Not far off, an ice cream truck chimed its bell, dishing out treats with a delay that didn't quite match the steep price. But the flavor was worth it. Mr. Granger, holding ice cream for his family of three, called out from a distance, "Hermione, come get your ice cream! I got crepes too!"
At his voice, both the girl and the young witch turned to look.
On the open patch of ground by the ice cream truck, the middle-aged dentist grinned at them. Tall and lanky, with a slightly receding hairline, he locked eyes with the young witch and waved the ice cream and crepes in his hands.
Freshly made crepes steamed in the air, and the ice cream's creamy topping gleamed under the sunlight, drizzled with glossy pink strawberry sauce.
Hermione spotted the sweat on her dad's forehead and called back brightly, "Got it, I'm coming!"
"No rush, your mom's still picking out postcards," Mr. Granger said with a nod and a smile.
Hermione glanced at the little girl's striking blue eyes and pressed her lips together. "I've got to go find my parents now. You should go find yours too—maybe they can take you to see the magic show."
She gave the girl a worried look, sighed, and turned to jog toward her dad, her bushy curls bouncing with each step.
"Slow down, no need to hurry," Mr. Granger said, handing her an ice cream and pulling out a small wooden spoon. The vendor had tossed in extra spoons—five for three ice creams, each with a cute strawberry design.
Hermione glanced down at the ice cream. In a split second, she seemed to make up her mind. She grabbed the ice cream container and a crepe, then ran back to the girl.
Standing in front of her again, Hermione held out the ice cream and crepe, a bright smile lighting up her face. "This is for you. It's not candy, but it's sweet. Perfect for a day like this."
The chilled ice cream gave off wisps of cold vapor, and the sweet scent of strawberry jam filled the air, making the girl's mouth water.
The skinny girl froze, looking up at the young witch, her blue eyes filled with confusion.
"Just a little welcome gift," Hermione said, pressing the ice cream into her hands. After a moment's hesitation, she reached out and ruffled the girl's messy hair before turning to run back to her dad.
"Dad, give me another spoon. I want to try your chocolate flavor."
"Didn't you always love strawberry? Why give yours away?"
"Wanted to try something new today."
"Do you want me to go back and get another one?"
"No, it's too hot. Let's just head back to the hotel."
Hermione tugged at her dad's sleeve, pulling him along without mentioning the girl. She wasn't even sure what to say about her.
Mr. Granger chuckled and let his daughter drag him along. He knew how much she loved strawberry flavor—rarely did she get to indulge in sweets, with both parents being dentists.
"Alright, how about we order another ice cream at the hotel buffet tonight?" he suggested.
"Strawberry flavor this time!"
"Strawberry it is."
---
The father and daughter headed toward a stall where a street artist was sketching. Mrs. Granger had picked out her favorite postcards and paid for them. When she took her mint-flavored ice cream and learned Hermione had given hers to a stranger, she didn't scold her. Instead, she smiled and shared the mint ice cream with her daughter.
As the family of three disappeared around the corner, the little girl holding the ice cream looked down at her dusty fingers. She quickly adjusted her grip, careful not to smudge the treat.
With delicate care, she scooped a tiny bit with the strawberry-patterned spoon and let it melt in her mouth. Her blue eyes sparkled.
"So cold… and sweet."
Cheers erupted nearby as another kid joined the magic show, pulling candy from a hat.
The girl snapped out of her daze and pressed her lips together. This time, she didn't envy the others. Clutching her ice cream, she shuffled away from the crowd and found an empty set of steps to sit on.
The wooden spoon with its strawberry design moved steadily. Amid the distant noise and the breeze, faint rustling sounds came and went. The girl carefully scraped the container clean, the cream and jam softening the dry cracks on her lips.
The sweet flavor lingered.
Before she could start on the crepe, footsteps approached—likely security guards on patrol. But before they could get close, a soft breeze swirled around the steps, carrying a faint mist that rose from the ground into the sky.
