Chapter Text
In this vacuum of a land completely changed
we lost our words and stood still
What should we start on first?
Tina Goldstein openly groaned as she heaved a stack of newspapers onto the table.
Her lips formed a thin line as her eyes skated over the various headlines before her. The earliest comes from nearly a year before, the text written in Mandarin. Obtained when a certain magizoologist’s letters stopped coming and each headline painstakingly translated for any hints of the man’s locations. Several others follow it, each some weeks a part, each as poured over as the first.
Those days taper off an instead the languages of other, closer countries take up its place: Belgium, Germany, France, England, Norway—One or two from Russia of all places. Whereas the ones from China had been picked apart in their entirety these ones needed no such thing. The bold print on each of them had one glaringly despairing word: Grindelwald. Nearly five years ago the events in New York had place and turned her life upside down. Nearly a year ago the man had escaped from his cell, killed his guards, and massacred almost all the Aurors who hunted him down.
Almost all of them.
MACUSA had been in a state of disarray ever since. The Ministry of Magic had tried to assist, but even the Aurors it had sent were rattled and the magical world felt the loss of one of its rising powers greatly. Of course, the Mage’s Association, coveted as it was, had to keep its hands neutral and barely offered a word of solidarity to the loss of America’s magical community. As it was contained they hardly cared—The woman’s skin itched at the thought.
She felt no glee at the fact the Mage’s Association was now eating its own disinterest. Grindelwald was acting with great fanfare, slaughtering those without magic without any repent. The headlines all blared of wizarding attacks, but as an Auror she knew that wasn’t the truth—this was in part why she’d collected so many of the newspapers in the last few weeks. The Mage’s Association was doing a good job of covering up the deaths of the now dozens of no-majs, but it wouldn’t be long before it reached the ears of the magical community.
But how much longer?
Tina’s drawn from her reverie by an all too familiar burning sensation that reaches to her bone. Her eyes flickered to the sleeve of her blouse, the glyph beneath it glowing faintly. Of course. There was no such thing as a day off these days and, idly, in some ways she can’t help but be grateful for it: At least it kept her mind away from other matters. Giving another frustrated sound, she grabbed the fresh cup of coffee she had poured, downed half of it in a gulp, before slamming it on the table and Apparating on the spot.
She barely mumbles a word to the doorman and Red reads her without question. Tina remembers faintly the time when Macusa seemed alive with its workers, but conversation had died months ago and everyone scurried from one place to another afraid. As if it were them that had faced the brunt of Grindelwald’s attacks some months ago. Clenching her jaw she offers Red a nod before stepping off the elevator that had come to a grinding halt on the floor of the Major Investigation’s Department.
Half of the desks in the hall are empty and its all the woman can do to keep her eyes from settling on even one of them.
The few members of the department lingering around speak in hushed whispers or poured over case files before them. Though many of them felt the itch to go to Europe and assist in the fighting there, the inner turmoil America was facing made things all hands-on-deck. Even for those who were on loan. The whispers of war echo in these hallways and it’s never a matter of how but of when.
“Come in,” an all too familiar drawl calls when she knocks on the door to the Head Auror’s office. Tina’s shoulders set as she opens it, eyes peering over the near homey interior of the man’s office. She’d been here more times than she can count—most often in varying stated of anxiety. She notes with some bemusement the day she had to wait for him to appear and had taken to counting and memorizing every one of the books on his shelves in her attempts to not panic.
“Mr. Graves, sir,” Tina addressed abruptly, closing the door behind her before furthering herself into the room, “you called?”
Percival’s eyes tear from the paperwork he was working on in acknowledgement. His attention returns to his work and she smiles ruefully. Most of the other Aurors got anxious when he did this, but after a near decade of working with the man she’s gotten used to his habits when it came to his work. He may allow you into his office, but if it wasn’t urgent he wasn’t going to stop until he was ready.
“Don’t sit down,” Percival ordered over the top of his quill when she moved forward—A peculiar look crossed her features but she did not disobey otherwise. Instead she watched as with a smooth flick of his wrist his signature appeared on the document before him and he raised himself from his seat. Tina stepped aside when the man moved to the door, curiosity rising but the question catching in her throat.
