Chapter 216: Detective Graves
London, 10 Downing Street.
In a way, this was the second most splendid room in all of Britain, with an expensive carpet kept spotless, a beautiful marble fireplace facing the sash windows, the windows half open and half closed, cool summer night breeze blowing in from outside.
The room was filled with the faint scent of printer ink, or rather the fragrance of power, a fragrance with an intoxicating magic that made one diligently handle affairs, tireless, day and night without rest.
The midsummer night temperature was comfortable, the Prime Minister sat alone in his office, reading the memo prepared by his assistant, which listed tomorrow’s to-do affairs, the schedule for the coming week, and the urgent intelligence just delivered.
「Dense fog appeared over the North Sea, cause unknown, a cruise ship missing, 174 tourists missing…」
The Prime Minister forced down his fatigue to finish reading the intelligence handed up, downed half a cup of coffee in one gulp, his head still somewhat dizzy, even if his spirit had some reserve, his aged body couldn’t withstand the high-intensity work.
The more he tried to concentrate on reading the words on the paper, the more his vision blurred, those letters and words twisting into the smirking faces of political opponents, he could already hear those people attacking him in Parliament:
Even if this is a natural disaster, it is caused by the Prime Minister’s negligence and fault.
Just as he was rubbing his brow in distress, a slight cough suddenly sounded in the room.
The Prime Minister had heard the same cough before, on the night he was elected and took office, a visitor suddenly appeared in the fireplace, revealing to him the hidden veil of the world, nearly shattering his past perceptions.
“There are wizards secretly active all over the world, the Ministry of Magic is the government that manages wizards.
“Regulations on how to responsibly use flying broomsticks, control the number of dangerous magical creatures, especially fire dragons and nifflers.
“No need to worry, I only come to disturb you when I run into big trouble over there, and the accident might affect the Muggle world…”
Past memories suddenly surfaced, his chaotic mind suddenly cleared, he abruptly looked up at the portrait hanging on the wall.
It was a dirty oil painting, placed in the office from some unknown time, ignored by everyone, cleaners subconsciously skipping it during cleaning, depicting a man wearing a silver wig, looking like a frog from a children’s picture book, the cough coming from his mouth.
The Prime Minister tentatively called out: “Hey?”
The man in the oil painting turned his head, staring blankly at him: “To the Muggle Prime Minister: Request urgent meeting, please reply immediately, your faithful Fudge.”
“Uh… alright, I can see him.”
Hearing that familiar name from the portrait’s mouth, the Prime Minister’s response was somewhat flustered, then feeling it improper, he straightened his tie, adjusted his face to a relaxed and composed expression, basic skills of a politician.
Suddenly, bright green flames burst from the empty belly of the marble fireplace, under the Prime Minister’s gaze mixed with surprise and fear, a short plump middle-aged man stepped out from the flames, just like last time, with a yellow-green bowler hat on his head, wearing a pinstriped cloak.
But this Minister of Magic was completely without his previous pomp, soaked through, like a drowned rat just fished out of the waves, water from his clothes dripping onto the office carpet.
“Oh, this is Axminster pile carpet!” the Prime Minister couldn’t help complaining, just because of this carpet, his Chancellor of the Exchequer nearly resigned.
“Never mind the carpet, trouble is coming soon!”
Pale-faced Fudge panted roughly for half a minute, wringing out his cloak in a disheveled manner, “I just came back from Azkaban, you know, in the middle of the North Sea, didn’t even have time for dinner, what a rough journey…”
“What Kaban?” the Prime Minister keenly caught the keyword, “North Sea!?”
“Yes, Azkaban, wizard’s prison.” Fudge poured seawater from his bowler hat, splashing it onto the expensive carpet, “The dementors are restless, they’ve never let anyone escape their watch before, soothing them is sheer torment.”
What nonsense… the Prime Minister only cared about the cruise ship missing in the fog: “We have a ship missing in the North Sea, did you do it?”
Fudge shivered: “Not us, the dementors, they’re hunting Sirius Black, the fog is what they summoned.”
