The collar (forged by the Purifiers from ancestral relics, ancient magic, and alchemy to bind an Obscurial) lay shattered in two neat halves on the grass, its clean breaks glowing faintly.
No one had seen this coming. The little girl stared at the broken circle, her eyes no longer hollow. A strange light bloomed in her pupils, shifting to a vivid, shining blue.
Graves suddenly noticed the gunfire had stopped. At some point, the fanatics had gone silent. The lawn grew eerily still, a hush settling over everyone.
A cloaked figure Apparated onto the grass with a sharp crack (clean, controlled, not a sound out of place). He stood in front of the cultists, proving he was one of them: a Second Salem dark wizard.
"Bastard, pick up the collar."
He turned to the girl, face hidden in his hood. "Good girl. Do what you're told. You know what happens to disobedient ones."
Bastard—mudblood?
Melvin and Graves both clocked it: this was the Obscurial's handler.
Under every stare, the girl shrank, trembling from bone-deep fear. She sniffled, like she was arguing—or reassuring herself. "I wasn't bad."
"Then pick it up and tear these people apart!" the wizard snapped, impatient with rage. "No excuses. If you don't obey instantly, you're disobedient. Disobedient slaves get punished. Unless you want to end up like your mother?"
The girl stubbornly whispered, "Mommy wasn't bad either."
"Do it! Or a weak little thing like you won't survive a few lashes…"
She froze, blue eyes dimming with memory. That winter. Mom came back from kitchen work on Christmas, hiding a tiny piece of bread-sugar in her sleeve—just for her. They found it. Whipped her.
Didn't die right away. Winter was too cold. Wounds festered, turned black, oozed. She lasted until the snow melted.
The girl pressed her lips together. No more arguing. She looked down at the sheepdog and the baby snake, giving them a faint, grateful smile.
"I'll remember you."
She closed her eyes. Tried to smile. Tears slipped out instead. She couldn't stop them—didn't know if she was crying or laughing. Soon her face was soaked.
With her at the center, the graveyard lawn shuddered. A whirlwind erupted from nothing. In seconds, a tornado spun slowly into shape.
Leaden clouds funneled down from the sky, spiraling into rings.
Melvin, watching it all, murmured, "The bird is free."
The tornado roared into full force. Grass rippled like waves. The sheepdog's fur plastered flat. Robes whipped wildly. Gun-toting cultists staggered, huddling together, nearly lifted off their feet.
The girl vanished—dissolved into thick black mist.
The wind, laced with that mist, swallowed everything. Distant grass surged. The ground cracked and trembled like the earth itself was shaking. Melvin had never felt magic like this. He didn't run. Didn't act rashly.
He stood firm in the gale, robes snapping, one hand raised—wand steady. The Protego shield blazed into view, no longer invisible but a radiant golden dome, shielding him and Graves like forged armor.
The dark wizard tried the same. Too late. The churning winds gave him no chance. Before he could finish the incantation, his wand snapped. His cloak shredded.
Only the few square feet around the sheepdog and snake—the eye of the storm—remained untouched. Their fur and scales ruffled gently, like the girl was still petting them, keeping her promise.
Graves' pupils shrank. Veteran Auror. Countless duels. Close-quarters with dark wizards. But this? His heart shook.
No Dumbledore legend at Woolworth. He'd been a kid during the Dumbledore-Grindelwald clash. Ilvermorny professors were skilled, but dueling wasn't core curriculum. Faculty spars? Controlled demos.
His parents, though—that was dueling. Father: stubborn Security Chief, relentless since New York. Mother: Congress Chair, gifted, powerful. Top-tier wizards.
He'd grown up watching them. Thought he'd seen real magic.
But this? The sky was theirs. The Obscurial—black mist demon from hell. Melvin—unmoved in the storm, robes wild, golden shield blazing like a god.
Graves looked up. Lips moved soundlessly. The dark wizard was airborne now, tumbling in the mist. Bones cracked. Skin tore. Face revealed—blood-soaked.
Someone's going to die.
Graves opened his mouth to shout. Melvin raised a hand—quiet. Voice calm: "He's conscious. Cast a Levitation Charm on himself. Buying time."
Graves blinked. He missed that?
"Shh. Don't disturb her. This is her transformation."
Graves looked confused. Melvin shrugged—might as well explain. "Whatever she's been through, at her age? Deep despair, but not much hate. Freedom hit suddenly—no rage to blind her. Her soul's shifting. This power? Unconscious. We're just grass in the wind."
