Chapter 218: Second Salem
He didn’t notice it when he first entered the subway station. After discussing the Obscurus topic in the carriage, Mr. Graves’s attention returned to the real world. Various strange smells in the carriage rushed into his nose: damp moldy smell, sour body sweat smell, food residue smell, and sewer sewage smell.
Subway staff tried to cover them with stronger air freshener and perfume scents, but it only mashed these stinks into a more distorted and deformed monster, even more pungent than the morgue smell. Graves, who hadn’t slept all night, felt suffocated, his head faintly throbbing.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Graves, whose eyes were already somewhat dazed, followed closely behind Melvin, exiting the subway station. Occasionally, hurried passersby bumped his shoulder hard, but he didn’t pay much attention, greedily breathing fresh air with an expression like a survivor after a disaster.
They arrived at that graveyard remodeled from a medieval church, everywhere gray-white rock carvings and brick walls, the lawn emerald green, uneven paths paved with pebbles, pedestrians walking and stopping among the tombstones and memorial walls, with pigeons perched on the ground and wall tops.
Rather than calling it a graveyard, it was more like a park.
“Père Lachaise Cemetery…” Melvin read aloud.
The name of Père Lachaise Cemetery came from Louis XIV’s confessor priest. It was originally a small church, later converted into the priest’s luxurious villa, turned into a cemetery in the early 19th century, and now a famous scenic spot.
Many famous figures lie underground: Balzac, Wilde, and that Chopin who doesn’t have a complete body—his remains are in the cemetery, but his heart was sent back to Poland.
Besides these Muggles, many wizards are also buried here. Two centuries ago, the not-yet-declined Lestrange Family built a large mausoleum here.
As a registered Lestrange Family member at Gringotts, Melvin felt it necessary to tour here properly after the matter was over.
“Gang members set the transaction location in the tourist area, where there are many tourists and pedestrians, easy to escape and hide if something happens, thinking they could just blend into the crowd and be fine, who knew they’d run into a Dark Wizard…”
Bathed in sunlight, breathing fresh air, Mr. Graves regained some vigor, striding briskly ahead to lead the way.
Circling around bustling pedestrians, away from the cemetery’s famous scenic spots, avoiding the main road and weaving through winding paths, they soon reached a remote corner in the southwest of the cemetery. In the fairly spacious open space, a bench sat quietly, surrounded by dense shrubbery, excellent for concealment.
“Originally a good spot for couples to date, but it became a gang transaction site.”
Mr. Graves stared at the brownish-red stain left on the bench’s armrest, sighing faintly—it was blood dried into a stain.
Nearby railing still had police warning tape, some parts already broken. Melvin paced slowly, observing the surroundings, and spotted a rotten rat in a distant sewer. The photo in the materials still showed its shape, but now the rat’s body was just some fur and bones.
Graves searched around for suitable ambush hiding spots, moving through the shrubbery. An ordinary Dark Wizard might use the Disillusionment Charm to hide and sneak attack, but considering the magic level of Second Salem and the Purifiers, as well as the uncontrollable nature of the Obscurus, they still leaned toward the Dark Wizard hiding in the bushes.
Melvin crouched down to examine them. No bruises or scars were visible on these rats anymore, the residual magic power had dissipated, some ants and maggots lay nearby, no other clues.
It seemed to smell the rat’s scent, the emerald on the ring trembled slightly.
Speaking of which, Yurm had been exceptionally well-behaved during the summer vacation, staying quietly in the emerald, coming out at night to crawl around, attend classes, use the toilet, then sleep. It only needed feeding once every few days—such a low-maintenance pet.
Thinking this, the frustration of finding no traces lessened a bit. Seeing no one around, Melvin stroked the emerald with his thumb.
A young snake emerged, turning its head, its vertical pupils flickering with joyful light. It was July during summer vacation, Paris sunny and bright, cemetery green plants lush, warm but not humid—cold-blooded snakes liked sunbathing more than other animals.
