Chapter 225: Thick Fog
Paris City Area, on the street by the Seine River bank.
The winding asphalt road was somewhat deserted, thick fog suddenly rising in the early morning caused traffic control, there were few vehicles, horses, or pedestrians on the road, wizards’ figures were hidden in the fog, using Apparition to wander around the whole city.
There were many age-appropriate young wizards in the Paris area, some not yet 11 years old, finding their residences based on the addresses on the envelopes, carefully observing signs of habitation to check if they were long-term residents or had just moved in recently.
If they encountered a wizarding family, they would approach and proactively reveal their identity to ask questions; if it was a Muggle family, they would find ways to probe indirectly, coincidentally meeting neighbors out for walks and appropriately chatting to screen for suspects.
Along the way, they mostly found ordinary little wizards, some families unaware of their child’s abnormality, others aware but considering it some special ability, keeping it tightly under wraps and refusing to reveal it outside.
Kristin walked ahead, with Melvin by her side.
The two checked the information on the envelopes, one local wizard guiding the way, one out-of-town wizard quickly analyzing, picking out envelopes that could be cleared of suspicion, cooperating with great tacit understanding.
Sometimes they would encounter 11-year-old age-appropriate young wizards.
At this age, they could already sign for admission letters; if it was a Muggle family child, there would also be a Beauxbatons professor visiting to prove they were not scammers. In previous years it was around late July, handled by main subject professors; this year it was slightly earlier, with reserve professor Miss Rozier taking over the job on the way.
“Beauxbatons is France’s only magic school, one of Europe’s three major magic schools, offering Transfiguration, Charms, Potions… and many other subjects.”
“I am the school’s Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Kristin Rozier.”
“Yes, children with magical talent who turn 11 will all receive admission letters.”
“The school is boarding.”
“…”
Melvin stood by the mailbox at the door, watching Kristin patiently answer the student parents’ questions in the courtyard; the 11-year-old girl hid behind her parents, timidly watching them, her eyes lighting up when hearing that the strange occurrences on her were not an illness but magic.
Clearly the girl was the protagonist, but the parents showed no restraint in their curiosity about magic and Beauxbatons, constantly asking about wizarding world matters.
The little witch quietly slipped out from behind her parents, came to Melvin, stood on tiptoe and looked up, blinking her eyes, chattering out a string of words.
“Sorry, I don’t speak French.” Melvin said with a smile, half-squatting down to meet the little girl’s eyes.
“I… know a little… English.” The little girl wouldn’t give up.
Melvin smiled; she really only knew a little, speaking slowly with a strange intonation.
The little girl looked into his eyes: “Are you… a professor too?”
“Yes, but not Beauxbatons—I’m a Hogwarts professor.”
“Hog…warts?”
“Another magic school in Europe, in Scotland, with a curriculum similar to Beauxbatons.”
“…”
Such screening took more time than expected; after the two finished chatting about Hogwarts houses, Kristin had already finished explaining matters to the student parents, stopping silently by the mailbox without interrupting them.
The student parents were also listening in, whispering together, seemingly discussing which magic school was better; hearing Melvin describe it as a closed boarding school with returns only during winter and summer vacations, the two parents exchanged a glance, their expressions changing.
When leaving that street, Kristin heard the parents saying:
“Beauxbatons it is, at least vacations allow easier returns home.”
“Exactly!”
Melvin couldn’t help but smile, seemingly guessing the parents’ discussion, chuckling teasingly beside them: “Going around Paris City like this, maybe Beauxbatons will have a few first-year students transferring to Hogwarts this year.”
“Madame Maxime will hold it against you.”
“Shouldn’t she blame you? First welcoming job and you mess it up.”
“…”
Kristin silently turned to the next envelope.
She felt she had done well, at least better than her previous job. Opening the doors to the wizarding world for first-year students as a professor, telling her that strange power was not a disease or devil’s curse but a gift of magic— the light bursting in the student’s eyes brought joy.
“Let’s go, we’ll find the next little wizard and drag out those cultists.”
