The thick fog had thinned out the tourists, so a quieter museum made sense. But at some point, the Denon Wing in the south had gone dead silent—no visitors, no staff.
Bright lights gleamed on the exhibit floors. The stunning Veela mother and daughter exchanged a look, then glanced at the sheepdog rolling playfully on the ground. They couldn't help but smile.
"The people Caramel met yesterday are really here?"
Mr. Delacour muttered in surprise. "Père Lachaise Cemetery, Louvre—they're following our exact itinerary. Maybe we should say hi. Could run into them again."
Short, round, middle-aged wizard. Neat black goatee. Nothing striking about his face—low, gruff voice. "I still want to ask what they did to Caramel. Scared the poor thing so bad it skipped dinner."
"Dad, Caramel didn't skip dinner," Fleur said, exasperated. "It overate. Its belly was stuffed with hot dogs."
The Delacours were usually busy with school and work. Summer was their rare family time, but with limited vacation days, they stuck to Paris outskirts. Yesterday at Père Lachaise? Weirdness.
Their swallow-tailed dog, Caramel, vanished for two hours on its walk. Came back odd—whimpering in Mrs. Delacour's arms, then glued to Gabrielle, circling her like a guard.
They brushed it off—overexcited pup.
Until dinner. Caramel refused to leave Gabrielle's feet. That got attention. Greedy swallow-tails usually buried their faces in bowls. Tonight? No appetite.
Mrs. Apolline Delacour and Gabrielle dropped everything, fussing over the dog.
Wizards don't speak dog, but Veela blood helps. Caramel was smart—whines, paw gestures. Half an hour of charades later:
It met another dog in the cemetery asking for help. Followed two wizards sniffing for something. Ended up in a wasteland. Terrifying magic.
"Wind everywhere—almost blew the dog into the sky."
Fleur still remembered Caramel's dramatic reenactment—paws flailing, eyes wide. Not scared, just ridiculous. Learning it skipped dinner because it was stuffed with hot dogs? Hilarious.
Caramel was back to normal this morning. Louvre trip on schedule. Fog? No problem for wizards.
"Since they're here, might as well meet them," Apolline said. Cascading gold hair, two kids, half-Veela—still youthful, elegant smile. "Maybe the wizard saw Caramel was a swallow-tail, teased it with magic, then bought hot dogs to apologize."
"Let's not," Mr. Delacour said. "Paris feels off lately. That fog? Auror Office cover for ops. Remember the patrols?"
Mrs. Delacour nodded, petting Caramel. "Cultist dark wizards hiding in the city."
"Purifiers from Texas. Brutal. Backed by money. Ministry pals say officials took bribes, stalled the search. Pissed off the Rozier girl—now it's a full sweep." He shook his head. "Best not chat up random wizards."
"We're already here—just a glance from afar."
"Pass. Aurors and Roziers are hunting. If it's them, we don't need the trouble." Fleur paused, frowning at the sky outside. "Mom, Dad… am I imagining it? The fog's getting thicker. And… darker?"
"Looks black to me. Did the Aurors switch fog spells?"
They looked out.
Pure white mist now streaked with lead-gray—like storm clouds brewing. Dense, almost solid, hovering low, ready to crush down. Caramel flipped upright, ears perked, pacing anxiously around the family, growling low.
"Caramel says it smells familiar in the fog."
Mr. Delacour frowned. "What? Yesterday's wizards are inside. Why outside? Ministry Aurors?"
"That's not Auror fog," Mrs. Delacour gripped her husband's arm—Veela instincts screaming. Not fog. Predator. "Dark wizards in Paris. They're here for the people in the museum…"
She inhaled sharply. "Real trouble. We need to leave. Now."
Mr. Delacour drew his wand for Apparition—then stopped. "Wait. We can't just go. Warn the wizard inside."
…
"In ancient Egypt, slaves were private property—foreigners, war captives, criminals' families. Their lives were miserable. Day: haul stones for temples and pyramids. Night: chores. Barely slept."
