Chapter 214: French Ministry Of Magic
Late at night, on the Seine River bank, to the right side of Saint-Germain Avenue.
On the dimly lit square, the faucet in the circular pool gushes at a slow and steady flow rate, which is the fountain’s operating speed after sunset.
The water flows murmurously, very quiet, with only the occasional sound of an owl flapping its wings past. Centered around a Gothic lamp post, Ottoman architecture surrounds it, guarded by four plane trees, forming a courtyard structure.
As one of the oldest abbey ruins in Paris, the scene of Fürstenberg Square is just like that depicted in pastoral poetry.
A sturdy Thestral carrying the carriage lands quietly. The street lamps are old and malfunctioning, with goose-yellow light bulbs illuminating the blurred inscriptions on the stone carvings, which seem to be road signs left from the abbey period, pointing exactly to the area for accommodating guest envoys’ carriages and horses. Since the mid-16th century, this place has been used to stable the horses and carriages of visiting guests.
An eccentric middle-aged man steps out from the carriage, wearing a black robe with a very long hem. If walking on the streets during the day, this gentleman would probably be taken for an attention-grabbing performance artist.
He quickly walks to a statue on the side, extends a slender wooden stick from his sleeve, and taps it lightly.
The ground begins to shake slightly, a crisp sound approaches from afar, like the cracking of dry tree branches in autumn. Seventeen tree roots burst out of the soil around the fountain, with faint blue light between the roots, meshing with the statue and growing into an ornate giant birdcage.
The Thestral pulls the carriage into the birdcage, the tree roots suddenly close up, and from the sound of colliding and meshing, the birdcage material doesn’t seem like wood, but more like some kind of steel metal.
With a faint clatter, the birdcage sinks underground, carrying the carriage and the wizard on it to the French Ministry of Magic hidden underground.
Inside the carriage, Melvin looks at Mr. Graves’ extended hand, his gaze deep and shadowy: “What investigation team? When did I join, and why am I unaware of it myself?”
“Then I can only tell them that you’re not my investigation assistant, but a Dark Wizard who sneaked into the country, and you’ll have to go through their scrutiny process.” Mr. Graves says while looking out the window.
Having tricked Mr. Graves too many times before, this time it counts as making amends.
Melvin shrugs helplessly and grasps that hand for a shake.
“Finally, I win once…”
The elevator arrives at the Ministry of Magic hall. Melvin follows Mr. Graves out of the carriage and looks around, now seeing the full appearance of the birdcage elevator: steel twisted like tree roots, yet following some rule, with perfectly curved arcs that faintly exude beauty, like a work in the Art Nouveau style.
At this late hour, the circular hall on this floor is quiet.
The atrium of the French Ministry of Magic is an elegant palace structure, with a ceiling height of nearly thirty feet, as grand as Versailles, with exquisite marble columns supporting the arched dome. In the center hangs a spherical crystal lamp, and the ceiling top is a mosaic of green steel and silver glass, inlaid with silver runes outlining patterns of magical creatures and constellations.
A low growl with a warning tone rises from behind the lamp post, as if some guard animal is there. A French Auror steps forward to soothe it, followed by several gaunt slender spirit cats, with pure black fur and silver-blue eyes without visible pupils.
“Spirit cat guards…” As Melvin looks at these animals, he flicks a wisp of blue flames from his fingertip, carrying magic power gifted by the fire dragon.
“Meow~”
The little things immediately stop hissing, their cries becoming gentle and coquettish, their raised fur smoothing down, sitting coiled on the ground with tails swishing.
The Auror ahead shows a pleased smile, thinking it was his soothing that worked.
Mr. Graves and the Captain of the Aurors talk in low voices, reaching some consensus, then looks up at Melvin: “The Department of International Magical Cooperation is off duty, they have their own affairs, so we have to go to the archives to register ourselves. Someone is on duty there, just follow the process.”
Melvin has no objections, of course.
He just can’t figure out why the French Aurors trust two foreign wizards to wander the Ministry of Magic late at night, one of whom is an illegal entrant… Melvin can’t think of an answer, so he attributes it to trust in Mr. Graves.