Melvin was somewhat helpless; even vacationing abroad during summer vacation, he still couldn’t escape overtime, and unpaid at that.
…
In the sewer, Pickaninny crawled out of the pipes, slimy sticky filth covering his body, the foul stench making him smell like he had crawled out of a cesspit.
He had just returned from foraging; traffic control was in effect on nearly all streets in the city area, trash bins had little good stuff, except some behind community bread shops where garbage trucks hadn’t collected, yesterday’s expired bread still piled inside—these well-packaged foods hadn’t gone rancid, only faintly sour.
So he wrapped the bread in his clothes and brought it back, perhaps to please the master.
“Throw the food over, stay there, don’t come closer!” The man living in the abandoned pipes shouted.
The clean sealed pipes had been carefully swept, every spot wiped repeatedly, common moss and rust cleaned away, but lacking supplies, short on water and food, those directing the slaves were increasingly irritable.
Pickaninny was a child raised by the Salem church, receiving the Lord’s grace from childhood, naturally becoming the Lord’s slave upon growing up; he also had magical talent, but was indoctrinated from young with the Lord’s teachings, believing magic was the devil’s curse, his own sin, requiring atonement of that sin for the Lord’s salvation.
Such a merciful Lord.
“Only bread.” He guiltily lowered his head.
The man over there took the bread and bit into it, the baguette crunching painfully against his gums, forcing down the sour expired bread without water’s lubrication, nearly choking, growing more furious and smashing the remaining half baguette at his head:
“Useless thing! Didn’t think to bring something to drink!”
Pickaninny instinctively ducked his head; this reflexive move enraged the man, who could no longer sit still, standing to approach and kick fiercely at Pickaninny’s head:
“Waste! Bastard!”
“Daring to dodge!”
“You trying to attack me too, scum! Filthy insect!”
The rage poured out unrestrained on him; Pickaninny curled up, letting the man beat and curse, lips moving silently reciting penitential prayers: the master’s beatings are salvation, pain is salvation, blood alone can wash away the sins on his body…
“Look at you!”
The cowardly enduring prayers drew a ferocious grin from the man, like seeing a ridiculous show; after a few more kicks he retreated, gnawing the dry baguette while nonstop cursing.
“You at least obey, Pickaninny, more sensible than that other baseborn; heard she lost control in the cemetery, nearly wiping out the third bishop.”
“Bastard.” Pickaninny knelt on the ground, head drooping lower, the girl’s face appearing in his mind.
Pickaninny is a pickaninny meaning little bastard; his father was an unclean wizard who defiled his mother and bore him, bringing this sin. Other sinners like him included Bastard, Kuhn, Buck, and Winky.
Kuhn died in a shootout in Texas, his sin redeemed.
“Buck and Winky…”
Pickaninny slightly turned his head; in the corner sat his two partners, two sinner slaves, one male one female, both around eight or nine years old.
The girl had disheveled dry messy hair covering her whole face, features unclear; her gaze wandered, seeing the baguette that had just smashed him land before her, her hungry body reaching out to grab the food but pausing midway, as if forgetting the intent of her reach.
The boy had a slight depression on his forehead, an oval scar, eyes half-open half-closed, pupils dilated to a dazed gray, even his blinking frequency vague, his whole face rigid and mechanical as if never expressing.
Buck and Winky were disobedient, defying the master; the master took their wisdom and language, leaving them able only to understand simple commands, thus atoning.
This was fine at least; Buck no longer needed to frown in worry, Winky no longer cry at midnight.
A sound suddenly came from the pipes.
A male wizard covered in filth crawled out of the hole, expression grim: “We’re in trouble.”
“What could be more trouble than starving in the sewer? After arriving in Paris, the first bishop returned home to rest, you Purifiers leisurely picnicking on the lawn, only I hiding in the sewer, squeezing daily with these slaves.” The man said coldly.
Ignoring his venting complaints, the wizard threw the brought food and water before him:
“Thick fog rose in Paris City Area; this isn’t normal weather, it’s thick fog created by wizards. Those French Auror Office guys are patrolling the city, definitely investigating us.”