Percival afforded her a glance that wore the years of his position in MACUSA. Even after they had found him and he learned of all Grindelwald’s doings he didn’t look this dead. It’s with a sickening jolt that she realizes these affairs are getting to him—to Percival Graves, the man she had always considered invulnerable. “With me, Goldstein,” he addresses with the same familiar authority and she remembers how to breathe. No, Percival Graves wasn’t dead the fiery determination remained within him, coiled around the loss of the men he had trained and hand-picked.
She nodded and followed him without further ado.
“Where we are going is confidential as anything we speak of from here on out,” Percival remarked, locking the door behind him with a complicated spell before continuing, “you are free to ask any questions you wish, but I do not guarantee any answers. Understand?”
Tina’s brows furrow in response. Free to ask any questions that she wishes? She’s never been afraid to ask the man what she wanted to—she has confronted him more than once in recent years—but she hardly believes it’s something that needs to be addressed.
Percival huffs a laugh, “I’ll take that answer as a no. You’ll understand soon enough, Tina.”
Several questions rush forward, but Percival turns back then to press a finger to his lips to quiet her. Her shoulders slump as she gives a nod, training her eyes to follow his footsteps. She could ask any questions she wished except for right now it seemed. Tina doesn’t have long to wait, however, for it’s a flight of stairs and two corridors later that he leads them into an empty room. It’s reminiscent of the interrogation chambers on the lower floors. Except there’s no table or chairs and in the far corner Is another door.
She whirls on him in time to see the man shutting and locking the door with an even more complex series than he had on his office. Her hand flies to her pocket from her wand, her mind pouring all her energy into the magic etched into her upper arm.
“I don’t have to ask if you remember the incident that took place some twenty years ago do I?”
The fire that had roared up within her was doused in an instant. Her hand stopped groping for her wand with the faint smell of burning. A hiss of pain escaped her lips as the tingle of magic burned her skin. The hand that had moved for her wand instead moved to grasp her arm where the crest thrummed underneath. “Damn it,” the woman ground out under her breath to a bemused Percival Graves.
“I would have hoped you’d gotten better at holding in your emotions,” he remarked dryly, ignoring the look she helplessly shot at him, “I’ll take that answer as a yes then. With that I’m sure you can guess as to why you’re here, Miss Goldstein.”
“No,” she answered sharply, dropping her hand to her side. Of course, she knew why. The “incident,” as he described it, twenty years ago had been the point that started everything. It was the reason she and Queenie were orphans, the reason she’d become an Auror, and apparently the reason she was here—Locked in a room with her boss and an outcome she didn’t dare to think about.
Percival heaved a sigh at her stubbornness. “The Mage’s Association has continued with its ceremonies despite international wishes,” he answered plainly, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, “a German man who hoped to claim the Holy Grail for himself was intercepted and killed by another. The person who murdered him successfully summoned a Servant with the relic the man had obtained.”
“What does that have to do with u—“
“That man,” Percival interceded, voice darkening, “was Gellert Grindelwald.”
Her heart drops into her stomach. Percival does not need to elaborate for her to understand the direness of the situation. Few people were presented the knowledge of the Mage’s Association’s sacred ritual, a ritual they deemed necessary for the betterment of mankind as a whole. Aurors were some of the few privileged few. The Holy Grail war: A battle wherein those with magic would summon forth a Servant to battle for their chance at the grail itself. It was said if they won that their wish would be granted…
…If Grindelwald won…
“Your father was chosen as a Master was he not?”
There it was.
In truth, far fewer Aurors knew about the inner makings of the ritual the Mage’s Association performed. Tina hardly had the clearance, but she knew—How could she not? As much as she’s tried to cast those memories away they linger in the crevices of her mind. She remembers walking in on her father before the complex array, tears in his eyes as he spoke the summoning that bores into her worst nightmares. The sight of an unfamiliar stranger, her father leaving—They day he comes home, a shell of the man he was…
Going to say good night later that evening to a pool of blood…
It wasn’t suicide, although the news articles had said as much, but she knew it wasn’t.
It’s too much. Her stomach heaves, uphurling the coffee and barebones breakfast she’d had that morning. Tina knew why she had been summoned, knew the cards that were being served her, and the overwhelming despair of the situation was too much—too much—She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t. Her breath labored, the contents of her stomach now dispelled, but she can’t seem to move herself to stand up. She’s frozen to that spot.
“If you’re unwilling to do what needs to be done, we’ll find your sister,” Percival says after some time—the tone of his voice firm. Even if he feels remorse for the young woman before him it doesn’t show and she would have noticed it. Not when her world tilted and she shot to her feet lurching at him.
