Chapter 219: The Bird Is Free
That collar made by the Purifiers, who scoured the treasures left by their ancestors and used ancient magic and alchemy to research a magical instrument capable of binding an Obscurus, was now broken into two sections, quietly lying on the lawn, its neat break emitting a faint glow.
The development of the situation was beyond everyone’s expectations. The little girl stared blankly at the broken circle on the ground, her eyes no longer vacant, a strange brilliance blooming from her pupils, turning into shining deep blue.
Graves suddenly noticed that the noisy gunfire had stopped. At some point, those stubborn cult members had ceased firing, the surrounding grassland becoming quiet, a stillness enveloping everyone.
A figure in a cloak appeared on the lawn, accompanied by the crisp but not harsh tremolo of air bursting, proving his Apparition technique was masterful. Standing in front of that group of cult members, he proved he was a Purifier descendant, the dark wizard of Second Salem.
“Bastard, pick up the collar.”
The dark wizard turned to look at the little girl, his face shrouded in the hood, expression unclear. “Good girl, obey nicely. You know what punishment awaits those who don’t listen.”
Bastard（bastard）, mongrel?
Melvin and Graves reacted simultaneously. This was the dark wizard who tamed the Obscurus.
Under everyone’s gaze, the little girl shrank her neck, her body unconsciously trembling from bone-deep fear. She sniffed, as if defending herself or speaking to herself: “I didn’t disobey.”
“Then pick up the collar and tear this group apart!” The dark wizard was aggressive, impatient from anger. “Don’t argue with me. If you can’t carry out my orders immediately, that’s disobedience. Disobedient slaves deserve punishment! Do you want to end up like your mother?”
The little girl stubbornly defended: “Mother didn’t disobey either.”
“Carry out the orders! Otherwise, a weak slave like you would be whipped to death in a few lashes…”
The little girl froze in place, her deep blue eyes showing a dim, reminiscing expression. That winter, mother died under the whip.
While others celebrated Christmas, mother came back from working in the kitchen and hid a small piece of candy for her in her sleeve—saved from making bread, just a small piece—then those people discovered it and whipped her.
She didn’t die immediately, but winter was too cold, the wounds wouldn’t heal, slowly turning black and oozing pus, and she died when the snow melted.
The little girl pursed her lips, unwilling to listen anymore or argue further. She looked down at the sheepdog and young snake, squeezing out a faint smile to express thanks.
“I’ll remember you.”
The little girl closed her eyes. She probably wanted to purse her lips into a smile, but crystalline teardrops fell from her eyes. She tried to grin but couldn’t stop the tears, seemingly unsure whether to cry or laugh, unknowingly already in tears.
With her at the center, the cemetery wasteland lawn suddenly began to shake, whirlwinds rising from nowhere. In just a few seconds, a tornado slowly rotated.
The sky was covered with heavy leaden clouds, hanging like an inverted funnel, twisted by the wind into swirling patterns.
Melvin, witnessing the entire process nearby, said softly: “The bird is free.”
The tornado whirlwind howled, forming almost instantly, stirring the surrounding grassland into wave-like undulations. The sheepdog’s fur clung tightly to its body, wizard robes fluttered loudly, and the gun-wielding cult members were blown staggering, forced to huddle together, nearly lifted into the air.
The little girl was gone, dispersed into thick black mist.
The gale carrying the black mist swept through, enveloping everyone. In the distance, grass waves surged, the ground beneath their feet trembled and cracked, as if the entire world was shaking. Melvin had never encountered such magic power; he didn’t flee immediately nor act rashly.
Melvin stood firm in the gale, letting his robes flutter, unmoving in place, one hand raised with wand, upholding the Iron Armor Charm’s shield to protect himself and Graves.
At this moment, the bubble film no longer blended into the air but shimmered with brilliant golden light, like armor forged from gold.
The dark wizard on the other side also tried to raise the Iron Armor Charm, but the surging turbulent winds gave him no chance. Before he could cast, his wand snapped in two, his cloak tearing to shreds.
The few square feet where the sheepdog and young snake were seemed to be the eye of the storm; amid the raging winds, they suffered no harm.