“Hiss…”
Yurm slithered into the lawn, stretching its serpentine body, rubbing scales against grass roots and leaves, twisting and turning, playing happily, somehow evoking the déjà vu of Fang rolling in the grassland.
Melvin paused briefly, continuing to sense residual magic traces around.
“Obscurus… different from ordinary magic power… not Magical Creatures’ magic power either… no inclination… crude technique.” Melvin recalled the magic power left on that body.
He vaguely sensed some presence, but it was blurry. That power was like a faint dahlia scent in the air, lingering at the nose tip, seemingly within reach, but vanishing without a trace when he focused.
“Hiss…” Yurm’s breath sounded from behind.
Melvin turned to look and found it had caught a rat sometime, playing with it in front of its eyes.
The poor rat, tightly gripped by the snake tail, faced a constantly flicking tongue and snake fangs almost touching its head. Its peanut-sized brain couldn’t distinguish play from hunting, scrambling its limbs in fright, and when it realized it couldn’t escape, its eyes rolled back and it convulsed on the spot.
Yurm lost interest, released the tail, and sought another playmate.
Melvin watched the “dead” rat lying on the ground. After confirming Yurm was far away, its twitching short legs vanished into the grass, moving so fast there was an afterimage.
“…”
Melvin shook his head. Just as he was about to continue searching for clues, he heard Yurm’s voice again.
“Woof…”
A soft, fine dog bark, with a tail that trilled like coquetry.
Melvin looked up and saw Yurm had found a sheepdog this time, with beautiful black-and-white long fur, glossy and sleek, looking like a big plush toy, a collar around its neck—probably came with its owner for a park picnic and wandered here by chance.
Sheepdogs are high intelligence quotient breeds, professionally trained, staying calm in emergencies, but facing a snake that spoke dog language, its dog brain short-circuited on the spot.
The sheepdog’s face showed a human-like bewilderment.
“Woof?” Yurm barked again.
The sheepdog tilted its head: “Woof!”
“Woof woof…”
Realizing Yurm really knew dog barks, not just mimicking, the sheepdog happily bounced in place, quickly accepting this “compatriot,” circling Yurm, wanting to lick the scales but afraid to scare it, not getting too close.
Snake and dog exchanged barks back and forth, chatting amiably.
In just a few minutes, Yurm climbed onto its neck, looping around like a collar, then directed the sheepdog to Melvin.
“Woof woof!” This was Yurm and the sheepdog barking in unison.
“…”
Melvin looked at the animal duo, hesitating: “Yurm, are you telling me it can help me find clues?”
“Woof!”
Yurm responded, the sheepdog proudly lifting its head.
Melvin stared down at the snake and dog, both sticking out tongues, though the sounds differed—one hissing, one panting—rhythm and cadence oddly harmonious.
This was the wizarding world—what couldn’t happen?
He paused briefly, quickly accepting the absurd reality, reaching to rub the dog’s head: “I’m looking for someone. That rat over there and the bench both have that person’s magic… scent. Can you help me find it?”
“Woof!”
The sheepdog twisted its body and darted out, sniffing the bench, then the rat, tail wagging as it burrowed into the shrubbery. Half its body in, it turned and barked twice at Melvin, as if urging him to follow quickly.
Melvin followed casually behind the snake-dog duo.
On the other side, Mr. Graves, who had watched the whole process, was dumbfounded, blinking hard, expression blank. He suspected his lack of rest last night caused mental exhaustion leading to hallucinations.
…
This was an even more remote spot, seemingly unvisited for a long time, neglected, with streetlights and trash cans abandoned.
As they ventured deeper into the cemetery, the grass grew taller, nearly to the waist, like waves covering the view, submerging the sheepdog and young snake.
Melvin’s sight no longer had the snake-dog duo; he could only follow the trail they parted, tough weeds making faint traces vanish quickly, occasional barks guiding direction, letting him trail far behind.
After about half an hour, Melvin parted waist-high weeds, revealing a spacious open space ahead.
Quiet grassland, scattered with some litter on the ground, plastic bags faded, unknown how long they’d been there.