“Your family’s bloodline has already shown they can produce capable Masters. If you’re not going to do it then we’ll have to speak to Queenie next,” the man goes on evenly, his dark eyes meeting hers. He’s not speaking out of malice but as a man resigned to do what needs to be done. Tina’s fingers curl and she raises her fist--- A threat if ever one, but Percival’s hand clasps over it with all too much ease as she flings it towards him.
Wherein she might normally wince and retreat, she glares at him in reproach—A quiet challenge to tell him to fire her, to punish her, to do whatever else he might want, but he wasn’t making Queenie do this. “Tina,” he says finally, voice softer than she’s heard it in sometime—perhaps since they found him in that distant cellar, malnourished, and badly broken.
“We cannot allow Grindelwald to win this war,” he reminds her as she yanks her hand away from his, “several Aurors have tried unsuccessfully to summon a Servant… You should know that I tried myself and failed.”
Her eyes shoot upwards to him. Tina understands then the look he’d given her in the office. He had tried and failed to do his duty—to protect his people—not once but several times. Then when they needed him most his own abilities had failed him in producing a Servant. Percival Graves felt like he was letting his people down.
“But sir,” she fumbled, stopping when he chuckled darkly.
“Not all family’s or magical beings have Master potential,” He answered her unspoken question, fingers digging deep into the pockets of his jacket—a notable disdain on his features, “the Graves family has tried in the past to produce a Master but has failed. This is not the first time. For all of our ambitions and power the Grail has never chosen us.”
“And you think it’ll choose me?” She remarked incredulously, a disbelieving laugh in her voice.
“There is a better chance of you or your sister than anyone else in this entire department,” Percival returned, waving his wand to clean up the mess she had made without casting it a look, “bloodlines are as important as magical ability. For whatever reason the Grail has chosen the Goldstein family for candidacy. The rest is on you, Miss Goldstein.”
His eyes flicker towards the door at the back of the room. A mage’s workshop, then, she thinks dryly likely with everything needed for a summoning.
“If I choose not to you’ll get Queenie,” Tina said without need of an answer, not that Percival deemed her with one, “and if I fail…?”
His brow arched, bemusement following, “We will not fault you if the Grail does not choose you. Nor if you decide you do not wish to try. As long as you are aware of what is at stake.”
She knows it’s not at a threat towards her sister. Not intentionally, but Queenie was married now. To Jacob. She was pregnant, too, and if MACUSA found them and found out… Even if they wouldn’t force or hurt Queenie over this she would get in trouble. They all would. But Percival wasn’t speaking of that, either, he knew that she could never risk allowing Grindelwald to hurt more people if she could stop it.
A hand fell to her lips in effort to push back the contents of her ever-rolling stomach. She’d seen plenty in her life, but this was never something that crossed her mind. Not for her future and, certainly, not something she would have to visit or act upon herself. Tina shoots Percival a withering look, but the man takes it gracefully. Wiping at her mouth Tina sucks in a breath before taking a shaky step back.
“So I can’t fail,” Tina mustered with all of the confidence she could. If she did fail then they would certainly go looking for Queenie as the closest “Master potential” in America. Were there others here…? She didn’t know; In some ways, she didn’t want to find out. Her hand slipped to her side, shoulders hunching before she gives an erratic shake of her head, “Fine.”
If she was any less of who she was she would have screamed or spit on the floor or done something, but she doesn’t. Instead she sets her shoulders, casts the man another look, and then rounds on the spot to the room set in the back. She shrugs off her jacket once inside, locking the door without a second glance back. The jacket is tossed into the corner before she turns to the darkened room before her.
The array had already been set out. At least it seemed Percival hadn’t lied about them trying this before, but she doubted he was the man to try. Her feet carry her across the room where the pedestal sat—a tattered piece of cloth of no distinguish given its place of honor. Worthless to the untrained eye, but a relic of some hero’s past—but who?
Tina huffed out a breath, tucked an unruly strand of hair behind her air, and made her way back across the room. There a table was lined with jewels that may be needed, each of store of power, but it’s the books lined towards the back that catch her eye. She remembers faintly that her father had been up late… Shooting the array a fervent backwards glance she picks up one of the books and takes up the chair in front of the table.
