BOOM…
The thick fog, packed with raw power, shattered.
Three streams of black-gray mist slammed into an invisible wall—like a silent bomb exploding mid-air. Heavy, lead-like clouds burst outward, a shockwave ripping in every direction.
A pocket existed where the fog couldn't reach. Inky wisps traced its outline—a dome, an upside-down bowl shielding the museum. Outside: the destructive Obscurus fog. Inside: calm. Between them: a transparent, unbreakable Iron Charm.
Hermione held her breath, crouched by her unconscious parents, eyes darting. She couldn't see a thing.
The fog swallowed all light. The museum's power was fried in the earlier fight—no skylight, no lamps. Pitch black. Like they'd been dumped in the wilderness.
The howling wind stopped. The fog never got closer.
Thirty seconds of dead silence. She could hear her own breathing, her heartbeat. It made her stomach twist.
Can't just sit here. No movement above. Professor Lewinter might be in a stalemate—needing help.
"If I can find the dark wizard… use him to threaten the monsters outside…"
She strained to listen for the dark wizard. Hesitated. Then cautiously flicked her wand—Lumos.
Her eyes widened. She froze.
Two figures, just fifteen feet away. One was the young professor—sharp long coat, crouched in front of the dark wizard, staring him down, speaking low.
The witch beside him was young too—brown hair, blue eyes, cool expression.
"Hermione? Vacationing in Paris?" Melvin smiled.
"Professor Lewinter…" Hermione hesitated. Not the time for small talk.
"Let me introduce you. This is Beauxbatons' Professor Christine Rozier…" Melvin waved her over. "Christine, my star student—Hermione Granger."
"Professor Rozier. Nice to meet you."
Hermione greeted, a little dazed, and stepped closer. They were in a side corridor of the Louvre's south wing—wrecked like a truck had plowed through. Floor tiles ripped up, walls stripped bare.
On a patch of relatively flat ground, the dark wizard slumped against a pillar, half-lying. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. Face pale. Barely holding on.
What little strength he had left? Spent keeping his eyes shut tight.
Melvin tapped his wand. The wizard's eyes snapped open—black, bloodshot, wild like a cornered beast. But the second they met Melvin's, they flinched away in panic.
"Ancient magic—Legilimency," Melvin said casually. "Magic travels through eye contact. Dives into the mind—flips through emotions, memories. You have to break down deep mental defenses. Tricky."
He locked eyes. His gaze was a dark lake bottom, dragging the wizard's mind under—cold, suffocating.
"Professor… what's he looking for?"
Hermione whispered to Christine.
"A way to control the Obscurials."
"Obscurials?"
Christine pointed up. Three black masses pounded the dome. Inside the fog, three faces flickered—the three "demons" from earlier, slamming themselves against the shield, desperate.
The invisible barrier shuddered—like glass about to crack.
"That's an Obscurus," Christine explained. "Young wizards suffer massive trauma, reject magic, suppress it. The magic warps—becomes a dark creature. Fast. Destructive. Unstable. Nearly impossible to control."
She kept it short. "These kids were twisted by cultists. Direct combat could worsen the trauma. Melvin's looking for a way to calm them—reverse the Obscurus."
Hermione raised her light. The faces were clearer now. The middle one—snarling, twisted. The other two—blank, empty. Puppets. The black-gray clouds kept ramming the shield, over and over, uncaring as the Iron Charm scattered their mist.
No wonder Bastian had that warped master-slave mindset. Beaten down as a child, brainwashed, fed lies.
"Can he really find a way?" Hermione's voice softened with pity.
"No." Melvin stood. The dark wizard's eyes rolled back—he was out. "He's trained in Occlumency. Not great, but enough to block me. I can't get deep."
"Then we fight." Christine gripped her wand.
"That white mist behind them—it's Bastian. She's not with the cult. She's helping me." Hermione quickly added.
…
Outside the fog.
Bastian floated at the edge, tearing at the black mist with everything she had—guilt ripping her apart. She'd escaped Salem. Why drag Hermione into this? Why bring pain to the Grangers?
Memories flooded—whips, starvation, screams. Fear clawed at her. What if Mrs. Granger dies like her mom, in the melting snow? What if Hermione ends up like the others—drilled in the forehead, smiling gone, a puppet?
"STOP! STOP!" Bastian yanked at the black fog. "WAKE UP! PICKANY…"
Through a gap in the mist, she looked down. Terror surged—her white mist churned wildly. The dome cracked—a seam. Black fog poured in.
The air shook. A low thunder rumbled, like summer storms trapped in the clouds.
The black tide loomed. Below, the figures looked like ants.
As it closed in, Melvin raised his wand high to the right. His lips barely moved—curse nearly silent. But a breeze swept the sky. The three faces looked down.
