Paris city center, streets along the Seine.
The winding asphalt road felt eerily quiet. A sudden morning fog had triggered traffic controls—no cars, no pedestrians. Wizards flickered in and out of sight, Apparating all over the city.
There were tons of school-age witches and wizards in the Paris area—some not even 11 yet. Using the addresses on their Hogwarts-style envelopes, teams tracked down homes, checked for signs of long-term residents or recent move-ins.
Wizard family? Knock and introduce yourself. Muggle family? Get creative—bump into a neighbor on a walk, chat casually, rule out suspects.
Most were ordinary magical kids. Some families hadn't noticed anything weird. Others had, but thought it was a "special gift" and kept it locked down tight.
Christine walked ahead, Melvin at her side.
They cross-checked envelope info—one local wizard guiding, one out-of-towner analyzing fast. They flagged cleared envelopes and moved on. Smooth teamwork.
Sometimes they hit an 11-year-old—old enough for the acceptance letter. If Muggle-born, a Beauxbatons professor usually visited to prove it wasn't a scam. Normally late July, handled by main subject teachers. This year? Early. Assistant Professor Rozier took it on.
"Beauxbatons is France's only wizarding school—and one of Europe's Big Three. We teach Transfiguration, Charms, Potions… all the core subjects."
"I'm the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Christine Rozier."
"Yes, every magical child who turns 11 gets a letter."
"It's a boarding school."
"…"
Melvin stood by the mailbox, watching Christine in the courtyard patiently answering the parents' questions. The 11-year-old girl peeked out from behind them, shy. When she heard her "weird accidents" weren't a sickness but magic, her eyes sparkled.
She was the star, but the parents were way more curious—grilling Christine about the wizarding world.
The little witch slipped out from behind them, tiptoed to Melvin, stood on her toes, and rattled off something in French.
"Sorry, no French," Melvin said with a smile, crouching to her level.
"I… speak… little… English," she insisted, slow and careful.
Melvin grinned. Very little. "You a professor too?"
"Yeah, but not Beauxbatons. Hogwarts."
"Hog… warts?"
"Another magic school in Europe—Scotland. Same kind of classes."
"…"
The screening took longer than expected. By the time Melvin finished explaining Hogwarts houses, Christine had wrapped up with the parents. She paused quietly by the mailbox, not interrupting.
The parents listened in, whispering. Debating schools. When Melvin mentioned full boarding—home only for holidays—they exchanged looks.
As they left the street, Christine overheard:
"Beauxbatons. Closer for holidays."
"Exactly!"
Melvin smirked, guessing the gist. "Keep wandering Paris like this, Beauxbatons might lose a few newbies to Hogwarts."
"Madame Maxime will hate you."
"Shouldn't she blame you? First welcome gig and you're poaching."
"…"
Christine silently flipped to the next envelope.
She thought she was doing fine—better than her last job. Opening the wizarding world to a kid, telling them their "curse" was a gift? The way their eyes lit up? Pure joy.
"Let's go. Next kid. Let's drag those cult freaks into the light."
Melvin sighed. Summer vacation abroad—and still stuck working. For free.
…
Sewers.
Pickany crawled out of a pipe, coated in slimy filth, reeking like he'd bathed in a cesspool.
He'd been scavenging. Traffic lockdown meant empty streets—trash bins picked clean. Except behind a few bakeries. No garbage trucks. Yesterday's bread still piled up, wrapped, not even moldy—just a faint sour smell.
He'd bundled it in his shirt. Maybe the master would be pleased.
"Throw the food. Stay there. Don't come closer!" the man in the sealed-off pipe yelled.
The pipe was spotless—scrubbed clean, no moss, no rust. But no supplies. No water, no food. The ones giving orders? Getting meaner.
Pickany was raised in a Salem church. Fed on the Lord's grace. Grew up to be the Lord's slave. He had magic—but was taught it was the devil's curse. His sin. Only pain and service could redeem him.
Such a merciful Lord.
"Just bread." He bowed his head, ashamed.
The man bit into a baguette—rock-hard, gums aching. Forced down the sour, dry chunk. No water. Nearly choked. Fury rising, he hurled the rest at Pickany's head:
"Useless! No water?!"
Pickany flinched. That reflex pissed the man off. He lunged, kicking Pickany's head:
"Trash! Mongrel!"
"Dodge again?!"
"You planning to attack me, filth? Vermin!"
Rage unleashed. Pickany curled up, took it. Lips moving silently: The master's blows are salvation. Pain is redemption. Blood washes sin…
"Look at you!"
The whispered prayer made the man laugh—cruel, mocking. A few more kicks, then back to his spot, gnawing stale bread, still cursing.
