In the morning, a group of Aurors stood inside the airport, but the Muggles went about their business completely unfazed. The usual morning bustle of the terminal flowed right around the wizards, paying them no mind whatsoever.
Victor walked into the terminal building alongside his sister, a sunny smile on his face. Passing through the metal detector, he gave the security guard a friendly nod. The guard frowned:
— Are you two all by yourselves? Where are your parents?
Victor looked up at him over the rim of his dark sunglasses:
— But they just went through right ahead of us.
Deep within the guard's eyes, a mysterious reddish light flickered for a brief second, and his stern expression instantly smoothed out.
— Oh... Right, sorry about that, kid. Guess I'm just a bit overworked today, — the man smiled apologetically.
— No problem at all, sir, it happens. Have a nice day! And don't forget to take a break sometimes, — Victor and Adele passed through the frame and moved on.
Trying to simply throw the guard off balance, Victor had accidentally overdone the compulsion spell—so after finishing his shift, the poor guy would end up applying for unpaid leave first thing.
Navigating through the concourse, they caught sight of Alastor Moody surrounded by a unit of Aurors. To the Muggles, they would have looked like a rather odd group, but ordinary people ignored them entirely thanks to Muggle-repelling charms.
Victor offered him a cheerful wave and casually strolled right up to him:
— Hello, Mr. Moody! Didn't expect to see you here. Are you heading off on vacation or something?
Moody's scarred face didn't soften in the slightest.
— Where are my men? — he asked, his voice harsh and raspy, fixing his single living eye on Victor.
Originally, the plan had been exceedingly simple: the Aurors were supposed to escort the train and lay a trap for Fenrir. In the event that the werewolves still dared to attack, Moody had a backup option—to quietly transport the boy and his sister straight to the Ministry of Magic. Finding their main target gone, the werewolves would have lost all reason to continue besieging the train.
But everything had gone off the rails. The very second Victor and his sister Apparitioned away, the werewolves made an organized retreat. At the time, Moody held out hope until the very last moment that they had simply been spooked by the Auror forces, and that their retreat coinciding with Victor's disappearance was a mere coincidence. However, upon arriving at the Ministry of Magic and finding no trace of the boy, Moody put two and two together: a traitor had infiltrated his own ranks, alerting Greyback the exact instant Victor was escorted away.
At first, Moody had nearly spiraled into despair. How was he supposed to report to Dumbledore that the student entrusted to his protection had been handed over to the enemy by his own subordinates?! Carrying an immense weight on his chest, he had personally traveled to Hogwarts, only to be utterly baffled when Dumbledore reacted with complete composure. The Headmaster simply asked him not to worry about Victor, assuring him that the boy would show up on his own soon enough.
Upon returning, Moody immediately dispatched men to search for them. First, he sent a team to Victor's house and to Diagon Alley, logically assuming the frightened boy would attempt to flee England. Aurors locked down train stations and airports. Suddenly, news broke: the missing children previously abducted by Greyback had been found. And as night approached, Moody was informed of a strange incident at one of the airports—two seats on a flight to France had been booked without names or surnames attached.
Knowing Victor's capabilities, Moody knew instantly: it was them. He personally came to the airport and set up watch. But upon seeing them, a vein nearly popped on his forehead. Instead of two terrified, cornered kids, standing before him were two completely relaxed passengers—as if they weren't fleeing for their lives, but simply heading off on a resort getaway.
— Your men? Ah, you mean those two... Well, they passed away. One was just unlucky, of course, but the second one... — Victor shook his head dolefully. — The second turned out to be a Death Eater, so he's no great loss. By the way, he was the one who killed your subordinate.
Moody's eyes narrowed dangerously. He had suspected his men might have been bribed by werewolves, but he never expected a carrier of the Dark Lord's Mark to be lurking right within his personal squad.
— Well then, it was nice seeing you, but we really must be going—our plane leaves soon, — Victor took a step forward, but Moody brought his heavy hand down onto his shoulder, holding him firmly in place:
— You're coming with me to give a detailed account of everything that happened out there.
