Paris, France – Montmorency Street.
The pub doubled as a hotel and entertainment spot. Thanks to Mr. Nicolas Flamel's influence, alchemy was everywhere in France. An Undetectable Extension Charm had stretched a space of less than two thousand square feet into something more than ten times bigger, so the main hall was almost as wide as a Quidditch pitch.
A massive Mirror screen stood behind the bar on the first floor—a custom model from the Mirror Club. Gold-and-silver iris patterns framed the edges, and the pub's name was engraved in the bottom-right corner. The thing was enormous, only a little smaller than the outer wall itself.
Right now the Mirror glowed with silver mist, its crystal-clear surface showing the live feed from the World Cup final.
Every customer packed into the pub was a die-hard fan. No expensive tickets, no long trip—just ten silver Sickles for a glass of white wine and you could watch the match happening five hundred miles away without leaving your stool.
Some were hardcore Krum loyalists; others were all-in for Ireland. The game hadn't even started, but the mascot performances alone had the crowd roaring so loud the walls shook.
Anyone who preferred a quieter vibe could pay a few extra Galleons for a private room upstairs and watch with friends.
The Delacour sisters had booked one of those rooms—the very last one at the end of the second-floor hallway.
The Undetectable Extension Charm made the space feel surprisingly roomy, with a bedroom and a sitting area. If anyone had peeked inside, they would have seen a porcelain-doll of a girl sitting cross-legged on the carpet, chin tilted up, eyes sparkling as she stared at the small Mirror screen.
"Mount a Firebolt… Butterbeer, mead…" The man on the screen was rattling off a mile-a-minute string of ads.
Gabrielle's English wasn't great—she could only catch a few words—but that didn't stop her from giggling so hard her whole body shook.
How could anyone crack jokes right in the middle of the World Cup final?
"What are you laughing at?" Fleur wrapped her arms around her little sister to keep her from laughing herself breathless. "These ads are going way too fast. I can barely understand them."
"Look at the dancing!" Gabrielle managed between giggles. "All those Veela who look like grandma, doing the same dance Mom taught them. When we grow up, will we be that pretty? Will we be able to dance that beautifully too?"
"You don't have to wait to grow up—you're already gorgeous, and you can learn the pretty dances right now."
"When Mom comes back, she'll teach me!" Gabrielle waved her hands excitedly.
"Mhm…"
Fleur kept her voice soft and soothing, but the moment she thought about their parents ditching them to go on a romantic World Cup getaway, her jaw tightened in annoyance.
"Those two rotten lovebirds—Apolline and Dad—went off for their little date night and just left us here!"
"Woof!"
Behind the girls on the sofa sat a long-haired Vizsla the exact color of caramel. His name was Caramel, and he loved sweets almost as much as Gabrielle did.
Caramel lay stretched out on the carpet right beside her, surrounded by Mickey and Minnie plushies. Donald Duck and Daisy were on the sofa behind them, along with a few other Disney toys.
Fleur scratched Caramel behind the ears and turned back to the screen, a little awed. "Stuffing an ongoing match straight into a Mirror… Professor Levent's magic really is unbelievable."
Transmitting the game hundreds of miles from Dartmoor to Paris—and all over the world—so every witch and wizard could watch it? Even with alchemy helping, Fleur still couldn't wrap her head around it.
She muttered under her breath, "If I could do something that amazing, Madame Maxime wouldn't have to worry so much."
Fleur had turned seventeen over the summer. Sixth year had ended before the break, and come September she would be a seventh-year about to graduate. Her grades were excellent, but not quite top of the class, and while she was solid in dueling practice, she wasn't the best there either.
What really made her stand out at Beauxbatons was the Veela blood. One casual glance, one faint smile, or even a simple greeting could leave half the boys completely lovestruck.
The girls, on the other hand, weren't nearly as charmed. Some were outright jealous, and it led to pointless drama.
At school, Fleur Delacour's reputation was split right down the middle: some called her talented and stunning; others called her fake and boy-crazy.