What monsters, what little gray wolves, more nonsense… the Prime Minister grew annoyed, slapped the table and stood up: “What have you done to my citizens? Are they alright? I order you to release them as soon as possible!”
“Calm down, Prime Minister.”
Fudge sighed, “Sit down, sit down, I can explain in detail, how about a whiskey.”
Attacking my citizens, barging into my office, and you want my whiskey?!
The Prime Minister’s eyes widened, but seeing him draw his wand and conjure two glass wine glasses out of thin air, filled with amber liquid, his anger suddenly dissipated, and he suddenly had the patience to hear him out.
For the next half hour, Fudge poured and drank by himself, rambling on carefree.
Some words and terms were really incomprehensible, vague and foggy, the Prime Minister could only connect context, guessing the meaning, managing to understand seven or eight parts, another basic skill of politicians.
What Azkaban, what Hogwarts, sounded like place names, one a prison, one a school.
A boy named Harry Potter seemed very important, still in school, possibly the heir to the wizard country.
A wizard named Dumbledore, who troubled Fudge greatly but he could do nothing about, probably his political opponent.
And a wizard named Lavent, Fudge’s tone complex when mentioning him, judging by past experience, probably a reporter media.
“…I had to come to you, Black is a famous Muggle killer, if he causes big trouble, Lavent is a Muggle Studies professor, I suspect he’s Muggle-born, and Guffey might condemn me in the newspapers news, of course, not entirely because of that.”
“Black is one of the Dark Lord’s after all… the Dark Lord is the Dark Lord, how do I explain it to you?”
Fudge seemed unwilling to mention that name, he grabbed a pen from the table, wrote the name on the third quarter fiscal table, and handed it to the Prime Minister sitting opposite.
The Prime Minister looked down and spelled it out: “Vol… Volde…”
“The fiend whose name cannot be mentioned!” Fudge interrupted him in horror, “Dumbledore thinks he’s still alive, in my view it’s just his lie to gain support, but the escaped Black still warrants our full alert, issue the warning! Contact us immediately if there are clues! Goodbye Prime Minister…”
What nonsense?
The Prime Minister watched him step back into the fireplace: “What about the people on our ship?”
“Nothing serious, just lost direction in the fog, strayed into waters near Azkaban, trapped by Muggle Repelling Charm, they’ll be back by dawn.”
Fudge waved his hand, vanishing into the bright green flames.
……
“French wizards value freedom and equality, the lines between Muggles and wizards aren’t so distinct, and the Ministry of Magic was established relatively late, not only later than other countries, more importantly, later than《 the Secrecy Law》 was enacted.”
Mr. Graves patiently explained in detail, “Unlike in America and Britain, the Ministry of Magic here not only informed the Prime Minister and President of relevant intelligence, but also set up a disguised identity as special intelligence liaison within the security department, when necessary, Aurors can conduct investigations as DGSI agents.”
The General Directorate for Internal Security in France, like America’s FBI, Britain’s MI5, just not as well-known.
Melvin nodded, bluntly asking: “So that’s why you, a senior Auror, led me to the wrong place?”
“I’m an Auror, my case experience is all related to wizards and magic, for cases in the Ministry of Magic, whatever is needed can be handled in the Woolworth Building, related evidence, deceased bodies, trial room, execution chamber…”
Mr. Graves objected: “How was I to know Muggles don’t keep bodies in the police station, but in some forensic institute.”
“No wonder you can’t get promoted, you’re a professional Auror, yet your investigating isn’t as good as my amateur.” Melvin shook his head, mocking without regard for the middle-aged Auror’s pride, “Made us run around in vain, wasted an hour.”
Unfamiliar with Paris layout, and unable to openly apparate during the day, they had to take taxis and walk, time-consuming and laborious, plus getting ripped off like Muggle tourists by the driver.
Fortunately no taxi robbers, the small car drove out of the main city along the main road, ran along the streets by the Seine River bank for a while, then stopped at a bridge named Austerlitz, the senior Auror holding the map, insisting the forensic institute was nearby.
After getting off, comparing the map and road signs, they fumbled to the institute entrance like tourists, this judicial institution naturally had access control, security guard in the booth flipping through a magazine, no entry for unrelated personnel, external staff needed to register.
