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Chapter Text

Percival Graves might have been distantly descended, and in life he might have ascended just short of the highest office in the land, but under ordinary circumstances, such a lavish state funeral would have been excessive. Under ordinary circumstances, most witches and wizards across the United States wouldn't even know the name of the Director of Magical Security, although of course Tina always had. But Graves was now the first American citizen known to have been murdered by Gellert Grindelwald, which meant that for generations to come, every child in every wizarding home would know his name.

Naturally, Tina hoped he would be the last, but she knew better than to count on it, not when she herself had nearly been the second.

Tina shifted in her seat and momentarily seized the armrest in a white-knuckled grip. No—she would not think about that.

Still, she wasn't sure how she was meant to behave amidst all this pomp and...circumstance, orchestrated as much for the benefit of the press as for Graves or any his mourners. Should she act out her part to the fullest, allowing the cameras to catch her sniffling, tears pouring down her face, when they inevitably turned away from Graves' family and towards his investigative team? Or would crying openly be considered beneath her position as an Auror—an insult to Graves' memory, demonstrating to the whole of MACUSA and the world at large that he had taught her nothing?

In truth, Tina had hardly known Graves, even before Grindelwald's impersonation. He had always made it clear to the Aurors under his command that he was their boss, not their friend. Tina supposed he had been kind, but in a largely impersonal way. When President Picquery spoke of how she had known Graves at Ilvermorny, how he had been cleverer than every teacher and a Quodpot ace, Tina had no reason to doubt it, but no real reason to believe it, either.

Graves had not been the man who had ordered her and Newt executed, for no reason and with no trial, but at the time, it hadn't even occurred to her that he might not be himself. It was Newt who had thought to suspect him—

No, she told herself firmly. You are not going to think about that.

Instead, Tina considered the fact that her own greatest weakness as an Auror was that she was too emotional, too easy to read. Part of it, she knew, was due to growing up with Queenie. As a child, Tina had occasionally tried half-heartedly to stop her sister from reading her mind, only to find it physically exhausting to keep up and largely ineffective anyway. Most of the time she found herself caught in the trap of being suddenly unable to think about anything other than the one thing she must not, and on the rare occasion she managed to avoid this and successfully block Queenie, Queenie always knew she was being blocked and, more than a little hurt, wanted to know why. It was only ever worth the effort for Christmas and birthday presents, and even then, only if Tina had managed to come up with a particularly good one.

But if Tina was too transparent, then Graves was too opaque, revealing so little of himself that Grindelwald had found it all too easy to fill the void. Even Picquery, who had known him for years, had not noticed the difference.

Tina shifted again, biting her lip uncomfortably. She had been proud, so proud, when she'd completed Auror training. Only the best could ever do that. But it hadn't been enough. She hadn't been ready for this, and neither had Percival Graves, who had been capable of doing things with a wand, and without a wand, that few wizards and witches dared to imagine.

She wondered whether President Picquery had been similarly shaken. Certainly she would never admit it, but she couldn't have been ready, either, or none of this could have happened—and in her position, that was not supposed to be possible.

Tina watched Picquery's face intently as she closed out her eulogy, allowing the tiniest hint of emotion to seep into her voice as she spoke of how Graves was a great wizard who had had much more to offer the magical community, how he would never be forgotten, and how Gellert Grindelwald and his followers should know that. Had that emotion been real, or was it a calculation? Tina stared in vain, unable to decide.

And then Picquery turned and stared straight back into her eyes, and Tina, flushing, looked away. Excellent work, Tina, she thought. Absolutely brilliant. You had one job. All you had to do was behave respectfully at a funeral, and you couldn't even do that.

But what would she have said about me, if Newt and his Swooping Evil hadn't—

No. You cannot think about that, you must not think about that—

In the midst of her ferocious inner battle, Tina became vaguely aware that people around her were rising from their seats, and she hastened to follow suit, bowing her head along with the others as the pallbearers, led by Picquery herself, carried Graves' coffin out of the room, followed by his immediate family, followed by reporters. Once they were gone, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Graves' team hadn't been asked to participate in the procession, for which Tina was immensely grateful. As they slowly filed out, Peter Georgeson suddenly turned to her. “Oh, Tina,” he whispered, “before I forget, Madam Picquery wants to see you.”

“What, right now?” Tina asked, feeling slightly panicky and painfully aware, once the words were out of her mouth, of both how obvious that had been and how stupid it was.

Georgeson rolled his eyes. “After the burial. She'll be back by five and wants to see you in her office. There was a memo for you in our in-tray.”

In spite of herself, Tina smiled. “You opened one of my memos, again?”

“Hey, not my fault Miss Blackstone has terrible handwriting. Any idea what she wants you for?”

Tina shook her head. “I really don't have any idea.”

Remove bad memories, that was what Newt had said. And there were definitely no bad memories attached to that face, oh no. Had Newt known, all along, that Jacob would remember everything?

Oh, it had taken him a bit. He'd opened his eyes in a daze, standing there in the rain, convinced it was all a beautiful dream.

But it wasn't. Jacob had hit the nail on the head before: he definitely did not have the brains to make this up. And while he might have believed that a woman so beautiful inside and out could exist, he would never have dared to imagine she'd care for him.

He'd thought it was for the best. There's loads of guys like me, he had told her. What he'd meant, he could now admit to himself, was that there were loads better. Maybe no man in the world could ever really be good enough for Queenie, but she could at least do better than him.

Yet there she was, smiling shyly in the doorway of his bakery, somehow, impossibly, unconvinced.

“Hi,” she said, and Jacob was certain he felt the Earth move.

“Hi,” he said weakly, trying not to stare and failing, then remembering, a little too late, that she could read minds.

She gestured towards his pastries. “They're incredible, honey.”

Not like you are, he couldn't help thinking, and he was astonished to see her cheeks turn faintly pink.

“Oh, honey,” she murmured, her face breaking into a radiant grin, “you remember!”

“Yeah,” he said, unable to repress a smile of his own. “Seems I do.”

“But you still think I shouldn't be here,” Queenie continued, her smile fading. “Not good enough for me, huh, honey? Well, if you don't mind, I'll be the judge of that.”

“But the law,” said Jacob quietly. “I don't want to make trouble, and I don't want you to have to hide in the shadows—”

“I don't care,” said Queenie stubbornly, her lip trembling with a sadness that tested Jacob's resolve even more than her smile had. “Look, honey, we had a funeral at work today. You remember the guy behind it all, the one Newt unmasked in the subway?”

“Yeah,” said Jacob, in spite of himself.

“Well, they figured the real Mr. Graves was probably dead,” said Queenie. “They finally found him last week, and we had a big funeral for him, only it was really for the newspapers.”

“I see,” said Jacob, racking his brain for the impostor's name. It was an odd German-sounding one, and he'd only heard it pronounced once—

“Grindelwald, yeah,” said Queenie. “The President spoke about how Graves was her friend at Ilvermorny, but she was really talking to his followers, telling them to beware. And if there's a war coming, then I gotta tell ya, Rappaport's Law ain't really a concern of mine.”

“Rappaport's Law?” asked Jacob. “Is that the one that—”

Queenie nodded. “Uh-huh.”

For a moment Jacob simply stared at her, taking in the expectant look on her face, and suddenly he couldn't remember why he had ever thought this was a bad idea.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “I made it through one war, and I didn't have half as much to live for then.”

Queenie smiled, blinking back tears. “I knew it,” she said softly. “There's only one like you.”

“Come in, Miss Goldstein,” said Seraphina Picquery imperiously, and Tina did. There was an uncertain expression on her face, as if she were afraid that no sooner had she put a toe over the threshold, she'd once again be ordered out.

