[Rohan Pov] [Paris, France]
Portkeys weren't something an ordinary wizard could casually make.
The charm itself—Portus—was considered advanced magic, and the Ministry kept a close watch over anyone authorised to create one. That didn't stop illegal Portkeys from existing, of course, but they weren't exactly easy to come by. Anyone skilled enough to produce them consistently could earn a comfortable living working for the Ministry instead of risking Azkaban.
Which meant whoever was behind this operation wasn't some petty smuggler.
They had resources.
The group moved quickly through the streets of Paris, weaving between pedestrians before slipping into narrower side streets. The elegant boulevards soon disappeared behind us, replaced by weathered stone buildings and neglected alleyways that looked forgotten by time.
After several minutes, they stopped in front of an old antique shop.
Its wooden sign had faded so badly that I couldn't make out the name anymore. Dust coated the display windows, and every item inside had been hidden beneath white sheets. Not a single light burned inside.
To anyone passing by...
It looked abandoned.
The bell above the door gave a dull chime as they stepped inside.
The front of the shop was just as neglected as the exterior. Shelves overflowed with broken clocks, cracked paintings and tarnished silverware. A thick layer of dust covered almost everything, as if no customer had entered in years.
The group ignored it all.
They walked straight through the shop and disappeared behind a heavy curtain at the back.
Beyond it was a much smaller room.
An elderly witch with neatly tied white hair sat alone behind a cluttered wooden desk. The only source of light came from a single desk lamp, leaving the corners of the room swallowed in shadow.
She didn't even bother looking up.
"You're late."
The shorter man stepped forward.
"We're back."
Only then did the old witch lift her eyes.
She looked to be in her sixties, though the sharpness in her gaze suggested she was far older than she appeared.
Her eyes swept across the room.
Then stopped.
"Where's the boy?"
Nobody answered.
The taller one shifted uncomfortably.
The shorter one glanced at Martin before looking away again.
The silence lasted only a few seconds.
The old witch sighed.
"Honestly..."
She lazily raised her wand and pointed it toward Martin.
"What happened?"
"We lost him."
Martin answered instantly, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
"The boy escaped. We were unable to locate him."
The room fell silent.
The old witch slowly closed her eyes.
Then opened them again.
"You lost... a boy? a MUGGLE BOY at that !"
Neither of the two dared answer.
She rose from her chair with surprising speed.
"Two trained wizards..."
Her gaze settled on Anton.
"...and you couldn't keep track of one boy?"
"He disappeared!" the tall one protested. "One second he was there, and the next—"
"I didn't ask for excuses."
Her voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
He immediately lowered his head.
Listening to their conversation, I slowly pieced together the relationships.
The taller wizard was named Louis.
The shorter one was Anton.
And the old witch...
They called her Aunt Regina.
Regina tapped the end of her wand thoughtfully against the desk.
"So..."
She murmured.
"What now?"
Louis was the first to answer.
"We know where he lives."
He looked eager to redeem himself.
"We can go there tonight, grab the boy and—"
"No."
Regina cut him off before he could finish.
"Think."
Louis frowned.
"He was carrying artefacts worth a fortune."
She folded her hands together.
"Do you truly believe an ordinary Muggle would have access to items like those?"
Louis remained silent.
"No."
Regina answered her own question.
"He is connected to someone, someone big."
She leaned back slightly.
"By now, the boy must have already reported Martin to whoever he's working for."
"So then?" she asked calmly.
Nobody replied.
"We complete the sale."
Her decision was final.
"As quickly as possible."
Only then did the room begin moving again.
"Pack everything. Anything of value comes with us—we leave no trace."
Within minutes, everyone started clearing the shop.
Hidden compartments opened inside the walls.
False shelves slid aside.
Boxes filled with magical artefacts disappeared into enchanted trunks, while personal belongings were packed away just as quickly.
Watching them work, it became obvious.
This wasn't merely a storefront.
They had been living here.
Hidden inside Martin's breast pocket, I quietly watched everything unfold.
One thing had become clear.
Regina was the witch controlling Martin.
If I could incapacitate her, the Imperius Curse would almost certainly be broken.
The problem...
My artefacts weren't here.
From their conversation, I'd learned they had already been handed over for a black-market auction.
If I wanted them back...
I'd have to follow them.
By evening, the last crate had been loaded.
Louis struggled outside carrying three enormous brown briefcases while Anton locked the front door behind him.
Regina was the last to leave.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, glanced back at the empty shop, and casually flicked her wand.
Blue flames erupted across the room.
Within seconds, curtains, shelves and furniture were engulfed in magical fire.
None of them looked back.
In fact...
Louis laughed.
"About time this dump disappeared."
Anton chuckled in agreement as the group walked away.
From inside Martin's pocket, I caught a brief glimpse of his face.
For the first time since arriving...
His eyes flickered.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then the emptiness returned once more.
As the group made their way through the streets, my thoughts drifted to the French wizarding world.
The books barely mentioned anything about the Wizarding world of France. Most of what I knew had come from conversations with travelling witches and wizards. Paris supposedly had several hidden magical districts scattered across the city.
These weren't simply hidden alleyways tucked between Muggle streets, but entire concealed districts where wizarding communities lived, worked, and thrived beyond the sight of the ordinary world. Le Vieux Marché was the oldest and best known, but there were others that outsiders rarely discovered.
Apparently, magical smuggling was also a serious problem here.
