Work Text:
Dear Newt,
As always, your column this week was very informative. I hope that I will never meet a spider the size of a house but if I do, it’s good to know they can be reasoned with.
In your last letter, you asked for me to write more about what I’m doing, since you feel you talk too much about yourself and you want to hear about me. Newt, you don’t talk about yourself. You talk about your beasts. And while the hypothesis that Boggarts eat cockroaches is an interesting one, I would like to know what else is going on in London. Tell me what Albus Dumbledore was like to have as a teacher. Tell me about Diagon Alley, and Hogsmeade, and all those places I read about in English school stories when I was little. Hyacinth goes to Hogwarts by Griselda Brown led me to expect streets paved in chocolate. Did she invent Honeydukes or is it real?
You did ask about me, though, so here is what my week at work was like.
Mr Graves called us together on Tuesday. By ‘us’ I mean the Aurors. The raids are over, for now at least – Grindelwald’s network in New York has been torn down and so have his safe houses – so most of the department was on desk duty, with a few still recovering from injuries at home and sending us notes to complain about it every other day. It may sound like an achievement to be proud of, and I guess that it is, but we have caught only a small number Grindelwald’s people. Which means they can just rebuild it all over again. They are like fucking rats, always getting out of the sinking ship in the nick of time.
Sorry for my language. And for insulting rats. I know you like them.
Most of us are assigned to combing through evidence seized during the raids, working in groups to get it done faster, but the Portkeys were already dead when we got to them and the papers blanked themselves straight away. Grindelwald has some very skilled sorcerers on his side. What’s more, he’s still recruiting, and he doesn’t need to lift a finger to do it. The New York Seer was very much against him after what happened in the subway, but now it keeps publishing opinion pieces criticizing President Picquery’s political judgement and interviewing ‘wizard-first’ campaigners about all the ways their liberties are being stripped from them. They don’t come right out and say ‘so let’s start a war to get what we want’. They don’t need to. Grindelwald said it loud enough – he just has to wait for people to agree with him. And they do.
The No-Maj press is just as bad. Henry Shaw doesn’t remember what he is afraid of, so now he is afraid of everything. His newspapers are hate-mongering like there’s going to be no tomorrow. Somebody joked the other day that we should just Obliviate Shaw again and I can’t remember exactly what I said but I’m pretty sure I was loud about it. These are the people who would push Jacob out of our world without a second thought, and believe they were doing Queenie a favor.
Anyway. I’ve wandered off the point. Graves came out of his office and stood there looking at us for a minute or two, arms folded. It felt like he was about to start giving out detentions. Instead, he announced what he called a training exercise. Somebody in the room, he said, was not who they seemed to be, and we had to figure out who it was as soon as possible. “Preferably before they kill us all,” he said. “This is a trial run. Maybe we can avoid the real thing happening.” Then he got a cup of coffee and went back into his office. Before he shut the door, he gave us that disappointed look – you know, with the eyebrows? – and added, “Again.” Merlin’s wand, that man is good at making me feel guilty.
This will sound silly; a few weeks ago Jacob lent me a book of No-Maj detective stories. Right then, while we were all standing around in a tense hush outside the office door, I thought of Hercule Poirot, who would spot the wrong shade of lipstick or a watch three minutes too fast and know at once who the guilty one was. That’s like magic, don’t you think? A very useful sort of magic. I wonder if there are No-Majs who can really do it.
We went back to work, casting sidelong looks and muttering counter-spells at each other to see if we could pull the disguise off whoever it was. Nothing makes you realize how much you don’t know about your colleagues like suddenly being tested on whether they’re really somebody else. We kept needling each other for personal information and pretending that’s not what we were doing, and watching each other for mistakes. It must take a lot of study to copy somebody properly, down to their habits and mannerisms. Grindelwald was very good at it. He only slipped up once, in the interrogation room, and that might have been deliberate. He thought we were going to die. He was so sure of it.
I think that Graves is afraid he was not the only one replaced in the MACUSA. He’s been spending a lot of time looking into the records. Some lives are harder to take over than others, aren’t they – the people who have wives or husbands and children, for instance. It’s horrible to think about.
I really shouldn’t be talking about these things. If anyone will understand, though, it’s you. Burn this letter when you’re done with it? It’s so depressing, you wouldn’t want to re-read it anyway. Sorry again. I hope you get a letter from Queenie soon to balance me out.