Soul = magic's source. Even twisted Obscurus magic was tied to the soul—will made manifest.
Melvin gazed at the sky-choking tornado. "Once she stabilizes, she might control it."
The outer grass was uprooted. Leaves, stones, dirt—arrows slamming the golden shield with metallic clangs. Wind howled like a banshee.
The wizard couldn't hold. Stones spun like a meat grinder. Any longer and he'd fertilize the lawn.
His backup wand—tied to his wrist—jerked. He rose, swaying, snagging a few surviving cultists. By the time Graves noticed the huddle, the wizard was eyeing his old boots.
"Melvin! Melvin!"
Heels clicked.
The tornado slowed. Flying debris paused. A pull from the heels swallowed the wizard and his men—gone.
"Portkey! Damn it, another Portkey!" Graves snarled.
That boot-shaped Portkey had spirited the criminals away again.
"In unstable space?" Melvin glanced at the rippling magic. "Hope they land close. And no rocks in the brain or spine."
Graves fell silent, staring at the raging mist.
The vortex shrank. The mist thinned. Two faint eyes appeared—watching them.
Graves wanted to speak. Couldn't. The eyes lingered minutes, then faded. The mist dissolved. Blue sky returned.
Graves scanned the wreckage. No girl. Just the broken collar. Emotions crashed over him.
"Obscurials are sometimes… invisible," he said softly—quoting their subway notes.
The sheepdog whimpered, ears flat. Yurm nuzzled it. Melvin sighed, cleaning mud from both. Show over. Everyone empty-handed.
"She was unconscious and still protected them," Graves said, voice heavy. "How bad could a kid like that be?"
Melvin glanced up. "You should worry about this: there's an Obscurial loose in Paris."
Graves froze. His eyes went blank.
He could already see the Ghost Paper headline:
"FROM NEW YORK TO PARIS: GRAVES LETS CITY FALL INTO CRISIS—AGAIN!"
…
Paris, 18th Arrondissement, Place du Tertre.
A street magician performed—black cape, top hat, white gloves gleaming. He spoke accented English. His stall: dolls, candy. Kids clustered.
"So magical… birds from the hat…"
Little voices chirped. Short-sleeved kids gaped as white doves flew out.
"Believe, and miracles happen," the magician smiled. "Who believes in magic?"
"Me! Me!"
The loudest kid was picked. Reached in—no dove, just candy. Grinned ear to ear.
Others jumped, shouting, throats raw. Not for candy—for the magic.
Another girl was chosen. Messy brown hair, buck teeth like a beaver.
"Do you believe in magic, little one?"
Hermione frowned. "I'm thirteen."
"Right…" The magician rubbed his nose, offered the hat. "Miss, do you believe in magic?"
"Absolutely!" Crisp. Certain.
He faltered—she was still a kid. "What would you like to pull out?"
"A dove."
He jostised the hat. No way. Just one dove for the opener. Rest: candy, toys.
"Good luck, miss."
Hermione reached in, eyes darting, pretending to fumble—and pulled out a dove.
The magician's eyes bulged. Did I mess up the props? Kids gasped, jealous.
Hermione flipped her hair, chin high, and strutted off to cheers.
Trace? What Trace?
The Underage Magic Restriction was British law. How could it touch a witch in France?
France had rules too?
She was a Hogwarts witch. Why follow French laws?
After leaving the stall, she glanced around. Mom was picking postcards. Dad in the ice cream line—three people ahead. Strawberry cone: a few minutes.
Bored, she scanned the square—and spotted a tiny figure by the magic stall. Three feet tall. July heat, but dressed wrong—thin, malnourished. But those eyes? Bright.
They locked on the hat. Brighter every time someone pulled candy.
Hermione remembered her birthday—standing outside the Quidditch pitch, watching others fly. Two professors walked the long path to her.
She approached, crouched, smiled. "Two hidden pockets. Left: toys. Right: candy. No magic needed. Want to try?"
"I believe in magic," the girl said slowly, staring at Hermione's right hand—the one that pulled a dove that wasn't there.
"Then definitely try! You might get a dove!"
The girl shook her head, licked cracked lips. "I just want candy."
"Right pocket's candy. Go for it." Hermione's heart ached. If Professor Levent were here, he'd pull endless sweets from his pocket.
Too bad she hadn't learned that trick.