July 14 – Marne Valley
Today was France's big national holiday. Two hundred years ago, Muggle revolutionaries stormed the Bastille, kicked off a whole new government, and now the Eiffel Tower and the whole Seine River bank were decked out in ribbons and flags. The party vibe was everywhere, capped off with a fireworks show after dark.
None of that mattered to wizards.
Ministry Aurors were out in force, patrolling harder than usual to make sure no rogue witch or wizard stirred up trouble in the parade crowds. Mr. Graves got roped into extra shifts and even tried dragging Melvin along to walk the beat down Montmorency Street, but Melvin had his own stuff going on.
Holiday weekend meant the park was packed. Families, couples, kids—everyone was stampeding through the gates, hunting down special event stamps like it was a scavenger hunt on steroids.
Only a sharp-eyed few noticed the event map was steering people away from one whole section. Projects got shuffled, rides relocated—like that zone was suddenly off-limits.
Rosier-hired wizards blended in with security. Whenever a nosy Muggle wandered too close, one of these "guards" would sidle up, whisper something, and boom—the Muggle would blink, scratch their head, and suddenly remember they were supposed to be somewhere else.
"What was I doing again?"
"Oh, right—sneaking into the closed-off area."
"Closed-off… closed-off… yep, the Fairy-Tale Theater!"
While the festival raged outside, a hush-hush renovation was happening inside. Rosier alchemists worked around the clock—wands flashing, runes carving themselves into stone. The park on the parchment blueprints was turning real, and fast.
10:00 a.m.
Melvin clipped on his Disney name tag and toured the construction zone with Claire and Christine flanking him.
Honestly? A magical build site still looked like a build site.
The whole "magic theme park" concept was Melvin's brainchild—he'd tossed out a few big-picture ride ideas—but turning those into actual, working attractions? That was Claire and Christine's genius. He hadn't expected them to sync up this well.
"What about wizard visitors?" Melvin asked. "Muggles pay in francs. Wizards can't exactly walk up with a fistful of Galleons."
Same deal as Britain: goblin banks ran the show. Normal wizard families got a yearly Muggle-money allowance—and it wasn't generous. Even a well-off family like the Delacours could only swap so much before the vault started echoing. Holidays, meals out, the occasional ballet ticket—that quota vanished quick.
Drop that limited cash on a pricey theme park most wizards had never even heard of? Yeah, most would pass.
Running the place on Muggle money alone would be like hobbling around on one leg.
Christine explained, "Rosiers handle wizard ticketing. They take Galleons, settle up in gold later."
Melvin nodded. Made sense.
One was Disney's creative director, the other the Rosier heiress. Next to them, he was the amateur. They knew he didn't care about profit margins, so the tour stuck to the fun stuff—ideas and wow-factor.
Take the park's trackless carriages. Used to run on gasoline, stuck to a set loop. Christine wanted to swap in thestral-pulled coaches, slap some armor plating on the outside for disguise, and let them glide through fog banks or between trees.
Melvin raised an eyebrow. "That's a hard no on the Statute of Secrecy and basic physics. You got a cover story for the Ministry and the Muggles?"
The Statute wasn't repealed yet, and his own headmaster was chair of the International Confederation of Wizards. Getting hauled in front of them would be a headache, even if he could talk his way out.
Claire just smirked internally—now he worries about the law?—then answered out loud. "We're calling it 'advanced rail and cable tech.' No expert's gonna crawl underneath to check. Long as the Muggles buy it, the Ministry won't care. Christine says that's how they rolled at the Goshwin Theater."
Classic assistant energy—she'd picked up plenty working that gig.
They strolled, stopped, pointed. Bit by bit, the new park took shape in Melvin's head.
Gone was the old fairy-tale vibe. Sure, you still had thestral-gliders, pixie-costumed animatronics, carousel unicorns so lifelike you'd swear they'd bolt. But now there was edge. Thrills. borderline creepy stuff.
Per Melvin's request, Christine added off-brand Bertie Bott's beans in nightmare colors. Copper cauldrons bubbled with gray-green potion, neon bubbles popping in rainbows. Looked straight-up toxic.
Grand opening? They'd bill it as "brewed by real witches."
Which witches?
The sea-witch who poisoned the mermaid princess.
The hag who baked the apple for Snow White.
The crone who cursed Sleeping Beauty.
Use storybook villains to show real magic. Sneak it into Muggle brains. Short term, no big deal. Long term? When people thought "magic," they'd picture fantastic beasts, bubbling cauldrons, weird-flavored candy. Fixed association.
Wizard kids, meanwhile, would soak up Muggle fairy tales while they played.
Bridging worlds. Melvin had been planning it for ages.
They passed the construction zone. Claire suddenly turned. "Hey, how's that kid from last time?"
"Doing better," Melvin said with a small smile. "Seizures are under control short-term. Long-term fix is coming together. There's this one creature I'm thinking of—might be the key for Bastian. Gotta wait till we're back in London to test it."
Claire muttered, "You say that like it's a head cold." Wizard illnesses were wild—one day terminal, next day "eh, we'll figure it out."