She also looked more generally uncomfortable, in a way Picquery couldn't quite place. “You, er, you wanted see me, Madam President?” she asked haltingly, and Picquery felt a pang of guilt. This wasn't the usual nervousness that most subordinates displayed around her. Tina's fear of Picquery was Picquery's own fault, and it wasn't the kind of admiring fear that every charismatic leader sought to cultivate.

“Yes,” said Picquery, gesturing across her desk. “Please sit down.”

Tina did, and looked at her expectantly, not quite making eye contact. Given the reason Picquery had wanted to see her, it wasn't reassuring. “How are you settling back in, Miss Goldstein?” Picquery asked. She was stalling, of course, but if Tina couldn't be persuaded to relax in her presence, then it was hardly worth even getting to the heart of the matter. “I've been told you were the one who found Graves' body. You are to be commended.”

“Er—thank you, Madam President, but it wasn't only me,” said Tina, now looking somewhat bewildered. “Mr. Georgeson and Miss Yu tracked down that No-Maj who lived across from Graves. I just realized what her information meant.”

Picquery smiled. “I assure you that Mr. Georgeson and Miss Yu's contributions have not gone unnoticed. Still, that you correctly deduced just how Graves' body had been Transfigured and why shows a great insight into Grindelwald's thought process.”

Tina flushed, shifting. “It was just a lucky guess, Madam President.”

Picquery shook her head. “It was more than that if I say it was, Miss Goldstein, and it relates directly to what I need to tell you. You are aware, of course, that Grindelwald has refused to talk to anyone since his arrest.”

Tina nodded. “Jones was in the interrogation room with him for hours, and I believe you even questioned him yourself, Madam President?” Here her voice trailed off and her flush grew deeper, as though she feared that she might have caused offense just by repeating what had been in every Auror's memo.

I suppose I could take it, if I wanted to, as an insinuation that I failed, Picquery thought. I'd have to be legendarily thin-skinned to see it that way, but given that I had her arrested without cause... “Yes, I did. He seemed either uninterested in saving himself or, more likely and more worryingly, convinced that he didn't need to try. That is, until this morning.”

“What—what happened this morning?” Tina asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.

“I received a memo from Warden Hansen,” said Picquery. “Grindelwald now indicates that he will talk, but only to you.”

“Only to me?” Tina repeated, her surprise evident. “That—that sounds like a ploy of some kind. The interrogator becomes the interrogated, or something, though I can't think what he'd want to know from me. Or maybe he just thinks I'm a weak link in the chain—er, not that I think I am...” Tina trailed off, now giving off the very strong impression of wishing that it had been she, rather than Graves, who had been irretrievably lowered into a hole in the ground.

“Miss Goldstein,” said Picquery, with what she hoped was a kind smile, “I'm quite certain it is a ploy of the exact sort you describe. If you agree to do this, your job will not be to try to sell Grindelwald on any of the plea deals he's already rejected, nor to try to obtain any information he has previously denied us. Your assignment would be only to discover what it is he seeks from you, without, of course, revealing it first.” After a pause, she added, “You know he is a Seer. The warden believes that Grindelwald's sudden change of heart may be due to a recent vision involving you.”

Tina nodded. “Did the warden see him having a vision, or did Grindelwald tell him about one? Or is this just a guess?”

“It's a guess,” said Picquery. “Grindelwald has appeared to experience more than one vision since his incarceration, but the guards cannot properly authenticate what they have witnessed with their own eyes. It's one thing for someone to be a genuine Seer, quite another for that person to be both a Seer and a consummate actor.”

“I see,” said Tina. “So...you actually want me to do this?”

Picquery folded her hands on her desk. “Only if you wish to accept the risk.”

Tina visibly swallowed. “I will,” she said, after a moment's hesitation. “When is this meeting due to take place? I'll need time to prepare—”

“One week from tomorrow. Will that be enough time, Miss Goldstein?”

Tina nodded. “Yes,” she said hurriedly. “I mean, yes, Madam President.”

Picquery smiled. “Good.” After a pause, she added, “I want you to know, Miss Goldstein, that I have the utmost confidence in you.”

Tina's face promptly turned beet-red. “Thank you, Madam President,” she gushed. “I—I won't let you down.”

“I know you won't,” said Picquery. “You're dismissed, Miss Goldstein.”

After Tina had gone, Picquery sat back in her chair, wondering what on Earth had driven her to say that. It wasn't that she didn't have confidence in Tina—and she really shouldn't be thinking of her as Tina; she was a subordinate, not a friend—but that she should have felt the need to assure her of it openly, as a teacher to a favored student?

Tina—Miss Goldstein, she told herself sternly—Miss Goldstein feared her. And she was right to fear her. She had every reason not to trust her.

Yet she still seemed to want to trust her. Her eyes still lit up like a Christmas tree at the smallest amount of encouragement from her president. She knows what too many people in this building forget, Picquery realized. We're meant to be public servants, and she actually wants to be one.

Scamander had said as much when she'd spoken to him, but at the time, she'd assumed he was...perhaps not embellishing anything intentionally, but at the very least unable to help some degree of bias in favor of his friend. She's a good person, he'd repeated at least twice, in a way that suggested he considered that a far-too-rare quality.

And Picquery had seen enough of the world to know that if that was Scamander's general opinion of humanity, he wasn't wrong, and perhaps his effusive opinion of Tina wasn't too far wrong either.

The mythical one person in government who cares, Picquery thought sadly, and I threw her under the bus to save face, without a second thought.

Tina stepped out of the elevator, waved goodbye to Red, and kicked herself, for the thousandth time, for the way she'd handled that meeting. President Picquery had said one nice thing to her, and she'd lit up like a kid in a candy shop. She'd tried so hard to push all of her insecurities out of her mind, and that was the best she could do.

She should never, ever have agreed to speak to Grindelwald. He would read her like a book, learn whatever it was he wanted to know, and be out by dinnertime. Tina would be bounced back to the Wand Permit Office, if she wasn't fired entirely. Maybe Newt would be willing to pay her a minimum wage to help feed his beasts...

One week from tomorrow, Picquery had said. She would just have to spend every waking moment between now and then practicing Occlumency. Queenie wouldn't like it, but she could probably be talked into helping if it was a matter of national security.

She also said she had the utmost confidence in me, Tina thought. She can't have meant that. Did Newt slip her a bit of Swooping Evil venom when she interviewed him?

Tina was so lost in self-recriminations that she walked right past the alley from which she usually Apparated home—Strike three, she thought irritably, as she doubled back—and, once she had Apparated, barely heard Mrs. Esposito's usual greeting. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, only to be greeted by the smell of something delicious...maybe blueberry pie?

“In here,” Queenie called out needlessly, and Tina headed for the kitchen...only to see Jacob Kowalski standing next to her sister, both of them beaming with happiness.

“Hi,” said Jacob when he spotted her, a bit guiltily.

“Hi,” said Tina uncertainly. “I would ask what's going on here, but sometimes you don't need to be a Legilimens to get a pretty good idea.”

“Teenie,” said Queenie softly, “he remembers me. He remembers everything, and I don't care about the law. You don't have to be involved, but that much is gonna have to be all right with you.”

In spite of herself, Tina smiled. “Again, some things don't require Legilimency to figure out. Look, don't get me wrong, it's nice to see you smile again. And Jacob, I'm glad you remember—trust Newt to figure something out. I'm just worried about...well...”

“Aw, come on, Teenie, ain't that just a little paranoid?” She turned to Jacob. “She's worried about keeping things secret for us, what might happen if somebody else gets a peek into her thoughts.”

“There are others like you?” asked Jacob. “Other witches...and wizards, who can read minds?”

“I'm not the only one like me,” she confirmed, grinning at him, “but there aren't many. It's hard to know, of course, but I think I'm the only one at MACUSA.”