Above the clear sky, a single cloud drifted, trailing behind a taxi.
Crumbs from the crepe floated down, drawing playful pigeons in a fluttering chase.
---
Lunchtime.
Melvin stood under the shade of a tree, munching on a hot dog from a nearby stand. Not far off, a young snake was reluctantly parting ways with a shepherd dog.
After all, getting caught up in a wizarding conflict while investigating was practically a workplace injury. After leaving the eerie graveyard, they'd found a hot dog stand. Graves emptied his wallet of francs to buy sausages to calm the shaken dog.
The trembling pup, still rattled from the ordeal, perked up after eating its fill. Tongue lolling and tail wagging, it bounded around them in circles, showing no trace of its earlier fear.
With the temporary ally soothed, it was time to part ways. The snake, Yulm, and the shepherd dog—unlikely partners—shared a reluctant goodbye, complete with whines and barks.
"On the bright side, that Obscurial girl seems kind-hearted. She's not likely to destroy Paris," Melvin said, glancing at Graves, who hadn't stopped sighing for the past half hour.
"Sure, the Obscurial might not, but there's still a pack of cultists and Dark wizards unaccounted for," Graves said, his face etched with gloom.
He was starting to believe that vague prophecy: whenever a descendant of Barebone appeared in the wizarding world, a prominent wizarding family would fall. Centuries ago, Bartholomew Barebone weakened the Twelve Trees family. Decades back, Mary Barebone should've brought down the Graves family, but his parents had stopped it. Now, the Second Salemers and Barebone's legacy were turning the wheels of fate again.
If seers and prophets could glimpse the future, a cursed prophecy like that didn't seem so far-fetched, did it?
"Launching a Portkey in the middle of a midair storm? Even if they reached their destination, how many cultists would survive? Their bodies probably splattered on the ground, worse than the corpse we saw at the forensic center this morning," Melvin said, trying to console him.
"But the Second Salemers and Purifiers aren't just that group. That was only one of three factions that escaped from Mount Carmel in Waco," Graves said, sighing again. "According to the FBI intel I got, three groups got out."
Melvin frowned, locking eyes with him. "You're not telling me there are two more Obscurials, are you?"
"Mount Carmel was a cult compound. They built a church and took in a lot of orphans."
"And?"
"All three groups that escaped took kids with them."
Melvin sucked in a breath. The spicy sauce on the hot dog—imported from Mexico—stung his throat. Looking at Graves's pale, defeated face, he reasoned calmly, "Fifty years ago, New York wasn't that big, so one Obscurial wrecked half the city. Paris is different—much larger. Even with two Obscurials, they'd only destroy half, at most."
Graves wasn't comforted. He managed a bitter smile. "No joking, Melvin. Paris is in real danger."
Melvin swallowed the last bite of his hot dog and wiped his mouth with the vendor's napkin. "Then let's hurry back and warn the French Ministry. Tracking down cultists across all of Paris—or even France—isn't something the two of us can do alone."
"But… they…" Graves hesitated. The French Ministry clearly wanted to sweep this under the rug. Their recent investigations had been half-hearted at best—French wizards just wanted to close the case quickly. If not for MACUSA's request through the International Confederation of Wizards, they probably wouldn't have even formed a patrol team.
"Don't overthink it," Melvin said with a soft laugh. "If they didn't want you investigating, how'd you get that intel in the first place?"
"You mean Bonnard!" Graves's spirits lifted.
"I learned one thing at the British Ministry: not every official's on the same page," Melvin said, tossing the napkin into a trash bin and clapping Graves on the shoulder. "Come on, let's head to Fürstenberg Square and file a report."
---
Half an hour later, at the French Ministry of Magic.
Bonnard sat behind his desk, his face expressionless, but his tightly clenched fists betrayed his tension.
"Mr. Bonnard, look on the bright side. At least we've identified the Obscurial early. The Ministry can prepare," Graves said, sitting beside Melvin and relaying the case in halting French. "If things go south, we'll be ready to respond immediately."
