Four floors underground in Fürstenberg Square, the crystal chandeliers shifted to a cool ice-blue glow, spilling down the hallway into the office. The cold-toned decor gave the whole place a quiet, almost lonely vibe.
Compared to the rest of the Ministry, this floor was dead. No clerks, no wizards filing paperwork—just the occasional whoosh of a memo zipping past. The whole round hall was silent.
The fireplace linked to the Pyrenees sat across from the elevators, untouched for ages, dusted with ash.
It was the direct line between the French Ministry and Beauxbatons. Built for emergencies only, but within decades it became the students' private shuttle. Beauxbatons didn't have a Hogwarts Express—kids used Ministry Floo to get to school at the start of term.
But it was summer break now. Schools were out, the Education Office staff on vacation. Just one fresh-out-of-school intern left holding the fort.
Footsteps echoed—two wizards, one in front rushing but stopping every few seconds, clearly lost in the Ministry's maze. He kept checking wall signs. The one behind strolled easy, no hurry.
They stopped at the door. The front guy read the plaque, then knocked.
"Sorry, it's summer break. Education Office isn't processing anything. Come back mid-August."
The intern's voice was muffled, a little stiff. Fresh grad, stuck with the worst shift—no one to train him, just apologies and excuses.
Outside, Mr. Graves glanced at the slip in his hand—Auror Office stamp. Bonnel had sworn this would work.
"We're here on Mr. Bonnel's orders. Urgent case," Graves said, louder.
"Auror Office Bonnel?"
The door cracked open. A young wizard—baby-faced, still in his black Ministry robes—stood there awkwardly.
Graves didn't even ask his name. Pushed in, handed over the slip. "We need Beauxbatons now. Emergency. How do we do it?"
The intern scanned it, confused. "Urgent case… why not just send someone to the Pyrenees?"
Graves mentally cursed Bonnel but kept his face neutral. "Not your concern. Just connect us."
Intern through and through—bought it instantly. "I can light the fire right now. But Beauxbatons security blocks direct travel. I can only send your heads and voices through."
Graves stayed stone-faced. "How long till someone answers?"
"Uh… I don't know."
He explained quietly, "Only caretakers and a few assistants are there. Maybe Madame Maxime. The Ministry-linked fireplace is in the west tower—barely anyone goes. We're hoping a house-elf spots it while cleaning."
"Luck it is. Light it now."
They moved to the round hall's fireplace. The intern grabbed wood from a cabinet, lit the flames:
"Ministry here—urgent case for Beauxbatons…"
"Anyone there? Anyone?"
Melvin shrugged off his jacket, grabbed a chair, and sat, taking in the room. The dim space suddenly lit up—crystal and stained glass sparkling in the firelight. Underground Ministry, summer heat didn't reach. Near the fire? Cozy.
Graves kept shouting. The quiet Education Office suddenly felt alive. The intern grinned—someone to keep him company on shift.
Ten minutes of yelling. Finally, a voice from the flames:
"Beauxbatons here…"
Melvin froze. That voice—he knew it. He turned to the fire, stunned. "Christine?"
A young witch's head sat neatly in the flames—deep brown hair loosely pinned, a few strands framing her face. Bright pale-blue eyes, cool and distant. Thick brows, fair skin with faint freckles.
"Professor Lewinter?" Her eyes lit up, just as shocked to see an old friend in the French Ministry.
"What are you doing back at Beauxbatons as an assistant?"
"After Romania, I figured teaching might be nice."
Christine smiled softly. Seeing Melvin's surprise, her full lips curved, softening her cool aura.
"When? What do you teach?"
"Defense Against the Dark Arts. Passed Madame Maxime's interview over Christmas break. Been assistant for six months—full teacher next term."
"Perfect fit for your résumé. And Beauxbatons DADA doesn't come with cursed jinxes…" Melvin was about to swap teaching tips when Graves, out of patience, shoved in front of the fire.
"Catch up later!"
He launched into the case—Texas shootout, Père Lachaise battle, Scourers, Obscurials. Three Obscurials hiding in Paris. City in danger. Ministry higher-ups doing nothing. Auror Office stalling. Bonnel dodging.
"…Go get Madame Maxime. We need Beauxbatons. Find those wizard kids turned Obscurial—now."
Graves exhaled. He hadn't spoken that freely in ages.
The intern stood frozen, jaw dropped. Christine turned to Melvin. "He serious?"
Melvin nodded. "Dead serious."
"I'll get Madame Maxime!"
Christine vanished from the flames.
…
Night fell. The top-floor hotel restaurant glowed—modern white lights, vintage crystal chandeliers, candlelight on every table. Through massive floor-to-ceiling windows: the Seine, lit up on both banks.
Fancy hotel dinner service. Half-open kitchen—magazine-cover French chefs showing off. Oil flared in pans, flames shooting up, ladies gasping.
Tall, slim waiters in black tuxes, white pocket squares, pushed carts of dishes and champagne through the aisles.