“But other witches and wizards can learn Legilimency, even if they're not born with it,” said Tina. “I mean, they can learn to perform it as a spell, even if they're not born with it as a natural ability. It takes talent,” she added quickly, “but we work with some pretty powerful people, and...”

Tina trailed off and sank into a chair, and Queenie's eyes went wide. As maddening as her sister's ability could be, sometimes it was nice not having to explain things. “Oh, Teenie, of course I'll help.” Tina nodded, then momentarily allowed herself to sit back and inhale whatever bribe the two of them had been cooking up for her. “She's got a bigger secret than ours to protect,” Queenie was saying to Jacob, “but she doesn't know what it is yet...”

Chapter Text

Eat something, Queenie had all but begged her. Teenie, you don't look well. She was right, of course. Tina looked like she felt: exhausted, stressed, and plagued by a splitting headache. After two days' worth of near-constant Occlumency practice sessions with Queenie, she had only managed to consistently repel her sister when she knew Queenie was intentionally holding back. If anything, she was getting worse.

You don't have to do this, Queenie had gently reminded her, as she buried her face in her hands. Just tell President Picquery you don't think it's a good idea.

She'll be furious, Tina had replied, not looking up.

I don't know about that, Jacob had put in, going on to tell them about a commander he'd served under in Europe, who would always rather retreat than lose even one more soldier than he had to—

No! Tina screamed to herself. You cannot think about him, not here, it's too dangerous! If anyone were to hear that thought—

“Hey, Goldstein!” Red called from the elevator. “You goin' up or aren't you?”

Tina groaned, realizing that she had stopped walking abruptly, in the middle of the atrium, as she'd mentally warned herself not to think about Jac—Queenie's friend, to the confusion of several wizards around her. “Right, sorry, yes,” she said quickly, hurrying into the elevator.

Well, she thought as Red pulled the lever, still gazing at her with confusion, at least I'll get in some practice. No matter what, as long as I'm in this building, I cannot think about either one of them.

By the time the elevator reached Major Investigations, Tina had almost regained some semblance of calm, which promptly evaporated when the door opened and there, smiling serenely, was President Picquery herself. “Ah, Miss Goldstein, just the person I was hoping to see. Would you accompany me to my office?”

Tina swallowed. “Of—of course, Madam President.”

Tina—Miss Goldstein looked haggard. There was no sensitive way to put it, not that Picquery had any intention of voicing that thought. Tina looked as though she hadn't slept in 48 hours.

Picquery could have simply sent for her, but she'd hoped that coming over personally might make her feel more at ease. She unsealed her office door with a wave of her wand and took her seat behind her desk, gesturing for Miss Goldstein to sit down too.

A house-elf followed after them, quietly depositing a tray of coffee and pastries on the desk before discreetly departing. Miss Goldstein blinked as she looked down at the tray, and for a second an amused half-smile played across her face before vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, replaced by the same expression of determined, almost ferocious neutrality she had worn before.

Picquery shut the door after him with her wand. “Something funny, Miss Goldstein?”

Miss Goldstein shook her head. “No, nothing, Madam President, I just—nothing.” She looked angry with herself as she broke off, and Picquery fought back a sudden, insane impulse to take her hand.

She contented herself with arranging her own face into a smile that she hoped was a decent mirror of the one Miss Goldstein had so determinedly repressed. “While I admire your commitment to professionalism, Miss Goldstein, there's no need to turn yourself into a drone to achieve that.”

Miss Goldstein swallowed. “Yes, I'm aware, Madam President.”

Picquery nodded, unsatisfied with this answer but unable, with several more meetings looming in the next few hours, to waste any more time pursuing it. “Good. Help yourself to some coffee, you may need it. I certainly do.”

Miss Goldstein nodded and poured herself a cup. She took cream, but no sugar. Picquery sipped her own black coffee, then continued. “I wanted to ask you, Miss Goldstein, what you've been doing to prepare for your meeting with Grindelwald.”

“I've—I've been practicing Occlumency,” said Miss Goldstein hesitantly. “And I've been reviewing everything we have on him, trying to spot clues to what he might want. I've read through all the Warden's surveillance reports, and I've requested files on his known and potential accomplices.”

“Good,” said Picquery. “And have you spotted anything you think is particularly relevant?”

Miss Goldstein shook her head again. “So far, it's mostly been retreads of what we already knew. But I'm hopeful that a pattern may begin to emerge, and I'll certainly keep looking—”

Picquery nodded, and Miss Goldstein broke off, her tired face flushing with embarrassment. “In our last conversation on this subject, you and I discussed the problem of Grindelwald's being both a Seer and a skilled liar. Did you ever take Divination, Miss Goldstein?”

“No, Madam President. My sister did, but I could never fit it into my schedule.”

Picquery nodded again. “Right, you would have been busy with subjects approved for students wishing to go on to Auror training. Well, I think it may help you to broaden your background reading a little. Have you heard of a British Seer named Cassandra Trelawney?”

Miss Goldstein nodded. “Yes, Madam President. She's supposed to be one of the greatest living Seers.”

“That's right, and she's recently published an autobiography, which includes detailed descriptions of her physical experience of Second Sight. You may find this instructive in your analysis of Grindelwald's behavior.”

“Yes, Madam President. I'll be sure to read it.”

“Thank you, Miss Goldstein. Now, I've got a meeting with the Canadian Minister for Magic in about 15 minutes, so we'll have to wrap this up, but before we do, I have to ask you whether you've had any flashes of insight concerning Grindelwald's interest in yourself. Have you, in the course of your preparation for this meeting and outside of it, come across any information that could possibly be of interest to him?”

Miss Goldstein bit her lip, as though desperately trying to keep her face impassive. “There hasn't been anything in our briefings that would surprise him,” she said carefully. “I mean, unless what he wants is a tabulated list of everyone we've identified as potentially or definitively connected to him.”

“Which would still be something he could get from any Auror, and something he likely already has from his time as Graves,” Picquery reminded her. “Each night, for the next week, Miss Goldstein, I want you to carefully review every new piece of information you've picked up in the course of the day, however apparently innocuous or unrelated. And every morning when you come into work, I'm going to repeat this question.”

“Yes, Madam President,” said Miss Goldstein nervously, turning to leave.

“One last thing,” said Picquery, holding up a hand to stop her. “Try and get some rest tonight. Cassandra Trelawney's book also contains a salacious account of her affairs with both Nicolas Flamel and his wife, which you may find relaxing.”

Picquery smiled warmly, but Miss Goldstein did not return her smile, instead looking at her as though she had grown a second head. Picquery sighed. “I have a sister, too.”

“Right,” said Miss Goldstein, flushing red. “Of course, Madam President.”

Once Miss Goldstein was safely gone, Picquery shook her head, irritated with herself. She ought to have known better than to think smiles and a cup of coffee would restore Tina's—Miss Goldstein's trust in her. I undervalued her, she thought, and even worse, I let her know. That wasn't presidential, and it may be irreparable.

For the next few hours, Tina pored over the Warden's latest Grindelwald memos, unable to digest a word of them. Furious with herself, she decided to take her lunch break early, hoping that a bit of fresh air might help her refocus her concentration.

I was never going to get a better opening to drop out with my dignity intact, she thought bitterly, but I couldn't bring myself to do the right thing, and all because I couldn't stand to lose her apparent approval of me.

At this point, she was really starting to wonder whether Newt had Confunded Picquery during his interview. Tina couldn't recall a time when the President had ever seemed to actively like her, even before her attack on Mary Lou Barebone. Back then, Tina would have dreamed of the day she'd be meeting one-on-one with Seraphina Picquery, a trusted confidante on the level of Graves, but now she would readily trade Picquery's respect for an insight into why she was being offered it.