Victor slowly turned his head toward him, offering nothing but an innocent smile.
Moody frowned, puzzled, as he noticed several passing Muggles suddenly freeze in unison and begin surrounding them in a semi-circle. Magic wands slid seamlessly out from each of their sleeves.
— I would strongly advise taking your hand off Mr. Moss, — a calm voice sounded from the crowd.
Finding themselves surrounded, Moody's Aurors instantly drew their wands as well, awaiting their commander's order.
— And who on earth are you supposed to be? — Moody glared with his single eye at the man who had spoken.
— My name is Antoine. And this is my escort detail. Madame Flamel personally dispatched us to protect Mr. and Miss Moss.
Moody's frown deepened as he felt the situation spiraling out of control:
— Mind telling me what business Madame Flamel has with these two children?
Antoine tilted his head slightly, looking at the Auror with a hint of ironic curiosity:
— Didn't you know? These two are Madame Flamel's beloved grandchildren.
Alastor's eyes widened in sheer shock. He slowly lowered his gaze to look at Victor, who was still smiling just as nonchalantly. Ordinary wizards might not have known, but Moody knew all too well how dangerous that woman truly was. Perenelle Flamel possessed devastating magical power rivaling Dumbledore himself. Except while the Hogwarts Headmaster abided by rules and strove to operate within the law, Perenelle was the shadow ruler of all France—an immensely dangerous and uncompromising figure.
Moody had no doubt: if Madame Flamel were angered, the entire British magical community would suffer. And she wouldn't even need to raise her wand to do it—simply cutting off the supply of alchemical ingredients and revoking licenses would suffice, given that the Flamel family held more than half of the world's alchemy patents.
Yet despite the mounting pressure and doubt, the old Auror had no intention of backing down so easily.
— The last thing I want to do is upset Madame Flamel, — Moody tried to speak calmly, but his voice vibrated with strain. — But I'm afraid Victor will still have to stay behind. He is a key witness in a vital matter of state security.
Antoine gave an unruffled nod, his gaze remaining cold and sharp.
— If you are referring to the matter of Fenrir Greyback, I can quite easily answer all your questions in his stead. Especially after you—personally—handed Madame Flamel's beloved grandchildren over to a Death Eater, I do not consider it wise to leave Mr. Moss and Miss Moss in your care. — Antoine placed heavy emphasis on the words "beloved grandchildren" and "personally." — Your man Apparitioned them straight into Fenrir's lair. Fortunately, my team intervened just in time. We personally conducted the rescue operation for the children, while conveniently relieving you of any further trouble regarding Fenrir and his pack of werewolves.
Moody stared at Antoine in stunned silence, his magical eye spinning wildly:
— So those kidnapped children... you freed them as well?
Antoine merely gave a brief, composed nod.
Moody could feel in his gut that something wasn't adding up in this story, but he didn't dare press the interrogation any further. He understood the veiled threat loud and clear: the fact that Victor and Adele had been snatched right out from under the Aurors' noses was entirely his own personal failure. If he kept pressing the children, Perenelle Flamel wouldn't sit idly by, and heads would roll—not just those of the rank-and-file operatives, but Alastor's own as well.
Moody was left with no choice. With a low growl of pure frustration, he reluctantly lifted his hand from Victor's shoulder and stepped aside, clearing the path.
Victor burst into laughter.
— Goodbye, Mr. Moody! It was a pleasure meeting you! — Waving farewell, Victor held Adele by the hand and, closely flanked by Antoine's men, headed toward the departure gate.
One of the Aurors hesitantly approached his commander:
— Mr. Moody, why did we let them go? They just practically admitted out in the open that they eliminated Greyback and his entire pack!
Moody cast a heavy, piercing glare at his subordinate, making the man instantly shut his mouth:
— Forget it. They were saving the boy and girl and rescued the rest of the children. They had no choice—it was pure self-defense.