"Merlin, I can't fit another bite," Hermione said, cheeks in hands, propped on the white tablecloth. She hiccuped delicately but meant it. "The strawberry ice cream here is divine."
"I still say the daytime ice-cream cart wins."
Mr. Granger, silver knife and fork in hand, slowly savored foie gras. His slightly balding forehead gleamed. "Sure, this is fancier—better ingredients. But ice cream's meant for noon, when it's blazing hot, you're sweaty from walking, you wait ten minutes in line, then dig into a huge scoop."
The usually serious dentist looked dreamy—foie gras or memory, hard to tell. His wife and daughter smiled.
Hermione suddenly felt room in her stomach. Snagged a piece of foie gras from Dad, then covered a tiny hiccup.
Mrs. Granger laughed, smoothed Hermione's wild hair into a little braid, and flicked her forehead. "Know your limit, missy. Louvre tomorrow—don't stuff yourself sick."
Hermione whined and leaned into her mom. In her stuffed daze, she spotted a girl in a short-sleeve shirt at the restaurant entrance. Messy, weed-like hair. Skinny, all bones. Staring at the open kitchen, blue eyes glowing with something—hunger?
"Mom, can I pack a steak?" Hermione whispered.
Mrs. Granger blinked. "Midnight snack? Room service works."
Hermione shook her head. "Saw that girl from earlier. Want to bring her food."
Mr. and Mrs. Granger followed her gaze. They'd only seen the girl from afar—thought orphanage kid. Ill-fitting clothes, choppy haircut, skinny like a stray.
That was Mr. Granger's take.
But now in the hotel? Must be a tourist's kid. No family staying here would let a child look like that. Or skip dinner. That's abuse.
"Add bread," Mrs. Granger said, touching Hermione's hair. "Ask her name, whose kid she is. If she's being mistreated—we call the police."
"Yeah." Hermione nodded.
Buffet used meal vouchers. Takeout cost extra—but pocket change for a dentist. Well-done steak (gentle on a kid's stomach), truffle bread—crisp, flaky crust.
Hermione added macarons, packed in a fancy hotel-branded kraft box. Looked expensive.
…
She carried the box out. The girl was gone.
"…"
Hermione opened her mouth to call—then realized she didn't know the girl's name.
She wandered the hall, box in hand. This floor was all restaurants—only this one open. Others locked. The girl couldn't have gone far.
But after a full loop—no sign. Hermione wondered if she'd gone downstairs.
Muggle methods failed. Time for wizard ones.
She switched the box to her left hand, pulled her wand, laid it flat on her right palm. Whispered:
Point Me.
The Four-Point Spell could guide—or find someone short-range. No shielding charms on a Muggle girl. Easy.
Vine wood wand spun slowly… then stopped. No direction.
Hermione frowned at it, tilted her head. "Did I eat too much? Pitch too high?"
Before she could recast, a soft voice behind her: "What are you doing?"
Hermione froze. That voice—the girl from earlier. She quickly hid the wand, spun, and thrust the box forward.
"I was looking for you! Didn't know you were staying here. Saw you outside the restaurant—haven't eaten? This is for you."
The girl stared at the hotel logo on the box. Hesitated. Didn't reach.
"It's still warm—eat soon or the grease'll upset your stomach." Hermione pushed it into her hands. Tested: "Eat here or take it to your family?"
The girl clutched the box. "Here!"
They sat on the fire escape stairs. One girl propped her chin, head tilted. The other cradled the box, spearing pre-cut steak with the hotel fork. Cheeks puffed like a chipmunk.
She must've been starving.
Hermione bit her lip, voice low. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Bastard." The girl kept eating.
What kind of parents name a kid that?!
Hermione's teeth clenched. Confirmed. Not biological parents. Like Harry—shuffled to relatives. Bad food, bad clothes, cupboard under the stairs.
The Dursleys at least fed Harry, cut his hair, got him glasses. This girl's "family"? Straight-up abuse.
Call the police.
Sue the monsters.
Hermione softened, touching the girl's fine hair. "Bas… little Bassy, do you want to leave the people raising you? We can help. Give you a normal girl's life."
"What's a normal girl's life?" The girl looked up, oil on her lips, confused.
"You'd have your own room. Eat full meals every day. New clothes every season. Treats sometimes." Hermione painted the picture—orphanage or kind foster home.
"Get whipped?"
"What?!" Hermione nearly exploded. "They hit you—with a whip?"
The girl shrank, spooked by the fire in Hermione's eyes. Stopped eating.
Hermione's voice softened. She stroked the girl's hair gently. "Never again. No one will hit or yell at you. I promise. If no good home turns up, you can stay with us."
"You gonna keep Bastard?"
"Keep?" Hermione frowned—poor kid, no proper schooling, bad with words. "Anyway—you'd live with us. Own room, clothes, same food. Go to school when you're old enough. Play on holidays."
She asked gently, "Want that?"
The girl bit a macaron. Eyes squinted in bliss. She nodded hard. "Yeah. You're better than the old masters."