Tina headed for the nearest newsstand, intending to just get a Coke. Queenie, determined to stop her from continuing to subsist on hot dogs, had insisted she take leftovers from the previous night's dinner as a packed lunch. As she waited in line, however, a No-Maj newspaper headline caught her eye.

SENATOR SHAW'S BROTHER SAYS WITCHES DID IT

Tina blinked, then reread it. Then her eyes found the photograph beneath the headline, featuring a smug-looking Langdon Shaw standing on the steps of the bank where the Second Salemers had met, accompanied by an impassive Modesty Barebone.

Tina quickly counted out No-Maj change, hurried over to the alley, and Apparated to the bank before realizing she'd not only forgotten her Coke, but left her lunch on the newsstand counter. Langdon Shaw was there all right, having evidently inherited Mary Lou Barebone's followers. Modesty stood next to him, her eyes as wide as ever.

“My father,” he was saying, “refuses to believe the evidence of his own eyes, but I knew that you, my friends, would not be so foolish. Witches live among us, stalking our city. They killed my brother, and they killed your leader, Miss Barebone, her son Credence, and her daughter Chastity. Today I call upon you to join me, in their memory, to seek justice and rid this city of a terrible plague!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd. “Modesty?” said Shaw, turning to face the little girl, and something in his voice made Tina's blood run cold. “Would you like to tell these people how much you miss your mother, your brother, and your sister?”

Modesty visibly hesitated. “Go on, dear,” Shaw urged, his voice shedding its veneer of compassion with each word. “They'd all love to hear your story.”

After another moment, Modesty spoke. “My momma, your momma, witches never cry,” she said, shifting her weight from side to side in an imitation of her hopscotch routine. “My momma, your momma, witches gonna die.”

By now, Tina had watched the Second Salemers enough to know the rhyme, but it still sent chills down her spine. Shaw nodded uncertainly. The crowd erupted in further cheers, but evidently that wasn't what he'd expected Modesty to say.

“Right, yes,” he said quickly. “Like the girl said...witches gonna die. We'll discuss that in greater detail at tomorrow's meeting. Thank you so much for coming, folks.”

This was met with further cheering and clapping. Seizing her chance, Tina slipped behind a pillar and cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, then doubled back around, approaching Shaw and Modesty from behind.

Shaw waited until all of his followers had dispersed, then took Modesty's hand and began to walk south. “What happened to that little speech I gave you?” he asked her, almost kindly.

“About Ma and Credence and Chastity?” she asked, and Shaw nodded.

“Yes,” he said, with forced patience. “About how much you miss them. Why didn't you tell the nice people how much you miss them?”

“It wasn't true,” she said simply, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I only miss Credence, not Ma and Chastity.”

“You don't miss your mother and sister?” said Shaw incredulously.

“You don't miss your brother,” Modesty said, with an easy defiance Tina had to admire. “Why should I miss them?”

“Now, now,” said Shaw uncomfortably, “that's not true, and it's a very nasty thing to accuse me of, do you understand? Now, I'll let it go this once, on account of your grief, but—”

“They weren't my real family,” said Modesty stubbornly. “I had a real mother and father, and real brothers and sisters, and Ma took me away from them. Chastity was exactly like her. They only cared about their leaflets.”

“Do you miss your real parents, then, and your real siblings?” asked Shaw, and Modesty nodded. “Right. Of course you do. Why wouldn't you? But you know you won't ever get them back, right? You know that you've only got me now. I've been very kind to take you in. You don't want to go to an orphanage, do you, Modesty?”

“No,” said Modesty, her voice cracking a little.

“Right,” said Shaw. “Good girl. So just do what I tell you from now on, and you won't have to worry about that, okay?”

“Okay,” said Modesty. The two rounded a corner, and Tina didn't dare follow. She was due back at MACUSA at any minute, but more importantly, she didn't trust herself not to incapacitate Shaw.

Try and get some rest tonight, President Picquery had told her. Fat chance of that.

As always, Queenie heard Tina's thoughts before she heard her footsteps, but tonight her sister was broadcasting particularly loudly. She turned her head towards the doorway, straining to listen to the jumble of confused angst emanating from outside. After a moment, Jacob gently placed his hand over hers, which was closed over her wand.

“Far be it from me to tell you how to use that thing,” he whispered, “but you might be overdoing it just a little, there.”

Queenie blinked. She'd been magically filling a water glass when she'd heard Tina approaching; the glass was now overflowing. She laughed and lazily Vanished the excess liquid, then waved her wand towards the liquor cabinet. “Teenie's had a rough day,” she said, at Jacob's surprised look. “She's gonna need something stronger.” Then she laughed again. “Oh, honey, President Picquery would sooner snap her own wand than go along with that Prohibition stuff. I ain't ever seen her look more human than during that press conference on Giggle water.”

Jacob smiled, his eyes alight with that easy, good-humored acceptance of all things magical that truly was his alone. “Just when I think I've discovered all the perks of seeing a witch.”

Queenie grinned. “Just you wait, honey, just you wait.” She leaned back into his embrace and tilted her face upwards, but as he leaned in to kiss her, Tina cleared her throat loudly.

“The bedroom is that way,” she said as she sank into a chair, but without much feeling. Queenie stepped away from Jacob and sat down next to her sister. She resumed her reading of Tina's confused, upset thoughts, only to recoil in quiet horror.

“Oh, Teenie, that's horrible,” she said, hardly above a whisper, and Tina nodded.

“I've got to do something,” said Tina, “but for all I know, I'm still not allowed anywhere near them. They put me back on the investigative team, but the Second Salem case was closed. And Shaw's a No-Maj, so unless he actually does anything, I can't touch him...and even if I could get Modesty away from him, what would we do with her? She doesn't want to go to an orphanage, and she's a No-Maj, at least as far as we know, so it's not like we could just keep her and, I don't know, raise her as maiden aunts...”

“Begging your pardon,” said Jacob, with a patient smile, “any chance of a translation for the guy who can't read minds?”

“Absolutely,” said Tina, looking up. “Actually, I was hoping to ask you about it, because like you, they both seem to remember at least some of what happened, and that's worrying all on its own.”

“Sure,” said Jacob, “fill me in.”

And Tina did, and Queenie listened to Jacob's thoughts as he processed that information, his every reaction confirming to her, once again, that she'd made the right call. When Tina finished her story, he nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, you'd have to ask Newt, but I got a theory as to why they remember,” he said slowly. “Newt said that Swooping Evil venom removed bad memories. Bad memories, specifically, that's what he said. So once I was sure it wasn't all just a dream, I figured that was why I remembered. No bad memories here, except maybe getting bit by that thing.” He paused, smiling shyly at Queenie. “Only the best day of my life.” And she felt herself flush red, because his thoughts screamed that he meant it. She squeezed his hand, and her heart skipped a beat as he squeezed hers in turn. But then he cleared his throat, and she heard his thoughts take a darker turn.

“Trouble is,” Jacob continued, “what some people see as bad memories...that can be pretty subjective sometimes.”

Tina nodded gravely. “That makes sense. Modesty outright said that she didn't miss her mother or sister. Given what kind of a mother Mary Lou Barebone was...that really might not have been the horrible memory you'd think it ought to be. And Langdon Shaw didn't seem particularly broken up over the loss of his brother.”

“He was the black sheep of that family,” said Jacob. “Everybody thought he was a buffoon long before any of this. Doesn't surprise me in the least that there's no love lost between him and the favorite son.”

“So that explains that,” said Tina. “But what do we do about it? What can we do about it, other than alert MACUSA that the Second Salemers could be a problem again? And would they even believe that, coming from me?”

Jacob smiled, and suddenly Queenie knew what he was about to say, and she smiled too. “Seems to me this is a No-Maj problem needing a No-Maj solution. Let me help. Worst comes to worst, we get into an old-fashioned No-Maj fistfight. MACUSA would never know or care, would they?”