Fleur used to shrug it all off. She just wanted to graduate, get decent marks, and find an interesting job—maybe come home to Paris and spend time with Gabrielle, or maybe travel and see the world.
Then Madame Maxime had come back last year with news about the Triwizard Tournament.
The headmistress hadn't announced it at the welcome feast. Instead she quietly told the professors to give extra lessons to the best students: more dueling for the strong fighters, more theory for the book-smart ones.
Fleur's name had been on that list.
Naturally, curious students started digging. French wizarding society had centuries of experience uncovering secrets. After a few twists and turns—and maybe a deliberate hint or two from Madame Maxime—word got out.
"Nicolas Flamel's final prophecy before he retired… the Triwizard Tournament might be coming back…"
Once more than three people knew, it stopped being a secret. The rumor spread fast among the students.
A lot of kids saw it as their ticket to worldwide fame. Win the Tournament as Beauxbatons' champion and you'd be the next Dumbledore. Even placing high could make you the next Seraphina Picquery or Madame Maxime.
They also noticed exactly whose names were on that list.
Fleur's Veela looks drew every eye—good and bad. Plenty of people figured Madame Maxime had only picked her because she was pretty, not because she could actually represent the school. A pretty vase couldn't stand for Beauxbatons.
The second half of sixth year had been rough. Fleur spent every spare minute in the library or in Professor Rosier's office asking questions, but the second she stepped into the common room or the Great Hall, the whispers started.
Her classmates didn't even bother lowering their voices. They wanted her to hear.
Fleur had decided she was going to get stronger. She wanted to become a witch like Professor Levent—someone who could do impossible magic. She wanted to make Madame Maxime proud and shut every doubter up for good.
Gabrielle seemed to sense her big sister's mood shift. She turned and hugged Fleur tight, patting her back like a little grown-up offering comfort.
"Gabrielle…"
Feeling her little sister's warmth, Fleur's heart melted. She hugged her back and said softly, "When school starts again, I might have to go really far away. I probably won't be able to come home every week to play with you. You'll have to be a good girl and stay here, okay?"
"Where are you going?" Gabrielle's eyes widened.
"If everything goes as planned… Hogwarts." Fleur had pieced it together from the few hints Madame Maxime and Professor Rosier had dropped.
"Not even for Halloween or Christmas?"
"It's too far. It might not be possible."
Gabrielle's nose twitched. Her eyes instantly filled with tears and her voice wobbled. "Fleur's going to leave me all alone at home just like Mommy and Daddy?"
Fleur suddenly had no idea what to say.
Gabrielle wrapped her arms around her sister's neck and buried her face in the crook of it, voice muffled and stubborn. "Gabrielle says no. Gabrielle won't let Fleur go away for that long."
Fleur let out a long sigh.
…
"Professor Levent, hand it to me."
"Hurry up—you're the last one…"
Melvin stood in a glittering corridor, watching the Department of Magical Transportation wizard jog off toward the Floo Network hub. He tilted his head back and stared up at the Austrian Ministry's art-museum-style dome.
He had spent the last ten minutes hopping across the planet as a one-man courier, carrying dozens of match memories and using nearly forty Portkeys. London to Paris, Budapest to Romania, even Cairo…
This was the final stop.
The crystal ball in his hand was finally empty. The last memory vial had been handed to the Austrian wizard. All he had left was a wine-jug-shaped Portkey set to activate in half an hour.
"Every Ministry around the world has promised to start the broadcast at the exact same time—error margin under three seconds," Wright's excited voice came through the communication book. "Using a Time-Turner to turn a recorded replay into live TV? That idea itself is pure magic!"
The Mirror Club team had done their jobs perfectly. The only glitch was the Portkey schedule—the next jump wasn't for another thirty minutes. That meant Melvin had half an hour to kill before he could head back and actually watch the match.
At least the Portkey was small enough to slip into his pocket.