The dog’s fur blown flat against its body, as if the little girl was stroking their fur and scales, fulfilling her earlier promise to remember them.
Mr. Graves watched with contracting pupils. As a veteran Auror with rich duelling experience, he had battled dark wizards up close countless times in the past, but this scene still shook him to the core, leaving him nearly speechless.
The Woolworth Building had no legendary wizard like Dumbledore. During the legendary battle between Dumbledore and Grindelwald back then, he was still young and hadn’t witnessed it. At Ilvermorny, professors each had their specialties; duelling wasn’t a main subject, occasional duelling classes were just teaching drills among professors, nothing intense.
Instead, the duelling atmosphere at home was thicker. Father was the stubborn security director who, after the New York incident, reflected deeply and never slacked for decades. Mother was the Congress president, exceptionally gifted and powerful.
Their existence was already the pinnacle for ordinary wizards. Graves had seen their duelling practice, immersed in it from childhood, believing he had witnessed true wizard duels, but never anything like this.
The entire heaven and earth seemed to be their domain. The Obscurus turned into black mist stirring wind and clouds, like a demon escaped from hell, while Melvin stood unmoving in the whirlwind, robes fluttering, shield glowing, like a deity.
Graves looked up at the sky, lips moving but unable to speak. That dark wizard had been lifted into the air, his form shaking and floating in the black mist, bones cracking audibly, skin torn, face revealed, covered in blood.
If this continued, it would definitely result in deaths!
Graves was about to shout when Melvin gestured for silence, saying calmly: “That dark wizard is still conscious. He cast Levitation Charm on himself, stalling for time to wait for an opportunity.”
Graves widened his eyes; this senior Auror hadn’t noticed: “But…”
“Shh, don’t disturb this Obscurus. The next part is the critical period of her transformation.”
Melvin saw the Auror’s puzzled expression, paused briefly—nothing better to do—and patiently explained: “This Obscurus doesn’t know what it’s been through. At such a young age, it accumulated profound despair but not much anger or hatred. Now suddenly free, not blinded by vengeance, its emotions trigger soul transformation, unconsciously releasing power, not intentionally attacking anyone. We’re like that grass over there, just caught in the power’s wake.”
The soul is the source of magic power. Even if the Obscurus’s power is twisted and corrupted magic, it’s still closely tied to the soul, still an expression of wizard will.
Melvin looked up at the sky-obscuring black mist tornado and said softly:
“Once she adapts to this state and her soul stabilizes again, she might be able to control this power.”
The grassland on the tornado’s periphery was nearly uprooted, shredded leaves, stones, and dirt falling like arrows, striking the golden shield wall with crisp metallic tones. The wind grew fiercer, its howl sounding like a banshee’s wail, chilling to the bone.
The dark wizard caught in mid-air couldn’t hold out. The rotating stones in the wind were like a meat grinder; holding on longer would turn him into fertilizer here.
The spare wand bound to his hand shook with difficulty. The dark wizard’s body began soaring in the wind, occasionally swaying left and right, up and down, grabbing a few still-living cult members. By the time Graves noticed them huddled, the dark wizard was looking at his old boots.
“Melvin! Melvin!” Graves shouted.
The two boots’ heels clicked together. The nearby raging black mist tornado suddenly slowed, the arrow-like whistling debris and grass roots temporarily ceasing. A suction from the heels swallowed the dark wizard and several cult members, making them vanish on the spot.
“Portkey! Damn it, a Portkey again!” Graves gritted his teeth in frustration.
That boot-shaped Portkey had let the criminals escape once more.
“Activating a Portkey in unstable space—hope their landing isn’t far, and no stones get lodged in brains or spines.” Melvin looked up at the spatial magic fluctuations; the Portkey’s passage had taken not only the criminals but some debris too.
Graves fell silent upon hearing this, quietly watching the raging black mist outside.
The tornado’s vortex seemed to slowly shrink, the raging black mist slowing, blurry outlines emerging—seemingly two eyes.
Graves wanted to speak to her but couldn’t. The eyes stared at them for a few minutes, slowly vanishing into the thick fog, then the black mist gradually dissipated, revealing the true clear sky.
Graves looked around but couldn’t find the little girl’s trace, only the broken collar, stirring a mix of emotions.