Walking down the corridor, the silver lights are not dim, with faintly glowing runes on the floor, and portraits hanging on the walls and stone pillars. Some are ordinary black-and-white prints; if they detect an intruder, the black-and-white prints turn into the intruder’s face.
Some are magical oil paintings; these portraits have their eyes closed in rest, but open them immediately upon detecting noise, staring fixedly at the two, somewhat eerie.
“The British Ministry of Magic was established in the 14th century, the American Ministry of Magic in the 16th century. French wizards inherently revere freedom and don’t want a government dictating to them, until the late 18th century when the Ministry of Magic was formed.”
Mr. Graves explains, “This group of wizards reveres nature, with the motto of cast a spell, cast a spell, summon.”
“Late 18th century… French Revolution?” As a Muggle Studies expert, Melvin is sensitive to these key dates, his expression slightly odd, “Cast a spell, cast a spell, summon… corresponding to liberty, equality, fraternity?”
“Exactly right, professor.”
Probably due to the oppressive pursuit of Second Salem and the Purifiers over the past year, Mr. Graves even cracks a joke, teasingly calling Melvin professor, “The organizational structure here is simpler, with not many departments. The Auror’s Office is almost the same as the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Justice Department is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…”
Listening to the Auror’s introduction, they arrive at the third underground level.
The archives of the French Ministry of Magic is a treehouse, tall and deep. The archives room is locked, only visible through the stained glass: rows of bookshelves extending to the ceiling, storing various books and materials inside.
The adjacent antechamber is paved with polished granite tiles, where an elderly old wizard sits.
Knocking lightly on the door, Mr. Graves goes to handle the handover. The old wizard is initially impatient, but upon learning Melvin is a Hogwarts professor and Order of Merlin, Second Class recipient, the process goes smoothly afterward.
Registering identity and wand, handling entry procedures, the whole process takes less than ten minutes.
The quill scratches across the parchment, with a simple sketch portrait of Melvin, similar in style to those black-and-white portraits in the corridor, rough yet vivid line strokes outlining facial features, with an ink print from the wand tip below.
The old wizard finishes the file, rolls up the parchment and hangs it on the tree, vine branches then move this rolled parchment to the adjacent room.
Mr. Graves’ gaze sticks to it, muttering a few words to the old wizard, seemingly making some request, but the old wizard’s iron-gray eyes sweep coldly, clearly not going well.
Mr. Graves slightly turns aside, revealing Melvin behind him, as if indicating it’s not his own request, but the opinion of Melvin, this Order of Merlin recipient.
The old wizard glances over, turns to Melvin, stares at him for a moment, reaches into the tree-shaped bookshelf to rummage, pulls out a document bag and tosses it to Melvin.
Mr. Graves shows a pleased smile, pulls Melvin out, explaining to him: “I asked him to retrieve suspicious murder cases in Paris recently, the ones the Muggle government classified as natural deaths, but with suspicious magic traces around.”
“Is this why you enthusiastically invited me to join the investigation team?” Melvin ignores his smile, “Why not have the French Aurors retrieve them for you?”
“Although the French Aurors value Second Salem and the Purifiers, they don’t know how dangerous these guys are. Their investigation thinking is always limited to Dark Wizard criminals, just strengthening patrols, always rejecting my investigation plans, going around in circles for weeks with no clues.” Mr. Graves says.
“Rejecting your investigation plan isn’t because they don’t know how dangerous these guys are, but because they do value them.” Melvin glances at him sideways, boarding the departing birdcage elevator, “They don’t want to anger a group of ruthless Dark Wizards in Paris, planning to impose martial law and patrols for a while, forcing Second Salem to relocate again.”
Graves stands stunned in place.
The elevator leaves the magic palace, passes through a silent darkness, and the street lamps of Fürstenberg Square shine again, the faint yet clear glow dispelling the chill in his heart.
The young professor’s calm voice echoes in his ears: “As long as this group of terrorists relocates, no matter where, as long as it’s not in French territory, unable to threaten French wizards and Muggles, they’ve fulfilled their duties.”
“No wonder they’ve been intentionally or unintentionally obstructing my in-depth investigation.” Graves mutters.
“Are you still going to continue the investigation? They’ll soon know you accessed the archives, might sue you or find ways to block your investigation.” Melvin asks softly.