Until today, that little piece of trivia hadn't meant much to me.
Now...
I was following a group of smugglers.
The streets gradually became quieter.
Elegant cafés and busy boulevards gave way to ageing warehouses and neglected brick buildings. Eventually, the group stopped before a rusted metal gate reinforced with thick iron bars.
Anton glanced up and down the empty street.
Satisfied that no one had followed them, he unlocked the gate.
Beyond it lay what looked like an abandoned Metro station.
Dust coated the tiled walls, old signs hung crookedly from the ceiling, and the tracks had long since rusted over. The silence was almost unsettling, broken only by the steady echo of dripping water somewhere deep underground.
There were no trains, no people—only the sound of footsteps as the group descended onto the tracks. Before moving further, Louis paused beside a cracked section of the tiled wall. With a quick glance around, he tapped it twice with his wand. The surface shimmered, revealing a hollow space within.
One by one, he slipped their briefcases inside, the wall sealing itself seamlessly afterwards as if nothing had ever been there. Only then did the group continue along the tracks and follow the tunnel until they reached an old steel door hidden in the darkness.
It creaked open, and the moment we stepped through, I recognised the place. The Catacombs. No wonder people vanished down here every year. The Paris Catacombs stretched for hundreds of kilometres beneath the city, and only a tiny fraction was open to tourists. The rest remained sealed off, abandoned—or so the Muggle authorities believed.
If wizards had spent centuries expanding these tunnels and layering them with concealment charms, anyone wandering too deep wouldn't stand a chance of finding their way back out.
The tunnel narrowed as we continued.
Stacks of carefully arranged skulls and bones lined both sides of the passage, disappearing into the darkness beyond the reach of our wands.
Eventually, Regina came to a stop.
Before us stood a solid wall made entirely of human skulls.
Without a word, she raised her wand and slowly traced it across the ancient bones.
For a moment...
Nothing happened.
Then came a faint click.
One skull turned.
Then another.
Soon hundreds of them began shifting in perfect unison, each moving with an eerie precision. The sound of bone scraping against bone echoed through the tunnel as the entire wall slowly separated down the middle.
A hidden passage revealed itself.
The group stepped through.
I followed.
On the other side, the darkness didn't lift.
If anything...
It deepened.
The air grew colder, heavier, carrying the faint metallic scent of blood and something far less identifiable. Dim lanterns floated overhead, their sickly yellow light barely pushing back the shadows that clung to every corner.
The tunnel opened into a narrow street carved from the same pale limestone, but there was nothing welcoming about it.
Buildings leaned inward as though conspiring with one another, their windows shuttered or covered with thick, dark glass. Iron balconies hung overhead like cages, and every surface seemed worn, stained, or deliberately obscured.
People were here.
But no one lingered.
Figures moved quickly through the street, cloaked and hooded, faces hidden behind masks or enchanted veils. Conversations were kept low, urgent, and cut short the moment anyone passed too close.
No laughter.
No idle chatter.
Only quiet transactions and watchful eyes.
Merchants stood behind shadowed stalls displaying items that were either illegal, dangerous, or both. Bottles filled with swirling, unnatural substances. Weapons etched with runes that seemed to shift when you weren't looking directly at them. Objects wrapped tightly in cloth, their contents deliberately concealed.
No prices were displayed.
No one called out to attract customers.
If you didn't already know what you were looking for...
You didn't belong here.
A goblin inspected a blade with unsettling focus while its seller watched him without blinking. Nearby, a witch whispered urgently to a masked man as she slipped him a small pouch that clinked faintly with each movement.
Everywhere I looked, there was tension.
Suspicion.
Danger.
Eventually, we passed beneath a weathered stone archway.
An old iron plaque hung above it.
Rue Noire.
Louis looked up at the sign.
"So this is Rue Noire..."
"Quiet," Regina snapped without slowing down.
"And keep your head down."
The difference was immediate.
Nobody called out to passing customers.
Merchants stood silently behind dark wooden stalls, watching every visitor with careful, unreadable expressions.
One shop displayed shelves filled with dusty books whose titles had been deliberately scratched away.
Another sold crystal vials containing swirling silver memories.
Further ahead, a goblin carefully examined a rack of ancient swords while an elderly witch bargained over what looked suspiciously like a dragon egg wrapped in thick wool.
Some stalls displayed items that were unmistakably illegal—cursed artifacts that pulsed with dark magic, restricted potions sealed in black glass, and enchanted objects that no legitimate shop would ever dare to sell.
The group slowed as they approached a larger building set slightly apart from the others.
Unlike the surrounding shops, which hid behind shadow and secrecy, this structure demanded attention.
Tall and imposing, it was built from pale stone that seemed to glow faintly under the enchanted sky. Elegant columns framed the entrance, each carved with intricate runes that pulsed softly with magic. Above the heavy double doors hung a polished obsidian plaque etched with silver lettering that shifted subtly when viewed from different angles.
Two masked figures stood on either side of the entrance, their posture rigid and unmoving. Whether they were guards or something more... I couldn't tell.
A faint hum of magic lingered in the air around the building, thicker than anywhere else on the street.
This wasn't just another shop.
It was important.
Louis leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
"That's it... the auction house."
No one moved immediately.
Even Anton seemed more cautious now, his usual confidence tempered as his eyes flicked toward the guards and the runes carved into the stone.
Regina stepped forward first.
Without hesitation.
The others followed.
So did I, inside Martin's pocket.