"You're saying there's a city-destroying monster hiding in Paris—and not just one?" Bonnard asked coldly. "Where's the proof? What evidence do you have?"
Graves blinked, caught off guard. "We saw it with our own eyes. If you don't believe me, check my memory!"
"Mr. Graves, you seem to forget who's sitting next to you," Bonnard said, narrowing his eyes. "Mr. Levent isn't just a Hogwarts professor—he's the founder of the Mirror Club. Altering memories, splicing images… no wizard's better at it."
Melvin, oblivious to the jab, was idly studying the room.
They were in the French Ministry's Auror Bureau reception hall, a space that looked like a medieval cathedral. A chandelier shaped like a tree hung from the vaulted ceiling, its crystal leaves glowing softly. Stained-glass windows depicted legendary tales of French wizards.
"Fabricated memories?" Graves's eyes widened, stunned by Bonnard's skepticism.
"There are millions of Muggles here, and tourists from all over the world. This isn't the Middle Ages. We can't mobilize the entire Ministry and turn Paris upside down just because of your unproven claims."
"Can't, or won't?" Graves shot back, glaring.
Bonnard avoided his burning gaze, pausing before speaking calmly. "You need to pinpoint the Second Salemers' exact location or provide solid evidence of an Obscurial. Only then can our director justify an emergency plan."
"Forty square miles, millions of people—how are two wizards supposed to search that?" Graves laughed in disbelief. "What, point my wand and say 'Point Me'?"
"The Point Me spell? Sure, most wizards use it for simple navigation, but old texts say skilled witches and wizards could use it to track specific targets in their mind. They say the witch Lisette Lapan found her way to Britain that way."
Bonnard's eyes glinted with a faint, unreadable light. He seemed to have processed the situation, his clenched fists relaxing as his tone steadied. "Mr. Graves, Aurors need to think flexibly. Sometimes, a different perspective makes the path to truth much clearer."
"I don't have time to debate Auror tactics!" Graves snapped, waving a hand.
"Finding a few hidden cultists in a capital city is tough. But tracking down young wizards—especially ones not yet of school age—is easier than you think," Bonnard said, pausing before offering his suggestion. "Why not ask Beauxbatons for help?"
"The school's professors?" Graves asked, confused.
"Not the professors—the school's magic," Bonnard clarified. "Ancient schools like Hogwarts and Beauxbatons send out dozens, even hundreds, of acceptance letters each year. They have unique ways of locating young witches and wizards. Ask the Hogwarts professor sitting next to you."
Graves hesitated. He'd graduated from Ilvermorny, founded by Irish witch Isolt Sayre and her Muggle husband, James Steward, to teach their adopted children. It later grew through enrollment, relying on a registration system. Only in the last century had it partnered with MACUSA to track pre-school-age wizards and send out letters.
Melvin's eyes lit up as he caught Bonnard's meaning. He turned to the Auror captain. "You mean the Book of Admittance and the Quill of Acceptance?"
The Book and Quill, left in a Hogwarts tower since the founders' time, were part of the school's system, like the Sorting Hat. Whenever a child in Britain showed magical talent, the Quill recorded their details in the Book, ensuring their acceptance letter reached them—down to the exact address, like Harry Potter's cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys'.
In theory, an Obscurial—showing magical ability before school age—would be noticed by Beauxbatons' magic the moment they entered Paris. The school would record their information, ready to send an acceptance letter when they turned eleven.
With Beauxbatons' help, they could quickly track down any Obscurials hiding in the city.
"How do we contact Beauxbatons? Just show up in the Pyrenees and hope for the best?" Graves asked, skeptical. "Those legendary magical artifacts from the school's founding—why would they lend them to us without Ministry approval?"
"I can't give you a warrant to requisition Beauxbatons' artifacts," Bonnard said, his eyes on Melvin despite addressing Graves. "But I can write you a note to try your luck at the Education Department office on the fourth floor."