"Taking Bastian to London—French Ministry gonna be cool with that?" Christine asked, thoughtful.
Melvin's smile faded. "Good point. Can't let Fudge or Umbridge sniff out who he is. Unregistered Portkey, maybe. But treating him means Dementors from Azkaban… need a plan."
"Rosiers can forge papers. Safe Portkey, too."
Claire's mouth opened, then closed. She couldn't follow all of it, but the vibe? These two were casually plotting crimes.
---
Meanwhile, Mr. Delacour was stressed. Not just the creeping bald spot—vacation was almost over and he still hadn't managed a single romantic date with his wife, Apolline. No candlelit dinner, no slow dance, no stolen kisses. Just… family.
Parents of young kids know the drill.
He'd booked a fancy restaurant, shaved, splashed on cologne, suit pressed—then Gabrielle smelled something different and glued herself to his leg, demanding to come too.
Ballet tickets? Left where Fleur found them. Two-person date night → family four-pack.
The romantic kiss he'd daydreamed about? Poof. He couldn't even hold Apolline's hand—both daughters had claimed an arm. He spent the evening flipping through the paper while the girls chattered.
Then—because the universe hates him—an ad caught Gabrielle's eye. She begged to buy it.
A Shadow Mirror.
Brand-new alchemical furniture. Hot-ticket item. The Rosiers (greedy gits) priced it just right: most wizard families could afford it, but it'd still hurt.
Delacour vault included.
His plan: stall till Christmas. Bonuses drop, year-end sales hit, price dips. Minimal damage.
Ever since, he'd become obsessed. Scouring papers for Shadow Mirror news, tracking price fluctuations, squinting at tiny sale blurbs in the margins.
He prayed for a scandal—Mirror Club exposé, Rosier controversy—anything to force a price cut.
No such luck.
Worse—they launched the Magic Theme Park.
> "Unicorns up close! Witches, potions, and mysterious XXXXX creatures… all at the Magic Theme Park!"
> "Tickets on sale Friday—get yours before they're gone!"
Price tag? Daylight robbery. The photo was all soft-focus fairy-tale glow—unicorn blurry but dreamy.
Gabrielle couldn't read the copy (pre-literate life), but those sparkly pictures? She was hooked. No tantrums—just quiet, hopeful staring at the paper.
At dinner she piped up, tiny voice: "Mom and Dad's vacation's almost over. Fleur goes back to school soon. Next family trip is All Saints'—that's winter. Summer's ending… can we go to the Magic Theme Park while it's still warm?"
Apolline and Fleur just smiled at him. Expectant.
Mr. Delacour wanted to say no. He wanted his wife to himself. But those big, shiny eyes? Couldn't do it. Four-person memories beat two-person romance—and yeah, next reunion really was months away.
Another chunk gone from the Delacour vault.
---
Saturday Morning
The Delacours assembled, map in hand. Apparated to Marne Valley, followed signs on foot to Disneyland Paris.
Fleur and Apolline turned heads—stunning as always. Mr. Delacour carried Gabrielle, who waved like a princess from her perch. At the gates, the whole family went wide-eyed.
"So many people…"
"It's mixed."
The ticket line snaked forever—at least a hundred deep. Wizards and Muggles.
You could spot the wizards: robes under Muggle coats, buttons done wrong, sizes all wonky. Looked like they'd raided a lost-and-found.
Muggles didn't bat an eye.
"Some kind of club? Cosplay thing? At Disney, anything goes," a young Muggle dad shrugged. His own daughter—smaller than Gabrielle—peeked out from behind his legs.
Inside, staff split the crowds fast. Muggles scattered to normal rides. Wizard families funneled one direction.
The attractions? Weirdly… Muggle-ish.
Carousel unicorns looked real, sure—signs and everything—but spun on electric motors with cheerful music.
Potions were scary-cool: "voice-stealing draught," "poison apple," "sleeping spindle." The witch's cauldron glowed gray-green-purple, smelled faintly sweet.
Gabrielle sniffed, swallowed, then—when nobody was looking—dipped a finger and tasted.
A tiny voice behind her: "Is it good?"
She whipped around. The Muggle girl from the gate stared, wide-eyed—curious about the potion, awed by Gabrielle.
Gabrielle puffed up like a big sister. "Yep! Sweet!"
"Wow~"
Instant besties. Gabrielle explained "magic brewing." The girl told fairy-tale backstories—to the apple, the spindle.
Mr. Delacour grumbled to his wife, "It's just a kiddie park. Robbery."
They left the weird candy shop, stepped onto the main street—
A low rustle. Ground trembled. Something huge coming. Tail whipped pillars—stone wobbled.
The Delacours froze, breath caught, staring at the corner.
Mr. Delacour rubbed his eyes. "I must be dreaming!"
A massive serpent head slithered into view. Body thick as a tree trunk—four people linking arms wouldn't circle it. Thirty feet easy. Scales rippled like living metal.
Forked tongue flicked. Orange eyes glowed. It coiled into the street center, then—click—its neck split open, revealing hollow seats inside.
The crowd gasped.
"It's… the Basilisk Express!"