Deep in the night, Place Fürstenberg was silent.
The Ministry staff had all gone home; no wizards handled business at this hour. The underground French Ministry of Magic grew quiet again, the hearths extinguished, the lights dim. Melvin and the others sat around a round table, a few thick stacks of envelopes before them, their headings uniform.
The covers bore the same text: "Headmistress Olympe Maxime (Recipient of the Order of Valor, Chief Witch of the French Wizarding Association, French Representative to the International Confederation of Wizards)."
Aside from the names, the rest was identical: "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to attend Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. Enclosed is a list of required books and supplies. The term begins on September 1. We await your owl by July 31..."
Christine had said "soon," but it took longer than expected. Still, no one was impatient. These envelopes were her hard-won results. Without any evidence or Ministry approval, she'd single-handedly convinced Madame Maxime and secured student information for the coming years.
This soon-to-be-official Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was seriously reliable.
"I've obtained Madame Maxime's approval to represent Beauxbatons in this operation. After it's over, the Ministry must provide a full explanation," Christine said from her seat at the table's side. Her tone was calm, her expression composed, but her words carried a firm edge.
"That's only right," Mr. Bonheur from the Auror Bureau nodded, no objections.
"Madame Maxime asked me to relay to the Ministry that she takes this matter very seriously. She had me prepare these letters in advance, even at the risk of leaking student addresses—not for any other reason, but to prevent a repeat of the old Pureblood supremacist nonsense. She doesn't want students meant for Beauxbatons to go missing. Understood?" Christine stressed again.
Her words made Bonheur pause, his gaze dropping to the names on the envelopes. Thirty years ago, he'd received his own acceptance letter, and the memory of a new world opening up—like stepping out of a fairy tale into reality—flooded back. Every time he saw similar envelopes, he recalled his days at Beauxbatons, that pure, heartfelt joy.
Over the years, the Ministry's internal factional struggles had grown fiercer, and ties with ancient wizarding families had gotten messier. But Beauxbatons remained unchanged, untouched by the whirlpool of power and prestige, focused solely on the young witches and wizards.
Hearing Christine's relayed message, both Graves and Bonheur felt a pang of nostalgia. The nervous intern at the table fidgeted, and the room fell quiet.
Melvin, unable to understand French, sat observing Christine. He noticed traces of her Auror habits—crisp actions, decisive judgment—though her expression was a tad cold.
He suddenly wanted to laugh. Beauxbatons students probably thought she was a strict professor.
Christine pretended not to notice his amusement, her eyes fixed ahead as she split the stack of envelopes, handing most to Bonheur. "No matter what changes the Ministry is going through, it should fulfill its duty to protect France's wizarding citizens."
"I'll do my best to rally the Auror Bureau's manpower..." Bonheur glanced at the silent intern beside him. "And other available wizards. We'll screen these students within two days."
He paused, eyeing the remaining envelopes. "And those?"
"The rest will be handled by the Rozier family," Christine said evenly.
"The Auror Bureau will remember Rozier's help."
A flicker of surprise crossed Bonheur's eyes, but he said nothing more, grabbing the envelopes and hurrying out, dragging the bewildered intern along.
Christine turned to the other Auror. "Mr. Graves, the French Ministry's factional politics are complex. Mr. Bonheur may face obstacles mustering support. I'd like you to assist him, acting as backup in your capacity as a representative of the International Confederation of Wizards and MACUSA."
"Uh, oh, sure."
Graves was still processing. This witch's arrival had suddenly clarified the sluggish case. Bonheur was no longer stalling, and the plan was clear.
Were magic school professors all this impressive nowadays?
Rubbing his owl-like dark circles, he chased after Bonheur, mentally preparing for another sleepless night. He'd need Bonheur to hook him up with some Pepperup Potion—the Ministry's special stock.
Only two remained in the room. Melvin grinned. "Long time no see."
Was this really the time for catching up?
Christine met the young professor's smiling eyes, pursed her lips, and recapped the brief meeting: Madame Maxime's instructions, Bonheur and Graves's screening plans, and her promise that the Rozier family would assist.
Melvin listened, then asked curiously, "Why would a sly bureaucrat like Bonheur go along with your arrangements?"
"It's not my arrangements—it's Madame Maxime's, and the Rozier family's wishes."
Christine brushed past the messy details, looking into his dark eyes. "Just like I asked Mr. Graves to back Bonheur, I need your help too, Professor Levent."
"There's something for me in this?"
Melvin blinked, caught off guard.
"I need you to come with me to my family's estate—the Rozier manor."
...
The night deepened.
The stars and moon were too distant to outshine the lights lining the Seine. Neon reflections danced on the water, shimmering like a starry river.
In the hotel's apartment-style suite, the service matched the steep price. The suite, booked by Mr. Granger, had several bedrooms, so adding one girl didn't feel cramped. In the Grangers' bedroom, the main light was off, only a bedside lamp glowing softly, letting the couple talk without fumbling in the dark.
Lying on the plush bed, the day's shopping fatigue seeped from their bones, leaving them too tired to lift a finger.
Mr. Granger asked weakly, "How's the kid doing?"
Mrs. Granger, face mask on, spoke without moving her lips much. "Got her some pajamas from the front desk. After washing up and changing out of that T-shirt, with her hair dried, she looks like a normal kid."