“Obscuruses are sometimes invisible.”
Graves sighed; this was from the materials they mentioned on the subway.
The sheepdog crouched trembling, ears drooped, whining softly. Yurm nuzzled its ear comfortingly. Melvin sighed, walked over to clean the mud from the two little ones. The grand drama ended, leaving everyone empty-handed.
“Even losing consciousness, she worried about the two animals. How bad could such a little girl be?” Graves approached too, his tone still unresolved. The girl might not know how to face them, or simply didn’t want to.
Melvin glanced up at him: “What you should consider is there’s now an Obscurus wandering Paris City.”
Graves paused, his expression gradually turning dazed.
He could already see the《Ghost Post》 headline:
「From New York to Paris, Graves Lets the City Fall into Crisis Again!」
……
Paris 18th District, Tertre Square.
A street magician was performing, dressed in a black formal wear with cape, top hat on head, snow-white gloves eye-catching in the sunlight, speaking English with an accent. His stall displayed dolls and candy, attracting many tourists with children to stop.
“So magical… there’s a little bird in the hat…”
Chattering childish voices spread. Children in short-sleeved shirts watched white doves fly from the hat, eyes wide, expressions amazed.
“If you believe, miracles happen.” The young magician smiled warmly. “Children, who believes in magic?”
“Me! Me!”
The loudest-shouting child was selected, joyfully stepping forward, reaching into the hat. No dove, but a handful of candy, grinning ear to ear.
The other children’s eyes immediately filled with envy, eagerly tiptoeing and raising hands, nearly shouting themselves hoarse.
Not just coveting candy, but wanting to feel the magic.
Then another little girl was selected, with messy brown long hair, grinning to reveal two buck teeth like a beaver at the zoo.
“Little friend, do you believe in magic?”
Hermione frowned: “I’m already 13.”
“Alright…” The young magician touched his nose, wryly offering the top hat. “Miss, do you believe in magic?”
“Of course!” Her voice crisp, answer decisive.
The young magician was momentarily speechless—still a child after all. “Then miss, what do you want to pull out?”
“I can pull out a white dove.”
The magician shook the magic hat, thinking this miss would be disappointed. This was a prop for interacting with kids: one dove for the opening, the rest candy and small toys.
He smiled: “Good luck, lady.”
Hermione reached into the magic hat, her bright eyes darting, pretending to grope around, and indeed pulled out a white dove.
The magician’s eyes widened involuntarily, even doubting himself—had he miscounted the props? Looking at the surrounding children, another wave of amazement, eyes full of envy.
The little witch instantly raised her chin, tossed her hair smugly, and exited amid cheers.
Trace? What trace?
《Underage Wizard Reasonable Restraint Law》 is Britain’s law—why should it govern a witch in France?
France has related regulations too?
She, a little Hogwarts witch, why obey France’s laws?
Leaving the magic stall, Hermione looked around. Mom was still picking hand-painted postcards, Dad guarding the ice cream stall in line—three people ahead, her strawberry ice cream would take a few more minutes.
Bored, she scanned the surroundings and suddenly saw a skinny figure by the recent magic stall, about three feet tall. It was hot July midsummer, yet the clothes were inappropriately heavy, looking malnourished, but those eyes were very bright.
Her eyes fixed on that magic hat; every time someone pulled candy, they brightened more.
Strangely, Hermione recalled her own birthday that year, standing like this outside the Quidditch Pitch, eyeing others practice in teams. Then two professors walked the long grounds path to her.
Hermione approached, looking down at the little girl, smiling: “The hat has two compartments: toys on the left, candy on the right. Even without believing in magic, you can get some. Want to try?”
“I believe in magic.” The little girl’s eyes fixed on her right hand, speaking slowly—that hand had just pulled a white dove not in the hat.
“Then you should try even more! Maybe you’ll pull a white dove too!” Hermione encouraged.
The little girl shook her head, licking dry skin on her lips: “I only want candy.”
“Right pocket is candy. Go try.” Hermione advised pityingly, starting to miss Professor Levent. If the professor were here, he’d surely pull endless candy from the pocket.
Sadly, she hadn’t learned that technique.