Fresh bread and drinking water, plus sealed cold steaks, a full bag—not just one or two days’ worth even including the slaves’ shares.
The man grew more annoyed: “Hiding in the sewer like rats all day, how long do you want me to hide? A lifetime?”
“All three Obscurus are hidden here with you; this is our last weapon, can’t expose it.” The wizard divided the food into three portions and threw them to the three slaves; Buck and Winky sat in place silently receiving and eating; compared to those with frontal lobotomies, Pickaninny was clearly more lively.
The wizard stared into his dark eyes, for some reason suddenly thinking of Bastard, feeling a chill down his back.
“Can’t hide here forever.”
The man viciously bit into a steak, pale red bloodwater on his lips like a bloodthirsty beast: “The thick fog aids Aurors’ movement, but also ours; better to go hunting than hide in the sewer like rats.”
“You want to go catch little wizards?”
“You lost our best hound; we need to find another. Cultivating Obscurus takes time, and I happen to have free time.” The man was eager to try: “Plus the thick fog is perfect for Obscurus activity.”
“Can’t act rashly now.” The wizard frowned: “We paid a great price to bribe Ministry of Magic officials, having them use infighting to delay the investigation team’s pursuit; causing trouble now would only bring bigger problems.”
“As long as we don’t touch local wizards or get discovered by the Ministry of Magic, who would know?” The man didn’t care.
“You mean?”
“It’s summer vacation; surely little wizards from other countries are traveling in Paris. We grab a batch casually, cultivate them slowly in the sewer.” The man let out a sinister laugh: “Even better if it’s a family trip—torture the parents in front of the little wizard, brainwash him that it’s not magic so he won’t suffer such pain, make him hate magic, turn into an Obscurus!”
“But…” The Purifier wizard frowned.
“Also, Pickaninny can smell other Obscurus scents; if lucky, maybe even find Bastard back.”
Now the Purifier fell silent, a vicious glint flashing in his eyes.
…
Thick fog blocked the sunlight, the room somewhat dim; such light was perfect for sleeping.
Late-sleeping Hermione’s eyelashes fluttered, reluctant to leave the warm quilt; she felt fine soft hair brushing her face, tickling pleasantly; since vacation started she’d enjoyed the bedroom alone, the new roommate’s presence making her somewhat unaccustomed.
It felt like Bastien had been guarding by her side, staring unblinkingly.
“…”
Hermione helplessly opened her eyes.
The little girl wrapped in hotel pajamas stood silently by the bed, very close, her deep blue eyes unblinking, staring at her with moisture and dependence.
“Good morning, Bastien.”
“Good morning, Hermione.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Bast…ien never slept in such a good bed, never covered with such a soft quilt.”
“When did you get up?” Hermione’s heart softened.
“When the alarm rang.” Bastien answered every question obediently.
That was ten minutes ago; Hermione sighed inwardly, smoothed her messy hair, ruffled Bastien’s hair, got up and headed to the bathroom.
The little girl stepped forward, sticking close by her side: “Hermione, are we washing up again? Shower first or shampoo first? I want to brush teeth first; that toothpaste is sweet.”
“No need to be so troublesome in the morning, just face and teeth.” Hermione patiently answered her questions: “Toothpaste isn’t for eating; spit it out after brushing.”
This girl had no prior education, dreadful family environment, lacking life basics; Hermione felt inexplicably fulfilled caring for her, like she was a mature witch.
After washing up and leaving the bedroom, Hermione didn’t see her parents in the living room, thinking they were sleeping in too, said to the little girl: “Bastien, I’ll fix my hair; you go knock on the door to call them.”
“Knock on the door to call them…”
The little girl repeated the command, ran toward the main door in hotel slippers; before Hermione could call her back, the suite’s main door opened, parents carrying breakfast pushing in.
Bastien stopped right in front of the two, head tilted up, gaze firm: “Hermione told me to call you.”
Mrs. Granger couldn’t help smiling, pulling the little girl into her arms, fondly ruffling her hair.
“…”
Hermione tilted her head watching this scene.
A coincidence?
It seemed Bastien knew they were returning from outside.
