London, 10 Downing Street.
In some ways, this was the second grandest room in all of Britain. The luxurious carpet was spotless, the elegant marble fireplace faced a half-open sash window, and a cool summer night breeze drifted in from outside.
The room carried a faint scent of printer ink—or perhaps the intoxicating aroma of power. It had a way of spurring one to tackle government affairs with relentless dedication, day and night.
The midsummer evening was pleasantly mild. The Prime Minister sat alone in his office, poring over a memo prepared by his assistant. It listed tomorrow's to-do list, the week's schedule, and an urgent intelligence report that had just come in.
"Heavy fog over the North Sea, cause unknown. A cruise ship has gone missing, along with 174 tourists…"
The Prime Minister forced himself to read through the report, exhaustion weighing on him. He downed half a cup of coffee in one gulp, but his head still spun. His spirit was willing, but his aging body couldn't keep up with the relentless demands of his job.
The harder he tried to focus on the words, the more his vision blurred. The letters and sentences seemed to twist into the mocking grins of his political rivals. He could already hear their attacks in Parliament: Even if this is a natural disaster, it's the Prime Minister's negligence and failure that caused it.
As he rubbed his temples in frustration, a soft cough echoed through the room.
He'd heard that cough before—on the night of his election victory. A visitor had emerged from the fireplace, unveiling a hidden world that shattered his understanding of reality.
"Wizards operate in secret all over the world. The Ministry of Magic is their government.
"They regulate the responsible use of flying broomsticks and control populations of dangerous magical creatures, like dragons and Nundu.
"Don't worry, I'll only bother you when there's a major issue that might spill into the Muggle world…"
The memory snapped him out of his haze. He looked up sharply at the grimy oil painting hanging on the wall. It had been there for who-knows-how-long, ignored by everyone, even the cleaners. The portrait depicted a man in a silver wig, looking like a frog from a children's storybook. The cough had come from him.
"Hello?" the Prime Minister ventured cautiously.
The man in the painting turned, staring blankly. "To the Muggle Prime Minister: Requesting an urgent meeting. Please respond immediately. Your faithful servant, Fudge."
"Uh… sure, I'll see him," the Prime Minister replied, flustered. Realizing this wasn't the most dignified response, he straightened his tie and composed his face into a calm, confident expression—a politician's basic skill.
The empty marble fireplace roared to life with emerald-green flames. Under the Prime Minister's mix of awe and apprehension, a short, stout man stepped out. He wore the same lime-green bowler hat and pinstriped cloak as last time, but he was far from the confident figure of their previous meeting. Soaked to the bone, he looked like a drowned rat, water dripping from his cloak onto the office carpet.
"Oh, that's an Axminster carpet!" the Prime Minister exclaimed, wincing. That carpet had nearly cost him his Chancellor of the Exchequer.
"Forget the carpet—trouble's coming!"
Fudge, pale and panting, wrung out his cloak, oblivious to the mess he was making. "I just came from Azkaban, you know, out in the middle of the North Sea. Didn't even have time for dinner. The journey was brutal…"
"Azkaban?" The Prime Minister seized on the word. "North Sea!?"
"Yes, Azkaban—our wizard prison," Fudge said, dumping seawater from his bowler hat onto the precious carpet. "The Dementors are restless. No one's ever escaped their watch before. Calming them down is like torture."
What in the world… The Prime Minister's focus was on the missing cruise ship. "We've got a ship lost in the North Sea. Was that your doing?"
Fudge shivered. "Not us—the Dementors. They're hunting Sirius Black. The fog's their work."
Monsters? Sirius Black? The Prime Minister's frustration boiled over. He slammed his hand on the desk and stood. "What have you done with my people? Are they safe? I demand you release them at once!"
"Calm down, Prime Minister," Fudge said with a sigh. "Sit, sit. Let me explain. How about a whiskey?"
Attack my citizens, barge into my office, and now you want my whiskey?
The Prime Minister glared, but when Fudge drew his wand and conjured two glasses of amber liquid out of thin air, his anger melted. Suddenly, he found himself willing to hear the man out.
For the next half hour, Fudge sipped his drink and rambled on. Some words were incomprehensible, shrouded in mystery, but the Prime Minister pieced together the gist through context—a politician's trick.
Azkaban was a prison. Hogwarts was a school. A boy named Harry Potter seemed important, maybe a wizarding heir. A wizard named Dumbledore gave Fudge headaches, likely a political rival. And someone named Levent—Fudge's tone grew complicated when mentioning him—probably a journalist.
"…I had to come here because Black's a notorious Muggle-killer. If he causes trouble, Levent, a Muggle Studies professor—probably Muggle-born himself—might team up with Guffy to blast me in the papers. Not that it's just about that."
"Black was one of You-Know-Who's men… How do I explain You-Know-Who?"
Fudge avoided the name, grabbing a pen from the desk and scribbling it on a third-quarter financial report before handing it over.
The Prime Minister squinted at the paper. "Vol… Volde…"
"A name too terrible to speak!" Fudge interrupted, horrified. "Dumbledore thinks he's still out there, but I say it's just a ploy to gain support. Still, Black's escape is serious. We're on high alert, and I'm spreading the word. If you get any leads, contact us immediately. Goodbye, Prime Minister."