"When we built the Ministry we focused on artistic beauty," the Austrian wizard had explained before he left. "Alchemical arrays would ruin the frescoes on the dome, so the Floo Network had to sacrifice a few functions. It'll take a little longer to route the memory into the hub. My apologies, Professor Levent. When I return I'll give you the grand tour."
So here Melvin stood in the middle of a dazzling corridor with zero chairs and not even a cup of tea.
"These wizards don't seem all that bright…" He shook his head, glanced at an oil painting on the wall, and started walking deeper into the corridor.
Austrian artist Adolf had once said bread shouldn't cost five hundred thousand marks and no one should work more than thirty-six hours a week. The locals had taken that to heart—even the wizards. It was already evening, so the entire Ministry was quiet. Melvin hadn't seen another soul.
His mood was a little complicated.
He wasn't Voldemort; he wasn't here hunting for any prophecy orb. He just wanted to get out of the building, find somewhere to sit, and wait for the Portkey.
Portkeys took time to activate, and the Austrian Ministry had anti-Apparition wards in place, so the Floo Network was the best option. But he had already turned a few corners and still hadn't spotted a single fireplace.
He was positive this floor was the Department of Magical Transportation—the wizard had said the Floo hub was right here. Yet every office door was shut tight. The corridor stretched on forever, with the occasional unmarked fork and German signs that might as well have been hieroglyphics. It felt like a maze.
He kept walking, hoping to stumble on the Floo hub, and wondered whether he should take a quick detour to Nurmengard while he was here.
He turned another corner and hit a dead end. The only thing at the end of the hallway was an artsy-looking room with its door half-open. Definitely not the Floo hub.
Owl Office
Because it handled international mail, the German sign actually had an English translation underneath.
The Owl Office was a sub-department of Transportation, responsible for international letters and parcels—like an official post office crossed with customs and a bit of immigration control.
"I'll just pop in and sit for a minute," Melvin muttered to himself, not entirely sure who he was trying to convince.
He pushed the door open. Inside were mountains of packages and row after row of walnut shelves packed with letters. For a national customs office it wasn't actually that much.
After all, the entire wizarding population of Austria was tiny.
The walnut shelves were divided: one side for domestic mail going overseas, the other for incoming international mail.
Nothing was overflowing. Different federal states even had their own labeled boxes: Burgenland, Carinthia, Salzburg, Styria, Tyrol, Vienna, and…
Nurmengard
If Melvin remembered correctly, that prison currently held only one inmate.
A thought flickered through his mind. Both Christine and old Vida had reminded him that the old promise he'd made to the remaining Grindelwald supporters was almost due. He needed to figure out how to get that old wizard out.
Physical prison bars were one thing. The chains inside Grindelwald's own heart were far heavier. Simply unlocking the gate at Nurmengard wouldn't be enough.
"Gellert Grindelwald… leader of the Saints," Melvin murmured the name under his breath.
He reached into the "Nurmengard – outgoing overseas" box and pulled out a single envelope. The paper was rough, almost like handmade stuff pressed from straw and tree bark. The letter inside felt coarse and tough—maybe rat or lizard skin—but it didn't smell bad.
Life in Nurmengard clearly wasn't luxurious. Grindelwald was broke and couldn't afford proper parchment or ink, so he'd made do with careful handmade paper.
The address read:
Scottish Highlands
Hogwarts Castle, Eighth Floor
Headmaster's Office
Albus Dumbledore
No stamp—wizards didn't use them.
Judging by the date, the letter had been sent just before summer break and had been sitting here ever since. The Austrian Ministry obviously wasn't in any hurry to help the old wizard. After all these years, the Saints had splintered apart and Grindelwald's name had faded into history.
Dumbledore had never asked anyone to look after his old friend's mail, so the letter had simply stayed put.
Melvin had zero interest in opening someone else's private letter. He thought for a moment, found a quill and ink bottle, cut a small piece of parchment, and neatly attached it to the back of the envelope. In crisp official language he wrote a short note.
Then he casually slipped the letter onto the other set of shelves—the incoming side.
With any luck, that letter would be heading back to Nurmengard very soon.