It’s not long before her suspicions are confirmed that the runes within the book say the time best used for the summoning was two a.m., when magic would be at its peak. It had been barely past noon when she was called and hardly any longer than an hour had passed. Tina pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration before turning the page.
As much as she wants to go out and get fresh air or be anywhere else she thinks more wisely of it: Given half a chance she might not come back. She’d go to the Kowalskis and tell Queenie they need to leave. The thought sits in the back of her mind, but the softer part of her mind refutes it. She would try if it meant helping people, even if she doubts it will work even with Mr. Graves utter convince that it would.
Thankfully, the hours’ trickle by faster than she thought they would. She finishes the second book by the time the clock strikes one and ignores the way her empty stomach crones for food. There is no way she would keep anything down now. Tina makes certain the door is locked before peeling off her blouse until she’s in her thin undershirt. Her gaze flickers to the magical crest her father had placed on her so long ago. Her lower lip catches between her teeth before she gives another shaky breath and moves to set about the preparations.
Of all the things that her father had taught her about this side of magic she hardly expected it to come to this.
Tina’s mind turned to her work enabling her to forget, even for a moment, the contexts of what she was about to do. She set out the magicked jewels, ensured the silver was properly placed, and redrew the array where someone’s feet had scuffed it up. Snorted, even, at the misspelling of a word in one place before fixing it. She finishes her adjustments right as the clock strikes the last minute of the hour. It was time to begin then.
Carefully placing the materials needed at their points, the woman did not hesitate as she entered the middle of the circle. She had steeled herself hours ago to what she would have to do. Knew at her core it would work because she would demand it to—If they did find Queenie—
Now was not the time to think about that.
“I announce,” Her voice stops quivering with the uncertainty of her words then, thick in determination as she raises her hand above its center, “Your self is under me, my fate is in your sword. In accordance with the approach of the Holy Grail, if you abide by this feeling, this reason, then answer.”
Nothing happens.
Still, the woman doesn’t miss a beat.
“Here is my oath. I am the one who becomes all the good of the world of the dead, I am the one who lays out all the evil of the world of the dead.
You, seven heavens clad in three words of power, arrive from the ring of deterrence, O keeper of the balance ―――！”
Nothing. Still nothing happens.
The air is stagnant. A stillness to it as if all the life has been sucked out, waiting for an answer to a prayer that won’t come. Her hand curls to a fist and falls to her side. The lights of the room didn’t even so much as waver. She should feel relieved, but it doesn’t come—for she knows it will be her sister next. Swallowing roughly, the woman turned on her heel towards the table. She would just have to try again. Tina’s barely taken a step forward before the array sparks with electricity. No, not electricity—magic.
Her magic.
The crest on her arm glows the same luminescent blue as the lights that now surround her. Wind rushes from nowhere and everywhere at once. Her body feels as if it’s on fire from the sheer pressure of the force of the presence. A sheering sensation, as if real flames were licking over her skin, comes from the back of her hand.
As rapidly as it hard all started it stops. Tina let’s out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding before raising her hand to her face. Whatever minute pain there had been was gone, but it’s in place was something else altogether. Three red marks in an intricate design—Some might consider it a tattoo and others a magic crest, but she knows it’s neither of those things. Command Seals, she realizes. A Master has three commands that give them ultimate authority over their Servant. That means---
“Ah,” A voice utters, strangely familiar, “hullo.”
Her conclusion is solidified when she turns around. Tina’s eyes fall to their feet first—workboots and slacks. That seems odd for what she knows of Servants (weren’t they Heroic figures of the past? Arthur Pendragon…? Herakles…? She knows she read about William Shakespeare having once been summoned maybe she had managed him--). Her eyes continue their upward trail—mustard waistcoat and peacock blue coat—
Her heart hammers in her chest and she finds the slow inspection of the man before her ends there. Her gazes tears instead upwards to the face of a man that’d been haunting her dreams for months. A man she’d hoped would keep writing her letters, that had disappeared in some backwards past of China—Unruly ginger hair and freckles. Definitely him, but there was a worrisome set to his lips. An uncertain smile matched with cloudy eyes.
“You are—“ She starts, voice catching in her throat.
The man steps forward to brush the familiar unruly strand of hair behind her ear. For all the world, he was the same man that had left her not once, but twice on the New York harbor. Always with a promise to return. His watery eyes gave his untold story as he caught her eyes, smile too small and too hesitant.
“I am the Rider class Servant,” He answers with finality.
To her he was Newt.