Mr. Granger, sprawled on his pillow, mumbled, "Not what I meant. I mean, where's she from? Whose kid is she?"
"I asked..."
Mrs. Granger sighed. "She's too young, never been to school, and her language skills are shaky. She doesn't know much—just her name, calls the relatives who raised her 'master,' doesn't remember where she lived or how she got to Paris. She saw Hermione on the street and just followed her."
"Followed her?" Mr. Granger sat up, ignoring his aching limbs. "That's miles away—a taxi takes an hour! How'd she follow?"
"Someone must've brought her."
Mrs. Granger shot him a look, exasperated at his slow uptake. "Her little brain's not fully developed, and with long-term malnutrition, her mind's foggy. Her short-term memory's blurry too—she thinks she followed on her own when someone else brought her."
Neither suspected the girl had ulterior motives or was some kind of threat. A six- or seven-year-old, frail and thin, barely able to speak clearly, mostly quiet—after washing up, sitting on the sofa, she looked nervous and uneasy.
When room service brought late-night snacks, her blue eyes locked onto the desserts and treats, unable to look away.
Those blue eyes blinked like an abandoned baby animal. How could a kid like that be bad?
"Brought her..." Mr. Granger frowned, his slightly balding head catching the light. "Probably saw Hermione sharing ice cream with her, figured we're well-off and kind, so they sent the kid to us, hoping we'd take her in."
Mrs. Granger nodded, grumbling, "What kind of relatives do that? Even if they're abandoning her, this isn't the way! What if she got snatched by criminals or taken for experiments? We're going to the police tomorrow—they need to be punished!"
"An American girl sent to France to be abandoned? They might be illegal immigrants. The police won't find much."
Mrs. Granger sighed. "What do we do then?"
"Adopt her, I guess. Like gaining a daughter. Back in college, you said you wanted two kids." Mr. Granger rolled over, wrapping an arm around her waist, his voice slurring with sleep. "After Hermione, the clinic got too busy, and it's too risky to have another now. Adopting's not a bad idea."
"Adoption needs ID papers, doesn't it?"
"Back in London, we'll sort it out. I fix teeth for those official types—they won't mind helping with a small favor."
"We'd need ID to book a flight back to London!"
"..."
The exhausted dentist was already out cold, leaving Mrs. Granger to stew alone. Annoyed, she peeled off her face mask and switched off the lamp with a bit too much force, giving him a couple of whacks.
...
In the next room, the two girls were still awake.
Hermione had switched from a single to a double room to look after the girl who'd soon be her sister. She lay in bed, wearing hotel pajamas, her head tilted to watch the girl in the next bed.
Cleaned up, the girl looked pale and frail, her blue eyes almost glowing in the dark.
"Hermione?"
"Yeah."
"Hermione."
"Yeah?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to say your name."
Hermione's heart softened, and she replied gently, "Don't worry, little Basti. We won't abandon you. We'll always be here."
"You'll keep Bastard," the girl said slowly, her voice full of hope.
Hermione's pale brow furrowed.
Why was she still using words like "keep"?
Ugh, a seven-year-old who could barely speak properly—she'd probably never had a real education, neither family nor school.
Thinking this, Hermione sat up, looking at her seriously. "Little Basti, don't worry. You're a bit behind now, but it's okay. Back in London, you'll go to school."
"School..." the girl echoed.
"We'll get you ID papers in London. I've got ways to bring you back." Hermione had thought it through while lying there. "For the flight or ferry, we could use Polyjuice Potion to make you look like me, or an Extension Charm to hide you, or even human Transfiguration... I can't do those yet, but we can buy them at the wizarding market here."
"..."
The girl blinked, clearly not following.
A late breeze from the Seine slipped through the window's gap, lifting the curtain's edge. Outside, the city glowed brightly under a dim starry sky, its noise muffled. This midsummer night felt like it would etch itself into their minds.
Hermione pursed her lips and said softly, "I want to give you a new name. Is that okay?"
"What name?"
"From now on, you're not Bastard—you're Bastienne."
"Bastienne?" The girl tilted her head.
"It's a French name, meaning noble, respected person..."
Hermione didn't mention the old name's meaning, still angry that anyone would give a child—adopted or not—such a name.
"Bastienne!" The girl's blue eyes sparkled.
A strange warmth flowed through her, like cool ice cream melting on her tongue, sweet and comforting, or steak and macarons filling her belly, warm and reassuring.
...
At 11 p.m., a luxurious Thestral-drawn carriage glided smoothly along a quiet, tree-lined road. The night was like a tide, and through the window, Melvin glimpsed a manor at the road's end, half-hidden in the darkness.
This was the Rozier family's ancestral estate. In pricey Paris, it was the only manor for miles. Heavy bronze gates opened silently, and the Thestral trotted in, stopping by a low building on the right.
The estate had been pitch-black moments ago, but as the carriage stopped, lights flared up across the manor. Fairy-lit lampposts lined the path, stretching toward the distant entrance hall. The carriage door opened, and a white-uniformed house-elf stood waiting.
"Welcome home, Miss Rozier," the elf bowed, its movement polished to perfection, like it had been rehearsed a thousand times.
"..."
Melvin glanced at the house-elf, then at the lampposts and the glowing fountain in the garden. He'd visited many wizarding estates—Nott, Graves, Lestrange—but none matched the grandeur of this Rozier manor.
Christine caught his glance and pursed her lips.