For this stubborn middle-aged Auror, Melvin feels respect: fighting on the front lines year-round, promotion blocked but never complaining, simple moral concepts but justice, just utterly clueless about political favors.
“Before they deport me back to New York, I’ll keep investigating!” Mr. Graves says solemnly.
“Sounds like I might get implicated too.” Melvin says with a light laugh, “But who made me accept your invitation? Copy the materials and give me a set, Mr. Graves.”
Graves is somewhat moved, uses his wand to duplicate the document bag, and hands the copy over.
Seeing Melvin put away the document bag, he suddenly thinks of something and asks puzzled: “You don’t speak French, what do you need the materials for?”
“I don’t, but I can hire a translator.” Melvin weighs it, feeling it has some weight, it seems Paris hasn’t been peaceful lately, “It’s late, I need to go back to sleep too. Come find me at the hotel tomorrow morning, good night, sir.”
“Good night, professor.”
A sudden crack of air apparition rings out, the young professor vanishes from the spot, leaving only the middle-aged Auror’s shadow stretched long by the street lamp.
……
Late at night, hotel.
The amenities match the suite’s high price: bright lights, complete furniture, comfortable environment. After bathing, the young professor sits at the desk by the window, with over a dozen sheets of parchment spread out before him—the suspicious case materials just obtained.
Melvin crosses his fingers, stares ahead, reading at flying speed, occasionally making thoughtful hums, but if anyone watches his gaze, they’d notice he skips the scribbled French text, lingering only on the pattern photos.
“In the last two months, there have been fifteen murder cases, all with suspicious magic traces around, exactly double the previous two months. If it’s those Second Salem Dark Wizards…” Melvin muses briefly, “The French Ministry of Magic’s policy of letting things slide is completely useless.”
The spacious suite has no second person. The sleepy young snake coils on the table, its dilated vertical pupils slightly expanding, already sunk into sweet dreams. The illusory figure above the golden goblet busily reads the file, gathering outside information, fully focused without looking up, so no one echoes his sentiment.
A few minutes later, Riddle, having finished reading, snorts coldly with disdain: “Second Salem, Purifiers… heh, what a bunch of fools.”
“Oh, why do you say that?”
Melvin eagerly follows up, genuinely curious: as fellow Dark Wizards, what does Voldemort think of his foreign counterparts.
“A bunch of rats in the gutters, rats wherever they flee… no, calling them rats is too kind, they should be cockroaches!”
Riddle’s scarlet eyes full of cold laughter, “They were the first wizards to arrive in the New Continent. If they had made good use of the situation, they could have established a wizard-ruled nation over Muggles, even turning the New Continent into a magic continent. But this pack of insects had no long-term vision, only selling out fellow wizards for Muggle gold, failing to rule Muggles, failing to establish their own regime, ultimately destroyed by the later-established Ministry of Magic.”
Melvin finds the indignant phantom somewhat amusing.
As fellow Dark Wizards, Riddle inevitably projects himself a bit.
One inherited Slytherin magic research in school, unearthed Herpo’s Horcrux crafting method, becoming the first Dark Wizard in history to craft multiple Horcruxes, later founding the Death Eaters, but under the dual shadows of the Ministry of Magic and Dumbledore, could only hide after graduation to study Dark Magic intensively, taking decades to become the Dark Lord stirring storms.
While these North American Dark Wizards started with the New Continent, local wizard priests weak and insignificant, Muggle society chaotic and disordered, no proper magic school—this heaven-sent promised land should have become a wizard’s earthly paradise, yet they handed it over to the later Ministry of Magic.
Linking to his own future rise and fall, unexpected downfall, body destroyed, remnant soul who-knows-where now, Riddle feels mentally unbalanced.
Melvin shakes his head: “Let’s look at the materials. Catching them will vent the frustration.”
“Before that, I have a question.” Riddle refocuses, looks up and asks, “How did you know I speak French? Did the diary tell you?”
“I guessed.”
“Reason?”
“Voldemort is a French name.”
Melvin blinks, of course not telling him it’s trivia from a past life.
“…”
Riddle is silent for a moment: “Let’s look at the case materials. Starting from April 19th, fifteen murder scenes with suspicious magic traces, first is the Haso Subway Station…”