The Aurors in his unit exchanged glances, frowning in discontent. Alastor Moody had always been a principled opponent of extrajudicial killing—he caught criminals and sent them straight to Azkaban. Yet here he was, unconditionally turning a blind eye to a crime.
— That's enough. Back to the department, — Moody ordered curtly, turning back toward the terminal exit.
One of the Aurors—the very same one who had spent the previous night on watch in Victor's house—was already striding behind his commander when he suddenly froze dead in his tracks.
Right in the middle of the bustling Muggle crowd stood a strange figure. It was a little girl in a dirty, nightgown faded to sheer white, with dark water dripping from it onto the floor. Her face wasn't visible—it was completely buried beneath a thick, matted heap of wet black hair hanging all the way down to her chest. The figure radiated a deathly chill, akin to a dark, bottomless well.
— Hey, Silas, look... — the Auror nudged his partner nervously with his elbow, the one he had shared the couch with through the night.
Silas followed the direction of his gaze and frowned. But instead of a girl, he saw something entirely different. Standing there, leaning against a pillar, was a tall, lanky clown in a tattered silver-gray suit with a puffy ruff collar. Across his pale, crack-covered face burned a terrifying, unnaturally wide crimson smile that stretched from ear to ear, and between his thin white fingers he held a cluster of red balloons. Unblinking, the clown stared straight at Silas.
— What's the matter, you never seen a clown before? — Silas asked.
— What clowns?! There... there's a girl standing right there. In a wet dress!
They exchanged puzzled glances and then stared at the exact same spot in unison. But by the pillar, there was no one left—only ordinary Muggles dragging their suitcases along.
— S-i-g-h... I need to get home and catch some sleep, ASAP, — Silas muttered, rubbing his eyes with his hand. — Pulling an all-nighter is making me hallucinate clowns. Let me get out of here.
The second Auror gave a hesitant nod. The pale girl with the wet hair just wouldn't leave his head. Because he had noticed her first and stared at her longer, he doubted that it had all just been his imagination. Still, forcing a quick shake of his head, the Auror tried to push the absurd delusion out of his mind.
A mere few months later, these two Aurors would be locked away forever in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. They would tremble endlessly in terror, frantically wedging themselves under beds and seeing monsters, completely unresponsive to external stimuli.
Once, out of sheer boredom, Victor had created an artifact designed to terrify wizards. Its principle seemed simple: as soon as a victim listened to the melody through to the very end, the box would bind itself to them and begin haunting them relentlessly. Extracting his own memories, Victor had generously packed the box with a heap of horrors from his past life—everything he could recall from horror movies. And to keep the box running without recharging, he had set it to draw power directly from the victim's own magic.
Back then, he had vaguely suspected he had made a miscalculation somewhere, but never quite figured out what it was.
Only much later did he realize his mistake: Victor hadn't accounted for the fact that a wizard's magic is intimately bound to their emotions. Every time the music box terrified its victim, it absorbed more and more magic poisoned by panic and despair, growing stronger and more insidious with every scare. Once satisfied, it would temporarily settle into a standby state. On Muggles, however, the box worked even worse: finding no magic within them, it began leeching their very life force, driving the victim to inevitable death within a couple of weeks.
Victor had no idea that the item he had left in the house out of petty revenge against the Aurors would begin roaming the world, passing from one victim to the next, growing stronger and more sentient with every single fright. From a simple joke box created for scares, it would transform into a true high-tier cursed artifact that would eventually claim hundreds of lives and ruin entire families.
The melody that, in his past world, had merely cheerfully announced the start of a Harry Potter film, would in this world become the herald of a swift and agonizing death.
Several decades later, it would be sealed away deep within the lowermost vaults of the Macusa as an extraordinarily dangerous cursed object. And the box would lurk in the dark, patiently awaiting the slightest loophole, the tinest chance to break free... Awaiting the day when someone's hand would turn its wind-up handle once again.
And all of this happened simply because Victor had straight-up forgotten what a dangerous thing he had created.