“See, this is where the DGSI identity comes in handy.” Mr. Graves pulled out his badge from his pocket, matching his black ash robe attire, indeed looking like an investigator whose identity couldn’t be disclosed.
“Then you go register.” Melvin nodded toward the security booth.
Contrary to their expectations, approaching the booth and knocking, peeking through the small window, the staff inside flipping through a porn magazine still sat in his chair, feet crossed on the table, no reaction, as if he couldn’t hear.
A deaf-mute employee?
Mr. Graves stopped knocking, somewhat hesitant, until he saw the sign on the door did he realize, today was weekend, not work hours.
Graves hesitated and pushed open the door: “Hello, DGSI investigating a case.”
The staff was stunned, glanced at the sign by the door, then at his badge, equally hesitant: “Hello, come back Monday?”
“This is a case investigation, a murder!” Graves was amused in anger.
The staff put down the magazine, drawled: “This is the forensic institute, the cold storage inside holds 400 bodies, weekdays we do judicial autopsies on 10 bodies a day, every body is a murder case.”
“The case we’re investigating is different! Very important!”
“Which case isn’t important?”
“…”
Listening to the back-and-forth debate, Melvin was somewhat speechless, he clearly saw the smile on the staff’s face, as if this argument was more entertaining than the porn magazine, better at passing time.
While the staff was refuting Mr. Graves, Melvin drew his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at the staff, silently chanting in his mind:
【Soul Ejection】
A strange warm current surged from his mind, down his arm and wand, probing into the staff’s mind, this sensation similar to the flame gifted by the fire dragon, Melvin felt the magic-connected target could understand his intent, obey his commands.
The staff’s eyes glazed for an instant, he took Graves’ badge, registered it in a small booklet, and handed it back: “Alright, you can go in.”
“We’re here to protect Paris! The tourists and residents around here, you know this case…”
Mr. Graves’ unfinished reason stuck in his throat, seeing the lax employee suddenly change, he was at a loss, only reacting after being pulled into the institute.
“Melvin, did you just… use?”
“Yes, Imperius Curse.”
“You’re mad! That’s Dark Magic, that’s an Unforgivable Curse!”
“…”
Melvin turned to look at this kind-hearted middle-aged Auror, pondered briefly, “Then ask again, what did you say just now?”
“I asked if you just used the Imperius Curse?”
“No, you persuaded him.”
“…”
Graves immediately fumed, nagging and advising all the way beside him, having seen many cruel vicious Dark Wizards, but seeing someone nearby use an Unforgivable Curse still made him tirelessly persuade, truly believing that textbook rhetoric.
In a way, this Auror was upholding the original creed of the Twelve Aurors.
“Ilvermorny definitely doesn’t have such courses, I think you learned it at Hogwarts, a school with a thousand-year heritage, how can it not emphasize the influence of Dark Magic, Melvin, listen to me, Dark Magic really corrupts the mind, I’ve seen many cases…”
Melvin didn’t find him annoying, letting him ramble beside, following the signs to the underground morgue cold storage.
No security outside this time, but an on-duty forensic assistant, alone in the morgue, head down writing autopsy report, heavy dark circles, as if about to drop dead anytime.
“You stand here don’t move, I’ll negotiate…”
Graves stopped Melvin from approaching, turned to the assistant, movements swift and decisive, expression with some resolve of facing death.
Melvin watched his back recede, shook his head, not knowing what fired him up.
By the time he finished negotiating and turned to call, Melvin had found the deceased’s spot in the freezer cabinets, pulled open the drawer compartment, somehow grabbed a folder, holding it while circling the body observing.
The body dissected and sutured by the coroner, skin waxy pale, unmarked areas covered in bruises and dark patches, cold air pervasive, huge Y-shaped wound across chest and abdomen…
Graves couldn’t help being stumped, a wizard without professional knowledge, he couldn’t even distinguish which wounds were made by the coroner and which came with the deceased.
Melvin handed over the folder: “Here, autopsy report.”
“Hm? Where’d you find it?”
“Printed itself from the computer at the door, while you were negotiating with that assistant.”