Hermione, face serious, lectured Bastian on slave suffering.
"But could they eat candy?" Bastian's focus was… unique.
"No candy. No steak. Nothing. Stale bread, kitchen slop—rotten food. Made them sick." Hermione wanted to fix the girl's warped views. Bastian had been abused, uneducated, brainwashed by relatives.
She'd just said she was the Grangers' slave. Good food, warm clothes—slavery was fine.
Hermione's head spun with anger. "You're nobody's slave. Slavery's over. You own yourself. No conditions are worth your dignity and freedom."
"Dignity… freedom."
Bastian tilted her head, remembering the graveyard. Her old master's words. Suddenly, she didn't want to obey anymore.
Hermione saw the thoughtful look, channeled Professor Levent's wisdom—ready for a deep quote. A letter floated into her hand.
Museum souvenir envelope. No name. No stamp.
She pulled out the paper. No signature. Just messy English, spelling errors:
"Leave now! Salem dark wizards closing in—after your sister. Unimaginable power. If needed, seek Ministry or Rozier family."
Hermione glanced around—who? Salem cultists? What did they want with them? Then it clicked. She looked at Bastian. "Bastian… ever heard of Salem?"
The girl nodded. "I used to live there."
Hermione's anger flared. No wonder slavery lingered. Evil wizards brainwashed kids. Bastian escaped—they hunted her in rage.
Anger turned to chills. Cultist dark wizards? Beyond a little witch like her.
Questions flooded:
Who sent the warning?
What was the Rozier family?
Their role?
How did the wizards track them?
Why Bastian?
Back of the paper—ink. A crude map. Paris. Two arrows: Place Fürstenberg. Riverside suburb.
French wizard traces—delivered weirdly.
No time for sightseeing. Ministry? Rozier manor? Unease rose. She looked out—fog thick, oppressive.
Temperature climbing. Morning mist should've burned off. This fog? Darker. Swirling like an abyss. Her heart sank.
Can't abandon Bastian. Can't drag Mom and Dad in.
Decision in a blink. Deep breath. "Mom, Dad—I want to take Bastian to another wing. Okay?"
Voice shaky—but subtle. Maybe the damp?
Mr. Granger glanced oddly, waved. "Don't go far."
Good—they didn't notice. Hermione grabbed Bastian and bolted. No taxis outside. Subway. No Apparition—too loud. Can't alert the cult.
Bastian didn't ask why. Held the warm hand, followed blankly. Heard the frantic heartbeat. Felt the panic.
"Hermione, go back," Bastian said softly, stopping. "I can leave alone. Piccani only tracks my scents. They won't find you."
"Piccani?"
Bastian pointed at a leaden cloud.
Hermione looked. Fog and clouds weren't one. Three black masses loomed, rolling in like a storm.
"You… can turn into that?"
"Yeah."
Hermione recalled Bastian's oddities. Sudden Paris appearance. No family. Followed her to the hotel. Not an abandoned kid—weapon raised by dark wizards.
She looked down. Bastian's face blank again—like the street kid watching others get candy. Lonely. Numb.
"Don't worry, Bastian. I'm not leaving you." Hermione hugged her gently, voice steady.
"We're not either."
Her parents' voices. The dentist couple wrapped her in a warm embrace. Hermione's trembling voice, her lies—parents noticed. Followed quietly. Heard everything.
"…"
Hermione gripped her parents' and Bastian's hands. Fear faded.
Yeah—dangerous, cruel cultists ahead. Parents: Muggle, no magic. But she was a witch. Her professor: Ilvermorny genius. Headmaster: world's strongest wizard. Back to Hogwarts after summer. Saturday tutoring with Professor Levent.
So much ahead—she wanted to fight.
Fog rolled in, sealing the museum. It thinned, revealing heavy gray sky. They looked for cover—Hermione couldn't pull Bastian's hand.
The girl stood frozen, staring up.
Three faces emerged in the clouds. Middle: blank. Sides: vacant, oval forehead wounds.
"They're here."