The fog rippled. Sensitive wizards felt it—Melvin's magic, vast, dwarfing the mist.
"Fiendfyre…"
The incantation was Latin—ancient, from when it was still spoken. The tone was wrong, twisted. Tail end carried the shrieks of animals burning in forest fires, drowning out the thunder.
A faint red glow sparked at his wand tip.
The second it touched the black mist—orange flames erupted. They raced along the formless fog.
The leaden clouds over the Louvre became a blazing sunset. Tiny particles turned to molten lava. Whirlwinds fed the fire. In moments, the sky was consumed.
The three faces twisted in agony. They thrashed in the inferno—flames clinging like bone-deep rot. Their screams—raw, piercing—sent chills down spines.
Ash rained. The Obscurials tried splitting into countless wisps, fleeing the fire cage. But the crack had sealed. The dome trapped them—flames, smoke, and all.
The fire took shape—serpents, dragons, sphinxes, horned beasts. Savage flame-creatures charged through the sky. Heat carried pure destruction. The black mist fueled it—burned to nothing.
Hermione's hair whipped in the blast. Scorching wind hit her face. The air smelled of burning. Even with eyes shut, the fire painted the dark red.
"Professor—Bastian!" Hermione turned to the god-like figure beside her.
The Fiendfyre devoured nearly all the fog. Only thin, dull gray wisps remained—trapped in the dome, drifting down. They solidified into unconscious boys.
The Obscurus burned out. Couldn't hold form. Left weak, empty shells.
"Alert the Ministry—lock down the site, Christine." Melvin eyed the fainted Obscurials and dark wizard. The fire was gone. Everything around them—ruined.
Red sparks burst in the sky like fireworks.
Minutes later—crack, crack, crack—Auror after Auror Apparated in. Uniforms, gear, cameras. Hermione watched, stunned, as French Aurors documented, cuffed the dark wizard and three boys with special restraints.
A middle-aged Auror—thick dark circles, badge on chest—took charge, calm and efficient:
"Memory Obliviators—seal three miles around the Louvre. Emergency protocol."
"Prep the Ministry for special containment—5X-level magical creature."
"…"
Aurors fanned out silently. Repaired cracked floors, reattached glass to frames—perfect seams. Some treated the dark wizard and boys' wounds, wary, then locked them up.
More wizards arrived—sealing info, wiping Muggle memories.
One idle Auror approached the group—dark circles deeper than the captain's. Tired eyes scanned: "Melvin. How'd you find this?"
"Just happened to be here."
"This little witch?"
"My student. They were touring the museum. Got caught in the crossfire."
"That convenient?" Mr. Graves looked skeptical.
Hermione didn't flinch. Nodded firmly. "Exactly like Professor Lewinter said."
"We'll need statements for the Auror Office."
Christine stepped up. "I know the French Ministry. I'll handle it."
With the Rozier name backing them, it was over fast. No trouble. No nosy Aurors. Hermione and Melvin were cleared to take the unconscious Grangers to the hospital. Statements later.
…
The morning fog finally lifted. Traffic and pedestrians returned. Hermione walked slowly beside the professor, sunlight warm on her skin. She looked dazed.
Her parents floated behind—Invisible, under a Disillusionment Charm. She was walking Melvin back to the hotel. She knew her parents—Stunning Spell. They'd wake soon. No hospital needed.
A block from the Louvre, she whispered, "Professor… Bastian…"
"Tell me about you and Bastian." Melvin was curious.
"I met her yesterday, on the street. She was alone, hungry. I gave her food. That night, she followed me to the hotel…"
All the way back, Hermione recounted—still reeling from the last two hours. "We thought she was trafficked or abandoned. Planned to adopt her. Then… sigh."
"Salem, dark wizards, slaves, Obscurials…" She looked up. "Professor, what is all this?"
"Salem started as extremist Muggles in America—centuries ago, witch hunts, trials. Evolved into New Salem—cult fanatics. Mixed with dark wizard descendants. Tried to overthrow MACUSA…"
Melvin kept it short. Skipped details. With Hermione's personality, she'd hit the library when school started. No need to over-explain.
"…Inspired by the New York incident, they breed Obscurials as weapons. Torture, pain—make kids hate magic. Drugs and brainwashing turn them into tools."
Hermione pressed her lips tight. When she heard most Obscurials don't live past ten, her face changed.
"Bastian's different. Her soul… mutated. Power stabilized—somewhat. But still unknown if she'll lose control. Or die young."
Melvin watched her open the hotel suite, settle her parents on the couch. "After all this… you still want to adopt her?"
"I don't regret it. Mom and Dad won't either." Hermione's voice shook.
Melvin's lips curved. He flicked his wand. A white mist drifted out, pooling on the carpet—slowly forming a child's shape. The girl blinked big blue eyes, tears streaming, looking at Hermione.