ways with Christine and reached the hotel in five minutes flat. After a quick rundown of recent events, he began checking Bastian's condition.
Obscurials were a rare case—even St. Mungo's might not know how to handle one. Melvin wasn't a trained healer, so he relied on his sharp magical senses to assess her state.
When he finished, he turned off the lamp, stepped out, and closed the door. The Granger family crowded around him.
Hermione, ever the calm and collected witch, skipped pleasantries and got to the point. "Two days ago, after we got back from the Champs-Élysées, Bastian lost her appetite. We thought she was just tired and needed rest, but she hasn't gotten better."
Mrs. Granger added, "We wondered if it was food poisoning or heatstroke, but her symptoms don't match. She's just… unnaturally weak, with no clear cause."
Mr. Granger opened his mouth but had nothing to add. He sighed. "At first, she could still get out of bed. She was so excited about going to Disneyland, but she never made it."
Hermione took a deep breath. "Professor, will Bastian… will she get better?"
"It's not looking great," Melvin said, choosing his words carefully. "Her body's carrying chaotic, powerful magic."
He glanced at the Granger parents, their candlelit eyes full of sorrow. They hadn't known the Obscurial girl long, but their kind hearts had already forged a deep bond. They weren't about to give up on her like she was a stranger.
"The soul is the source of a wizard's magic," Melvin explained simply. "Bastian suffered massive trauma as a kid, which twisted her soul. Her magic warped too, turning into a violent, powerful parasite—an Obscurus. It's not a creature, but it feeds on her life force, growing stronger until it spirals out of control, destroying both the Obscurus and the wizard."
"An Obscurus?" Hermione asked, hearing the term again. "But didn't Bastian's transform?"
"It did. Her Obscurus became less violent, more controllable—she can command it now," Melvin said with a sigh. "But it's also grown stronger, faster. Her body can't handle that kind of power, so she's getting weaker."
Magic was a natural part of a wizard, growing harmlessly as they developed, even extending their lifespan. But an Obscurus was different—wild, destructive, feeding on the wizard's life to fuel itself. Bastian's pure soul had softened it, made it less vicious, but a six-year-old's body still couldn't bear it.
"But those other Obscurials we saw that day were older, and they moved freely," Hermione pressed. "Why is Bastian so weak all of a sudden?"
"Because her power's way beyond theirs," Melvin said softly.
"Will she recover?"
"Magic stabilizes when a wizard comes of age. If she can make it to her seventeenth birthday, she might pull through. But…" Melvin hesitated. "Most Obscurials don't live past ten."
The bedroom door creaked open, revealing Bastian, who'd been eavesdropping. Her blue eyes met theirs, dull and fading, like the world was losing color.
Hermione stepped forward, knelt, and pulled her into a tight hug, tears falling silently. It hit her hard—this girl, who'd escaped a cult and finally glimpsed a new life, might not get the bright future she deserved.
"It's okay," Bastian said, wiping Hermione's tears with her sleeve.
Hermione couldn't speak, just held her closer, tears soaking Bastian's collar. They'd only known each other for two weeks, but she already felt like family. Hermione had dreamed of taking her to Disneyland, showing her Hogwarts when she turned eleven.
Now, her heart felt crushed. The more Bastian comforted her, the harder she cried.
"Don't worry…" Bastian whispered. "I'll live to ten, then seventeen, and keep going."
Hermione's tears didn't stop.
"I'm serious. You've gotta believe me. Professor Levent's not an Obscurial—how would he know? He didn't even notice me sneaking behind the door…"
Hermione kept crying, and Bastian's young face showed a hint of exasperation. "Are you gonna keep this up? You promised to take me to Disneyland, to Hogwarts. How're we supposed to do that if you're like this?"
Hermione slowly calmed, her aching heart filling with something new. She looked up, resolute, like a knight setting off on a quest.
"We're going to Disneyland. Tomorrow."
---