“No, that'd be very much not our affair,” said Tina, “but then you might need to worry about the No-Maj police, and isn't Shaw rich and influential? And really, Jacob, you don't have to do this, I don't want you hurt on our account—”

“Don't start with that,” said Jacob, shaking his head. “I'm one of you now. That means I help wherever I can.”

“All right,” said Tina, “but I'll have to go with you. Shaw remembering magic is a huge, huge problem. After you incapacitate him, I'll Obliviate him properly.”

“No,” said Queenie firmly. “Teenie, you don't need this right now. You gotta focus on your Occlumency and Grindelwald research. I'll go with Jacob and Obliviate Shaw.”

Tina shook her head. “No way. I can't just stand by while you two put yourselves in danger—”

“We'll be all right,” said Jacob, and Queenie nodded. “Plus, if something does go wrong, they can't use it against you or say you violated your ban or something.”

“You got bigger fish to fry, Teenie,” said Queenie serenely. “Let me and Jacob handle this one.” Queenie tuned into Tina's thoughts, which now consisted of a messy internal battle. She knew they were right, but still didn't like it or want to admit it. So typical of her.

“What about the girl?” Tina asked at last. “What can we do for her once you've got her back here?”

“Seems to me we can cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Jacob, “but if she's a No-Maj, then it looks like it falls to me to give her a place to stay without running afoul of the law. I wouldn't presume to decide what's best for her long-term, but I've got a spare room over the bakery. She's welcome for as long as she wants to be.”

Queenie smiled, almost teary-eyed. He meant this, too, with every part of his soul. He was truly the kind of person who would open his home to a child he'd never met, just because she needed a home and he was in a position to give her one.

“You still don't believe it,” she marveled, taking his hand again. “But it's true. There's only one like you.”

Chapter Text

Tina studied Warden Hansen's Grindelwald report from the previous day, which hardly differed at all from his Grindelwald report from the day before that. She was getting nowhere. After days of nonstop research, she still had no idea what Grindelwald wanted from her other than a terrifying suspicion that, given his abilities, it would merely be confirmation of something he already suspected—or worse, that he was just after revenge, and would proceed to chase down Newt after crossing her name off his list.

Tina felt a pang of guilt as she thought of Newt. Several times she'd considered writing to him, confessing her fears and warning him to stay safe, but driven to distraction by Langdon Shaw and Modesty Barebone, she hadn't yet. Tina was, of course, aware of the futility inherent in attempting to warn Newt Scamander, of all people, to stay safe—and ironically, Newt would probably be infinitely safer if he was away in some far-flung country chasing an incredibly dangerous beast than he would be hiding out in London, where Grindelwald would surely look first. Perhaps instead of a warning letter, she ought to send him newspaper cuttings about wild dragons terrorizing Australia. This would also have the advantage of appearing innocuous to any outside spies Grindelwald might have, whom he could potentially have directed to intercept her communications.

Of course, loath though she was to admit it, this wasn't the only reason she hadn't written yet. She was also mildly embarrassed by their interaction on the pier—what had that even been? What had Newt wanted it to be? Merlin, what had she even wanted it to be? Queenie had asked her once whether she'd hoped Newt would kiss her or whether she was grateful that he hadn't. She'd had no answer then, and she had no answer now.

The fact was that there had definitely been some kind of attraction there, but she wasn't at all sure it could translate into a successful relationship. She and Newt were, at their core, very different people. It was far better to just treasure their connection as an unlikely fire-forged friendship and leave it at that.

She checked her watch. It was 9:20 in the morning. She'd been at work for only 20 minutes, but it felt like hours. And today she had no chance of getting out at five o'clock on the dot, even if she managed to make any kind of headway. Tina frequently stayed late at work out of genuine dedication, but today she had no choice. It was to be her alibi, just in case, Merlin forbid, something went wrong with Queenie and Jacob's plan.

They'd spent the last two days meticulously plotting and flatly refusing to let Tina in on any of it. As this unfortunately left Queenie unavailable to help her practice Occlumency, Tina had found herself reduced to actually reading Cassandra Trelawney's memoir cover-to-cover. President Picquery had been right about its usefulness in explaining the mechanics of Second Sight, but this chapter was unfortunately followed immediately by Cassandra's account of her trip to the French Riviera with Perenelle Flamel. Tina had been unable to help her reactions, and Queenie had, of course, picked up her every thought and mocked her mercilessly for the rest of the night.

Tina shook her head in a desperate attempt to focus herself. She could not think about them, and more important—she could not worry about them. For as long as she was in this building, what was due to happen tonight was not happening, ever, because she could not think about it.

Tina chanced another look at her watch: 9:25. President Picquery would be expecting her at ten o'clock, and she only wished she had anything of substance to tell her.

You can still back out, her nagging conscience reminded her, and she knew, objectively, that she should. But Picquery's confidence was as addictive as the finest Giggle water, and Tina, selfishly, couldn't stand the idea of letting her down, again.

She hated herself for it, as much as she hated herself for the fact that Queenie and Jacob were about to risk life and limb to save Modesty, and she couldn't lift a finger to help them—

And I also can't think about that, she told herself firmly. If I get them caught, that will be so much worse than not helping—

Tina forced herself to stare back down at the memo, willing it to provide any sort of clue, and knowing as she did so that Grindelwald was far too smart to allow for that. She could stay overnight at work, and she'd still learn nothing.

Tina read the same sentence for the fourth time, barely processing it. Maybe a cup of coffee would—

“Miss Goldstein,” said the most recognizable voice in the country, and Tina looked up to see President Picquery standing behind her. Her eyes flicked involuntarily to the clock on the wall. It was still thirty minutes to ten, and Tina's momentary relief that she wasn't insane quickly vanished in the face of the realization that she had yet to properly return the President's greeting. Flushing, she stood up.

“Madam President,” she said, wishing that she could keep the nerves out of her voice. To her surprise, Picquery's eyes shone with warm amusement.

“Yes, I know,” she said, nodding at the clock. “I'm early. But I'm afraid my schedule is considerably tighter today than I expected, so I hoped we could speak now.”

“Of—of course, Madam President,” Tina stuttered, hating herself more with every excess syllable. “Shall we go to your office?”

Picquery shook her head. “No. This won't take long—my apologies, Miss Goldstein, but it really can't take long.” She paused, and then, before Tina could further embarrass herself with another overdone attempt at proper deference, continued. “Have you, since last we met, come across any information that could possibly be of interest to Grindelwald?”

Don't think of the plan, don't think of the plan, don't think of the plan—

In fairness, it's not really a lie if I genuinely can't see why Grindelwald would care about it—Credence was the Obscurial, not Modesty, and he's dead anyhow—

But Shaw remembering magic is a huge problem regardless, one that, depending on widespread it is, Grindelwald could potentially take incredibly damaging advantage of—

Tina swallowed. “No, Madam President.” Then, before she could change her mind, she plunged on: “Can we really be sure this isn't just about revenge?”

“Revenge on you, Miss Goldstein?” To her credit, Picquery hadn't laughed, but it was clear she wasn't sold on this theory.

“On me and Newt—I mean, Mr. Scamander,” said Tina in a rush, flushing bright red. “What if we've been giving him too much credit, trying to figure out a grand plan that's never existed? What if that itself is the plan—distraction, misdirection?”

“I think,” said Picquery, giving Tina a look strongly resembling pity, “that you need a strong cup of coffee, maybe a walk to clear your head, and at least eight hours of sleep tonight, Miss Goldstein. We can finish this meeting at the end of the day.”

Tina nodded, and Picquery turned and left. Tina buried her face in her hands, more furious with herself than ever.