"At least you obey, Pickany. Better than that other brat. Heard she lost it in the cemetery—nearly wiped out the Third Bishop."
"Bastard." Pickany knelt lower, picturing the girl.
Pickaninny—little bastard. His father, a "filthy" wizard, defiled his mother. Brought the sin. Others like him: Bastard, Coon, Buck, and Vench.
Coon died in the Texas shootout. Redeemed.
"Buck and Vench…"
Pickany glanced at the corner. His two "partners"—slaves, sinners. Eight or nine years old.
The girl's dry, tangled hair hid her face. Eyes vacant. A stale baguette landed near her—she reached, then froze, like she forgot why.
The boy's forehead had a sunken oval scar. Eyes half-open, pupils gray and empty. Barely blinked. Face stiff, mechanical.
Buck and Vench fought back. Defied the master. So he took their minds, their words. Left them with simple commands. To atone.
Better that way. Buck didn't have to frown. Vench didn't cry at night.
A noise in the pipe.
A wizard crawled out, face dark. "Trouble."
"What's worse than starving in a sewer? First Bishop goes home to sleep. You lot picnic on the grass. I'm stuck down here with these." The man spat.
The wizard ignored the rant, tossed food and water:
"Thick fog over the city. Not natural. Wizard-made. French Aurors patrolling. They're hunting us."
Fresh bread, bottled water, sealed cold cuts—a full bag. More than a day or two, even with the slaves.
The man snarled, "Hiding like rats forever?"
"Three Obscurials here. Our last weapons. Can't risk exposure." The wizard split the food—three portions for the kids. Buck and Vench took theirs silently, ate like machines. Pickany was livelier.
The wizard stared into Pickany's dark eyes. For some reason, thought of Bastard. A chill.
"We can't stay forever."
The man tore into cold meat, red juice on his lips like blood. "Fog helps Aurors. Also helps us. Why hide like rats? Let's hunt."
"Grab more kids?"
"Lost your best hound. Need a new one. Raising an Obscurial takes time—I've got plenty." His eyes gleamed. "Fog's perfect for Obscurials."
"No chaos now." The wizard frowned. "We paid big to bribe Ministry insiders. They're stalling the investigation. One mess-up, bigger problems."
"No local wizards. No Ministry trace. Who'd know?" The man shrugged.
"Your plan?"
"Summer break. Foreign wizard kids vacationing in Paris. Snatch a few. Train them slow in the sewers." A cold laugh. "Family trip? Even better. Torture the parents in front of the kid. Brainwash: No magic, no pain. Make them hate it. Turn them Obscurial."
"But…"
"Plus, Pickany can smell other Obscurials. Lucky? We get Bastard back."
The Scourer wizard went quiet. Eyes flashed with malice.
…
Fog blocked the sun. The room was dim—perfect for sleeping in.
Hermione's lashes fluttered. She didn't want to leave the warm bed. Something soft tickled her face—fine hair? She'd had the bedroom to herself all vacation. New roommate? Still adjusting.
Felt like Bastian had been watching her. The whole time.
"…"
Hermione opened her eyes, resigned.
The little girl in hotel pajamas stood right by the bed, staring. Big blue eyes unblinking. Wet, needy, clingy.
"Morning, Bastian."
"Morning, Hermione."
"Sleep okay?"
"Bast… tian never slept in a bed this nice. Never had a blanket this soft."
"When'd you wake up?" Hermione's heart softened.
"When the alarm went off." Bastian answered straight, obedient as ever.
That was ten minutes ago. Hermione sighed inwardly, ran a hand through her messy hair, then ruffled Bastian's. Headed to the bathroom.
The girl followed, glued to her side. "Hermione, we washing again? Bath first or hair? I wanna brush teeth—the toothpaste is sweet."
"Morning's simple—just face and teeth." Hermione answered patiently. "Don't swallow toothpaste. Spit it out."
The kid had no schooling, no normal upbringing. No basic know-how. Caring for her gave Hermione a weird grown-up witch glow.
Done washing, they left the room. No parents in the living area. Hermione figured they were sleeping in. "Bastian, I'll fix my hair. Go knock and wake them."
"Knock and wake them…"
Bastian repeated, padded in hotel slippers to the main door. Hermione opened her mouth to call her back—
The suite door opened. Parents walked in, arms full of breakfast.
Bastian stopped right in front of them, looked up, eyes firm: "Hermione told me to wake you."
Mrs. Granger smiled, pulled the girl into a hug, ruffled her hair.
"…"
Hermione tilted her head, watching.
Coincidence?
Bastian knew they were coming in.