What a mess.
The Prime Minister watched as Fudge stepped back toward the fireplace. "What about my people on the ship?"
"No worries. They're just lost in the fog, wandered too close to Azkaban. The Muggle-Repelling Charms trapped them. They'll be back by morning."
Fudge waved and vanished into the green flames.
---
"French wizards value freedom and equality. The line between Muggle and wizard isn't as sharp here. Their Ministry of Magic was established later than others—crucially, after the Statute of Secrecy was enacted," Graves explained patiently. "Unlike in America or Britain, the French Ministry shares information with their Prime Minister and President. They even have a cover identity in the security services—DGSI investigators—so Aurors can operate openly when needed."
The DGSI—France's equivalent of the FBI or MI5, just less famous.
Melvin nodded. "So that's why a seasoned Auror like you got us lost?"
"I'm an Auror. My cases involve wizards and magic. At MACUSA, everything's handled in the Woolworth Building—evidence, bodies, trials, executions…" Graves protested. "How was I supposed to know Muggles don't keep bodies at police stations but in some 'forensic institute'?"
"No wonder you're stuck in the ranks. A professional Auror outdone by an amateur like me," Melvin teased, ignoring the older man's pride. "Wasted a whole hour on a wild goose chase."
Unfamiliar with Paris and unable to Apparate in broad daylight, they'd taken a taxi and walked, wasting time and getting overcharged by the driver like typical tourists.
Luckily, they avoided any real trouble. The taxi left the city center, cruising along the Seine before stopping near a bridge called Austerlitz. Graves, map in hand, insisted the Paris Forensic Institute was nearby.
After checking the map and street signs, they found the institute's entrance. Like any secure facility, it had a guarded gate. A security officer sat in a booth, flipping through a magazine, barring unauthorized entry. Staff needed to register.
"Here's where the DGSI cover comes in handy," Graves said, pulling out his badge. His black-and-gray robe made him look like a cryptic investigator.
"Go register, then," Melvin said, nodding toward the booth.
To their surprise, when Graves knocked on the booth's window, the officer inside—still engrossed in his risqué magazine, feet propped on the desk—didn't react. Deaf, perhaps?
Graves stopped knocking, then noticed a sign on the door. It was the weekend—outside working hours.
"Hello, DGSI. We're here on a case," Graves tried.
The officer blinked, glanced at the sign, then at Graves's badge. "Come back Monday?"
"This is a murder investigation!" Graves said, half-laughing in disbelief.
The officer set down his magazine, speaking slowly. "This is a forensic institute. We've got 400 bodies in cold storage. We process ten a day during the week. Every one's a murder case."
"Our case is different. It's critical!"
"Which case isn't?"
As the two bickered, Melvin sighed. The officer was clearly enjoying the argument more than his magazine. While Graves was distracted, Melvin slipped his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at the officer, and silently cast:
Imperio.
A warm, tingling sensation flowed from his mind, through his arm and wand, into the officer's head. It felt akin to the fire gifted by a dragon, as if Melvin could bend the man's will to his own.
The officer's eyes glazed over briefly. He took Graves's badge, logged it in a booklet, and handed it back. "Alright, you're cleared to enter."
"We're here to protect Paris! The tourists and residents around here—you know how serious this case—"
Graves's impassioned speech cut off as the officer's attitude shifted. Stunned, he followed Melvin inside, only then realizing what had happened.
"Melvin, did you just…?"
"Yep. Imperius Curse."
"Are you insane? That's Dark Magic—an Unforgivable!"
Melvin glanced at the earnest Auror, pausing. "Sorry, what'd you say?"
"Did you just use the Imperius Curse?"
"Nope. You convinced him."
Graves sputtered, launching into a lecture as they walked. He'd seen cruel Dark wizards, but someone using an Unforgivable Curse still prompted a relentless sermon, rooted in textbook ideals.
In a way, Graves embodied the original principles of the Twelve Aurors.
"They don't teach this at Ilvermorny. You must've learned it at Hogwarts. A school with a thousand years of history, and they don't warn you about Dark Magic's corruption? Listen, Melvin, it erodes your mind. I've seen cases…"
Melvin didn't mind the nagging, letting Graves ramble as they followed signs to the basement morgue.
No guard stood at this door, only a lone forensic assistant, hunched over a report, dark circles under his eyes as if he might drop dead any moment.
"Stay here. I'll handle this," Graves said, stepping forward with the grim determination of a man marching to his doom.
Melvin watched him go, shaking his head at the theatrics. By the time Graves returned, Melvin had already found the body's storage drawer. He pulled it open, holding a file he'd somehow acquired, and studied the corpse.
The body, dissected and stitched back together, was waxy pale. Bruises and dark patches marred the skin where no incisions had been made. A massive Y-shaped scar ran across the chest and abdomen, cold air swirling around it.
Graves hesitated, lacking the expertise to distinguish autopsy wounds from those the victim had sustained.
Melvin handed him the file. "Here's the autopsy report."
"Where'd you get this?"
"Printed from the computer at the entrance while you were arguing with the assistant."