She didn't add, “If that's his plan, then clearly it's working,” but that's definitely what she thought. Tina rubbed her eyes, then resolved to allow herself one more minute of self-pity before getting back to work. She would take Picquery's advice, but first she would draft a circumspect letter to Newt. She could leave it with Queenie, with the instruction to send it only if she failed to return from the interview.

Practically as soon as Jacob and Queenie had begun to discuss their plan, they'd noticed a huge problem with it. It was all well and good to beat Langdon Shaw up as a last resort—and Jacob was confident that he could take him—but it could only be that. Modesty might not have chosen Shaw's company, but he was, at this point, the only semblance of a parent she had. To just waltz up and punch him in the face would—well, it would certainly muddy the waters for the poor kid as to who the good guys were.

No, he and Queenie were going to have to win Modesty over, and gaining her trust could take time, which they didn't have much of. “I ain't got much experience with little ones,” Jacob had told Queenie apologetically. “Only time I ever had to charm one was once in the war. I got separated from my unit, and there was this little French boy. I never learned to speak French too well, but I gave him a piece of bread, and that convinced him I was okay. Too bad that won't work now.”

To his surprise, Queenie had smiled. “Oh, honey,” she had said, shaking her head with nigh-unbearable fondness. “Are you a baker, or what?”

They'd had a good laugh over that, but there was still the question of how to approach Modesty without terrifying her. After two days and nights' worth of back and forth, they had a Plan A, but Jacob wasn't at all sure it would work, and Plan B was an outline at best. All right, he thought, here goes nothing.

Wish me luck, he added silently, winking at Queenie. From across the crowded street, she winked back at him.

Jacob began to shuffle toward the bank, picking up his pace as he crept nearer, before breaking into a run. Carefully keeping his head down, he ran straight into Langdon Shaw, who was watching his crowd disperse, knocking them both onto the pavement.

“Hey!” Shaw snapped, dusting himself off. “You want to watch where you're going, mister—”

“Sorry,” said Jacob, pretending to search for his scattered belongings. “Aw, rats, my lunch! It's spilled everywhere!”

“Serves you right,” Shaw spat. “Idiot—”

“Hey,” said Jacob. “Hey. I said I was sorry.” He drew himself up to his knees, picked up a bag containing an iced vanilla scone in the shape of a Demiguise, and caught Modesty's eye. She was staring greedily at the mess of food so near her feet, just as Jacob and Queenie had hoped she might.

“Here,” said Jacob, drawing the scone out of its bag and holding it out to her. “Looks like this is the only thing that didn't get ruined. You look hungry. You want half?”

Modesty's eyes widened, as though she had never seen anything so appetizing, but she seemed too stunned to speak.

“You know what?” said Jacob, careful to sound as though he were half-talking to himself. “You go ahead, take it all. I'll just get something from the office canteen.” He dropped the scone back into its bag, handed it to her, straightened himself up, and resumed walking towards the bank. “Sorry, again, mister.”

“You'd better be,” Jacob heard Shaw mutter after him. “Come on, Modesty, we're leaving. Don't eat that. Don't eat anything strange people give you.” He seized the pastry bag from her hands and tossed it on the ground, and Modesty looked so sad that for a moment Jacob wished his pastries didn't smell so good. Then he heard a familiar crack, and there was Queenie at his side.

“Well, I tried,” said Jacob, shaking his head. “We'll have to think of another way to get a message to her.”

“Hold that thought,” said Queenie. “Accio!” The discarded pastry bag zoomed into her hand, and she set off at a brisk pace. Jacob watched, bemused, as the zipper on Modesty's bag opened. Queenie discreetly dropped the pastry bag inside as she passed them, and the bag zipped itself back up. Shaw and Modesty continued into the intersection, and Queenie turned a corner. A second later, she reappeared next to Jacob.

“Good thinking,” he said, beaming at her. “She still might not get the message, but we'll be ready if she does.”

Queenie beamed back at him. “If at first you don't succeed—”

“—try, try again,” said Jacob, wrapping his arm around her.

At precisely four-thirty, Picquery drew out her wand to send a memo to Tina Goldstein, summoning her to her office. According to other Aurors, Miss Goldstein had now stayed at least an hour late every night for the past four days, and she had been looking, somehow, even worse for the wear. Picquery had meant her words of advice earlier, and she intended to make sure that Tina followed them. She would get a full night's sleep tonight, whether she wanted to or not.

Tina—Miss Goldstein promptly appeared at her office door, and Picquery beckoned for her to sit down. She did, a perfect picture of nervousness and exhaustion. “So, Miss Goldstein,” Picquery began, braced for the inevitable response, “any revelations since our chat this morning?”

Miss Goldstein shook her head, defeated. “I'm afraid not, Madam President.”

Picquery carefully arranged her face into what she hoped was a warm, kind smile. “That's all right.”

“I'm sorry, Madam President, I—wait, what?” asked Miss Goldstein, now looking bewildered as well as desperately in need of rest. Then her face fell. “Are you saying—does this mean—are you giving the interview to someone else? I'm so sorry, I—”

Picquery shook her head, holding up a hand to stop her talking. Of course she would think that, she thought sadly. I've got to find a better way to communicate with her. “No,” she said firmly. “It's still your job, as long as you want it to be. Allow me to stress that last part. If for whatever reason you do not wish to go through with this interview, I certainly won't force you to face Gellert Grindelwald. Let me also make clear that you would face no punishment for such a decision, nor any ill will from myself or anyone else.”

Miss Goldstein nodded. “Thank you, Madam President. I appreciate that, but I don't—I don't wish to withdraw at this time. I'm sure I'll work out the answer, but I just—I feel like I've read the same information over and over again, just phrased differently, and—” Tina broke off, flushing red with embarrassment, as though she had just remembered she was talking to her President. She cleared her throat, looking furious with herself. “I'm sorry, Madam President. I mean, I'm sure I'll just need another cup of coffee, and a chance to re-read our materials with fresh eyes.”

Picquery shook her head. “I'm afraid I can only partially agree with you. Looking over our materials again with fresh eyes would surely be of help to you, but I don't believe that you need any more coffee, or tea, or anything else. What you need, Miss Goldstein, is sleep. So much so, in fact, that I'm sending you home early today.”

At this, Tina looked alarmed. “Oh, Madam President, thank you, but I'm sure that's not necessary—”

Picquery shook her head again, more sternly. “I'm afraid this is a direct order, and I'm not going to change my mind. I'm not the only who's noticed you need sleep. Your Department Head has also mentioned it, as have several of your colleagues. You're dismissed, Miss Goldstein, and if you're not out of here by quarter to five, I will have you escorted home.” She paused, took in Tina's aghast expression, and adopted a gentler tone. “I need you to understand, Miss Goldstein, that I still have the utmost confidence in you. I simply don't believe in allowing my staff to work themselves to death. I'll see you tomorrow at ten, and I expect you to have had a full night's sleep in the meantime.”

Tina—Miss Goldstein swallowed, looking ready to protest again, and Picquery gave her a look that she hoped mixed stern and kind to appropriate effect. Then she reached into her desk, searching for the Sleeping Draft she had ordered prepared. “Here,” she said, holding it out to her. “Take this. It will help you. Sleep well, Miss Goldstein.”

Miss Goldstein nodded glumly, looking sadder and more defeated than ever. “Thank you, Madam President,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a murmur. Their hands brushed briefly as she closed her fingers around the bottle and replaced it in her bag, and Picquery felt a strange lump in her own throat.

“You're most welcome,” she said, her own voice coming out rather smaller, and less presidential, than she would have preferred. She watched Tina's back as she turned and left, shutting the door behind her.

I had to do it, she thought. She'll thank me later, I hope.