One area was clearly newly cleared, fresh-cut grass stumps, neatly leveled, divided into sections—some casually laid with newspaper and tablecloth, others more elaborate with tents.
The snake-dog duo sat not far away, wagging tails at a little girl.
Melvin sensed faint magic power, frowning slightly, approaching quietly to closely observe the suddenly appeared little girl.
The little girl was only six or seven, wearing an ill-fitting short-sleeved shirt. Clearly a girl, yet with messy short hair like weeds, fine stubble like grass clippings—probably parents clipped it casually for convenience.
Squatting, she looked half the sheepdog’s size, small face, faint eyebrows and lips, a pair of deep blue eyes, gaze vacant, long malnourished body skinny and pale, a collar around her thin neck, bony, collarbones prominent.
She clutched tender grass blades, patiently talking to the snake and dog: “This one tastes bitter, not good. This is sour, they think it’s not good, but I think it’s fine. This is sweet, sharing with you.”
The sheepdog and young snake had grass in their mouths, blankly tasting the juice, silent.
“Are you slaves too?” The little girl noticed its collar while feeding grass, patting its head fondly. “Hope your master doesn’t whip you, and if whipping, not with barbs.”
“Woof?” Yurm barked softly.
“I haven’t been whipped in a long time!” The little girl grinned. “But getting beaten is fine. Mother says slaves are like that—as long as wearing the collar, everything of the slave is the master’s. And master gives us food, teaches us knowledge, so we should obey commands. No mistakes, no whipping.”
Melvin stayed silent, knowing he’d found the right place.
“But I haven’t seen Mother in a long time…” The little girl lowered her head, dejected.
Yurm still had green grass juice on its mouth, deep vertical pupils gazing at the girl, barking questioningly.
“No, can’t run away—they can find you anywhere.” The little girl tilted her neck to show the collar, dark and murky, not tablecloth, not plastic, not metal, unknown material. “Made of double-ear grass and two-horn beast, locks on when worn, can’t remove, tightens to suffocate.”
Melvin sensed scorching magic power from the collar, not just bonding materials, but also Graphorn keratin, which could detonate the collar if needed.
In the cemetery corner’s grassland, the young girl sat cross-legged, recounting her situation in flat tone, revealing twisted thoughts. Melvin truly felt a despair clinging to her like a shadow.
“Huff… huff…” Graves arrived from behind, slightly panting. “Melvin, this place is too remote. Without the Point Me spell, I couldn’t find the direction. How did your snake get here?”
The little girl’s attention turned, seeing the wand in his hand, pupils shrinking: “You’re… a wizard!”
Dim runes lit on the collar, sending warning information. Commotion erupted from the distant tent, several figures emerged running this way, in Muggle clothes, filthy like tramps.
They warily eyed Melvin and Graves, drawing black Glocks, sights on their heads and chests, silently positioning to encircle, gun barrels gleaming coldly.
“You think these Muggle weapons can handle two wizards?” Mr. Graves asked coldly. “Tell us the Purifiers’ location honestly, or you’ll spend the rest of your lives in prison!”
The cultists surrounding them fired bullets, harsh sounds shaking the grass, flashes and gunpowder smoke briefly blurring vision, resolutely pulling triggers without pause.
“Bang bang bang…”
Gunfire rang out, gunpowder smell pungent.
But no bullet drew blood. Several meters from the two wizards, the bullets halted, suspended in air, like a miracle.
“Is he your master?”
The little girl looked urgent, voice trembling. “Make him run quick, or when my master returns, he’ll make me bite them… they… they’ll die!”
Before words finished, new runes lit on the collar. The girl’s face showed despair, large tears spilling from those eyes, streaming down her gaunt little face:
“I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”
“Woof?”
Yurm tilted its head, stared at the girl a while, slithered closer to her neck, baring wheat-like fangs, as if offering a snake kiss.
The young snake bit the collar, tugged slightly. The collar, like an overbaked donut, had no toughness, cracking crisply with a gentle bite.
Click, the collar fell to the ground.