Mr. Shaw offered Modesty a small snack when they returned to his apartment, but it was nothing like the pastry that the nice man had offered her, that Mr. Shaw had forced her to throw away. She almost thought she could still smell it. She avoided Mr. Shaw's eyes, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asked her, as she stood up to leave the table.

“To my room,” she replied. “I'm tired. I want to lie down.”

“Here,” he said, handing her a rolled-up piece of paper. “This is the speech you're going to give tomorrow. Practice it, and then you can have your lie-down.”

“All right,” said Modesty morosely. She didn't want to give any more speeches. They were all lies, or at least, no more than half-truths.

If Modesty was honest, she had no idea what she believed anymore. She could only recall bits and pieces of the day that Ma and Chastity had died. She could remember that they had died, but not how, even though she was certain that she had been there when it happened. Of Credence, she remembered even less, only that he had disappeared. Mr. Shaw said he was dead, but she couldn't remember that.

The first few days, she had hoped that it wasn't true, and that Credence would show up at any moment to take her home. Not that it was ever really her home, but she belonged with him more than she did with Mr. Shaw.

But she didn't want to go to an orphanage, and her real family were long gone. She wandered into her room clutching the new speech, her eyes downcast. She sat down on her bed and opened her bag, looking for her sketchbook...only to find the same strange monster pastry from earlier, still carefully wrapped and seemingly waiting for her. But there was also a note in the bag, a note addressed to her.

Dear Modesty,

You don't have to stay with Mr. Shaw. We want to help you. If you would like to meet us, please come to your window at half past six this evening. We will introduce ourselves properly.

We will not make you come with us. We just want to talk to you.

Your friends (we hope),
Jacob Kowalski and Queenie Goldstein

Modesty blinked. She re-read the letter several times, and then she looked at the clock. It was only quarter to six.

She had forty-five minutes to wait, and nothing to occupy her except the speech Mr. Shaw had written. Slowly, reluctantly, she unrolled it.

Hello, friends, it began. My name is Modesty Barebone, and witches killed my family.

In truth, Modesty had never known what to believe when Ma had gone on and on about witches. She'd said the hopscotch rhyme about killing witches because hopscotch was the only game Ma allowed her to play. She'd never cared about handing out the leaflets. She'd secretly played with the toy wand she'd had since her time with her real family, though she'd never been able to make it do anything.

Because of their wicked deeds, I have no mother.

It was all lies. Modesty had no mother because Ma had taken her away from her real mother. It wasn't anything witches did. We can't afford to feed you anymore, her real father had said. You're going to go live with Miss Barebone here. She'll give you a better life than we can.

Her entire life had been based on lies, or at least on broken promises. She didn't know who Jacob Kowalski and Queenie Goldstein were. Maybe they would just lie to her too. But if meeting them meant she might not have to give this speech, she was willing to find out.

She picked up the pastry and bit the strange animal's head off. She had never tasted anything so sweet in her life. People who gave her things like this couldn't be all bad, could they?

At half past six, trembling, Modesty went to her window. Out in the street stood two figures, the nice man from the bank and a beautiful blonde woman. They both smiled and waved at her. Cautiously, she stepped out onto the balcony.

“Hey there,” said the man from the bank. “Can we come up?”

Modesty nodded, but she wasn't prepared for what happened next. The woman wrapped an arm around the man's shoulders, and with a crack, they disappeared...and then reappeared, standing together on her balcony. She gasped, and hurried back into her bedroom.

“I know, I know,” said the man cautiously. “This whole magic thing takes some getting used to.”

“You're witches!” Modesty shrieked. “What do you want?”

“Just to talk to you, honey, like we said in our letter,” said the woman. Her voice was almost painfully gentle. “I'm a witch, but Jacob here is just like you.”

“And I promise you,” the man called Jacob continued, “that Queenie here is a good witch. We're not here to hurt you.”

“Why are you after me, then?” Modesty demanded, and to her surprise, Jacob smiled at her.

“It is a fair question,” he said quietly, addressing Queenie. The he turned back to Modesty. “The day your mother and siblings died, the whole city almost learned the truth about magic. How much do you remember about that day?”

“Just that Ma and Chastity died,” said Modesty uncertainly. “Mr. Shaw said Credence died too. I don't remember that, but I guess it must be true, because he wouldn't—he wouldn't just leave me alone.”

The woman called Queenie nodded gravely. “Your brother Credence was a very special person,” she said, her voice filled with sadness. “He was magical, you see, but your mother wouldn't let him use his magic, so he got real sick.”

As she said this, a flood of images engulfed Modesty's mind. All of a sudden she remembered exactly how Ma and Chastity had died. Credence had—he had—

“He killed them,” she whispered, her mouth hanging open. “He killed them, and then he ran away, except it wasn't him...it was...”

She couldn't describe it, but Jacob and Queenie seemed to know, as they both nodded.

“He was sick,” Queenie repeated solemnly. “He had to hide his magic, and it turned inward and made him sick.”

“She always used to beat him,” said Modesty, trembling. “She—she was gonna beat me, because I had the toy wand. He killed her because she was gonna beat me.”

Jacob nodded. “He cared about you very much,” he said softly. “And our friends, they cared about him. They'd found out what was happening to him, and they tried to save him. Unfortunately, it was too late.”

Modesty swallowed. “So why are you here, then?” she asked, summoning her best tone of defiance.

“Look,” said Jacob, “we know it'll be hard for you to believe that not all witches are bad, after the things you've seen. But I promise you, they're not. I mean, some are, but some people like us are bad, too. And what Langdon Shaw is trying to do is just going to hurt another boy or girl like Credence. Make them sick, and the whole cycle starts again.”

“We're here to stop Mr. Shaw,” said Queenie, gazing directly into her eyes. “But we don't want you to end up alone again, honey. We'd like to offer you a place to stay.”

Modesty couldn't contain her curiosity. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Nothing bad,” said Queenie. “We're just gonna make him forget about magic.”

“But after that,” said Jacob, “he'll also forget why he knows you. So we wanted to offer you food and shelter. I own the bakery that pastry came from. I've got a spare room on the floor above it, and I'd be happy to let you stay.”

“That's right, honey,” said Queenie happily. “You can have those nice pastries any time you want.”

Modesty started. She had been thinking about the pastry, but she hadn't said anything about it. But then Jacob was chuckling to himself, shaking his head.

“Sorry, kiddo. We may have forgotten to mention it, but this one can read minds.” He squeezed Queenie's hand as he said it, and Modesty's jaw dropped.

“Can all witches do that?” she demanded, horrified.

“No,” Queenie assured her. “Most can't. I was born with it, but that's really rare. And I promise, I won't do it again unless you say I can.”

“Is that why you're here?” Modesty asked, far from pacified. “Is that how you're going to make Mr. Shaw forget everything? Read his mind, and change it?”

Queenie shook her head. “No, honey. I know it all seems strange at first, but those are two different things.”

Jacob smiled at both of them. “I'm new to this too,” he said to Modesty, extending his hand out to her. “We can learn together.”

Modesty hesitated. She wanted to trust him, but it was so much to take in—

“Modesty!” Mr. Shaw yelled from the hall. “Who are you talking to in there? I hope you're working on that speech!” Then she heard his footsteps. “I'm coming in!”

Modesty looked down at the speech. I need your help, she was meant to say. We have to stop them. We have to kill them all before they kill us too.

She looked up at Queenie, who didn't seem capable of killing anyone. She smiled shyly at her, and Queenie smiled back, beckoning her. Modesty crumpled up the speech in her hand and threw it across the room. Then she turned to Jacob, walked out to the balcony, and took his outstretched hand.

Then Mr. Shaw walked into the room. “Modesty, where are you? I'm warning you now, I'm in no mood for games—” He broke off as he saw them, recognizing Jacob from earlier. “Just what do you think you're doing here?” he said, wagging his finger at them. “Get away from her! This is my house, and you're trespassing—”

“Relax, Mr. Shaw,” said Queenie serenely. “Soon this will all have been a bad dream.” Modesty stared, transfixed, as she drew out her real wand and pointed it at him. “Obliviate!” Mr. Shaw's eyes glazed over, and he crumpled to the ground.

Modesty dropped Jacob's hand and ran towards Mr. Shaw's body. “Is he dead?” she demanded. Have I made a terrible mistake?

“No,” came Jacob's voice behind her, quiet and gentle. “He's just unconscious.” Slowly, cautiously, he followed after her, stopping a few feet behind her. “Touch his neck if you want to be sure. You'll be able to feel a pulse.” He proceeded to demonstrate on his own neck, and Modesty stared at him for a moment. Then, summoning her courage, she reached out and touched Mr. Shaw's throat. Jacob was right; he was alive. She withdrew her hand and looked back up at him.

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Good,” said Jacob, smiling at her. “Now, what do you say we get out of here? We'll have a nice dinner at Queenie and her sister's, and then you and I can go home to the bakery.”

Mr. Shaw stirred. “We've gotta hurry,” said Queenie. “He won't be out for much longer.”

“Do we have time to go out the front door?” Jacob asked her. “I don't think Modesty's ready for Apparition yet.”

“We can,” said Queenie, “but we've gotta go now. Modesty, honey, was there anything you wanted to take with you?”

Modesty looked around the room. There was nothing of hers in it. There was nothing much in it at all. She picked up her bag, then nodded. “I'm ready.”

“Wait,” said Jacob, spotting the crumpled speech. “What's this?”

“It's nothing,” said Modesty. “It's the speech Mr. Shaw wanted me to give at the next meeting.”

Jacob unfolded the paper and read it, looking angry as he did. “Okay. Let's throw this out somewhere else, where Mr. Shaw won't find it and start trying to piece things together.”

“Good thinking,” said Queenie. “C'mon, he's waking up. We've gotta go.”

Jacob pocketed the speech and held out a hand to Modesty. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, and he led her out into the hall. Queenie followed, closing the door behind Mr. Shaw.

“What?” Modesty could hear Mr. Shaw murmuring. “Oh, my head...guess I must have tripped on something...”

Following her meeting with Picquery, Tina hurriedly collected her things. The only thing worse than being sent home early on the one day she really, really needed to stay late would be a colleague escorting her there, making it impossible for her to leave and potentially compromising Queenie and Jacob's plan even further—

No. Don't think about that, don't think about that, don't think about that—

It was no use. The harder she tried not to worry about them, the more frantic she became. Had she already ruined everything for them? Did Picquery know? Had her apparent kindness been a façade, a cruel trick to lead her directly into a trap, where her sister and Jacob waited, already caught and awaiting trial, or worse, lack thereof? Had Jacob already been Obliviated?

She had to go home; she had to find them...but at the same time, she couldn't. Their whole aim had been to make sure that she could plausibly deny everything. She was supposed to stay late at work so that MACUSA security could confirm that she had been nowhere near the scene. Queenie and Jacob had risked everything to protect her; she couldn't ruin things now.

But as work was no longer an option, she had to find another alibi for herself. She had to be somewhere out in public, at least until seven o'clock. There had to be witnesses. She had to be able, if worst came to worst and Queenie and Jacob were caught, to identify plenty of people who could confirm that she'd been elsewhere, that she'd had nothing to do with it.

Tina turned into the alley and considered. She wasn't hungry, but a restaurant was probably her best bet. Somewhere she could sit down instead of pacing, where she would be observed by a waitstaff undoubtedly annoyed by her staying far too long. Tina Disapparated and Apparated to the doorstep of one of the few exclusively wizarding cafés in New York City. She tapped her wand at the door, and soon she was inside, seated and staring at a menu, willing anything on it to sound appetizing. The waiter twice allowed her more time, but on his third pass she felt guilty, and she ordered what on any other day would have seemed like an excellent platter of chicken, broccoli, and mashed potatoes.

As she ate, Tina wondered if she'd been panicked for nothing, especially as concerned President Picquery's...er, concern for her. She really had no reason to think it hadn't been real, and in that case, she had done Madam Picquery a terrible injustice in suspecting her of a trick—

—but she couldn't afford to trust her. She couldn't afford to trust anyone, that was the plain and simple truth of it. And she was about to face Gellert Grindelwald with a mind like a sieve, her one and only advantage being that she still hadn't the faintest idea what he wanted out of it, and that certainly wasn't going to sustain her for long.

I should have backed out, she thought sadly. President Picquery gave me the perfect opportunity to drop out without losing face, again. She said she wouldn't be disappointed in me, so why couldn't I bring myself to just believe her?

Even eating as slowly as possible, there was still too much time ahead of her. Tina stared at the patterns on the walls until her eyes crossed. She ordered a cup of tea, wincing as she remembered Picquery's advice against it, waited for it cool enough to drink and willed herself not to think about anything, not just to protect the others, but for the sake of her own sanity.

It didn't work, and she was reduced to rereading the relevant chapters of Cassandra Trelawney's memoir to pass the time. At quarter to six, when she couldn't stand it anymore and the waiter certainly couldn't stand her anymore, she asked for her check, left a generous tip as a peace offering, and walked slowly in the direction of her and Queenie's apartment. She usually Apparated, but she still had time to kill.

She arrived at seven on the dot. There was no sign of Queenie, Jacob, or Modesty Barebone, but there was an owl tapping at the window. Tina let the owl inside and took the letter. It was addressed to her, in handwriting that was vaguely familiar. She hadn't been expecting mail, and her instinct was to fear the worst. When the owl had flown away, leaving her truly alone, she opened the envelope.

Dear Tina,

I hope you and your sister are well. I'm sorry I haven't been able to write you before now, but I'm afraid I've been caught up in another sort of adventure since we parted, beginning almost the moment I left you. Shortly after boarding the ship, I discovered that I had been followed. I trust you will be relieved to hear that the young man you and I had so feared for is not, in fact, lost to us after all. He just needed a bit of sea air.

Since docking in London we've been nigh inseparable. I've been hard at work putting the finishing touches on my book, and our mutual friend has been kind enough to help me care for my creatures. He insists that he is happy enough with this arrangement, but nonetheless I'm eager to find a more permanent situation for him, one that might allow him to realise his potential without overexerting himself. I wondered if you might have any suggestions along those lines. Thank you in advance for your time, and once again for all the help you gave me in New York. I don't know that our friend will be keen to visit in the near future, but I hope we will see each other soon, at least as soon as I have a copy of my book to hand over to you.

Warmest regards,
Newt Scamander

Tina opened her mouth, then closed it, clutching Newt's letter to her chest, half-convinced that her heart must have fallen out of it.

This was the answer, clearly. She hadn't been entirely wrong: Grindelwald wanted her and Newt. But neither she nor Newt was his real target; Credence Barebone was. Credence Barebone, alive against all odds and staying with Newt in London. Newt, trying to help an Obscurial get better, as surely only he would dare to attempt.

She was due to face Grindelwald the day after tomorrow, with this in her mind. Tina sank into a kitchen chair, certain she could hear her own heart pounding, and at that moment, the door opened. She turned to see Queenie, Jacob, and Credence's little sister, all of them smiling. Whatever Queenie and Jacob had done to gain Modesty's trust, it had worked.

“What's the matter, Teenie?” said Queenie anxiously. “We did it! Modesty's here with us, and Shaw doesn't remember magic anymore. It's okay!”

Tina sighed, and she allowed her thoughts to answer for her. “Oh!” Queenie gasped, her smile fading. “Oh, my...”