The next two days were awful. I made up bad excuses to snoop at other people’s desks and wished I’d paid more attention to how my co-workers take their coffee or tie their shoes so that I’d notice a slip-up. The problem is, people are so goddamn inconsistent. That includes me. Some days I forget to brush my hair – that doesn’t mean I’ve been taken over by the dark forces.
It was such a relief to get home. I’m finally getting used to Queenie not being there. Even Credence isn’t in half the time, he stays at the bakery if he finishes his deliveries late. So there was nobody to complain about my eating fish and chips and covering the table in notes. I tell you, I can see why these storybook detectives live alone, Newt. It’s good for the concentration.
On Friday morning I went into work so early that nobody else was there yet. I mean, strictly speaking, three o’clock is morning. Graves would have been proud of the protective spells we’d all put on our desks. The first one I went to was mine. I looked at what I keep on it and thought about what a stranger would see as important. The photograph of my parents was obvious, but who in the office would know that Queenie gave me the silver fountain pen and that’s why I like to keep it next to the frame? Little details like that are the things you miss when you’re not looking for it.
I am writing this in my lunch hour so must wrap up quickly. It’s freezing cold on this bench and doesn’t feel like spring is coming at all. Having rummaged through all of the desks, I was pretty sure I knew who the plant was by the time everybody else started arriving. It was lipstick that did the trick after all. Enchanted Evenings is shockingly expensive. You don’t let a tube of that roll around loose on the desk unless you’re not the one who paid for it. I remembered it being stuck in the same corner when I went by the day before, which meant it hadn’t been used, which meant she was using something different and it struck me what a good place to hide Polyjuice that was – all you’d have to do is keep reapplying every time you licked your lips.
Mr Graves was pleased. I think. He patted me on the shoulder and said I’d done better than he expected, which is a back-handed sort of compliment, but I will take it. He’s right. We need to do better. We need to be ready for what comes next, because it’s going to be bad.
My feet have gone to sleep. That, or they have frozen solid. Write soon.
Yours truly, Tina
*
Turning eleven is the most important birthday for a wizarding child, because that is when you are old enough to be given your first (and hopefully, only) wand. It is a moment of transition when magic becomes yours, even if you don’t know how to use it yet. When you go to the wandmaker’s, there are usually excited relatives in tow and celebrations to follow; Tina’s parents both burst into tears when the third wand she picked up produced a puff of blue sparks and they had photographs taken of her looking very tiny and serious in her Ilvermorny uniform.
When Credence Barebone gets his first wand, he is nearly twenty four years old and it is what can only be described as a production. To begin with, he’s not allowed in a wandmaker’s. That seems almost sacrilegious to Tina, who so fondly remembers the musty, woody smell of the store where she went as a child, but it has been deemed too great a risk to public safety. Instead, a selection of wands have been brought into a heavily fortified vault underneath the MACUSA, where the more dangerous spellcasting experiments are conducted, and in place of buoyant relatives Credence gets this moment witnessed by the Director of Magical Security and the President herself.
And Tina, of course. She was prepared to argue her way into the room if it came to that, but Graves said it was a good idea and if Picquery disagreed with him, she chose to let it go. She is dignified in a black suit and headscarf, looking more as if she is about to attend a funeral than a wand-choosing. Credence is standing as far away from her as he can within the limited confines of the room and Graves is beside him, talking rapidly in a low voice – talking him out of panic, from the look of it. Picquery’s narrowed eyes are on the pair of them, but she glances over at Tina when she enters and offers a nod of greeting.
“I believe we can begin now, Mr Barebone,” she says.
Graves leads a visibly reluctant Credence over to the table where the boxed wands have been set up. How Picquery convinced any wandmaker into doing things this way is a wonder. “All you have to do is try one,” Graves says to Credence. “There’s no way to do it wrong.”
“I think there probably is,” Credence mutters.
“Then we will all learn a valuable lesson,” Graves says calmly. “Here. Start with this one.”
He opens and offers a sleek green box. Credence reaches inside, drawing out the slim length of wood with hesitant fingers. He looks to Graves for further instruction and Tina tries not to feel put out. She rather thought Credence would be asking her, the approachable one, for advice. At Graves’ mimed motion, Credence flicks the wand and there is an almighty bang as it cracks down the middle, falling to the ground in fiery halves. Credence jumps back, away from the purple flames, and looks accusingly at Graves, who casually dusts ash off his sleeve and proffers another box.
“These things happen,” he says. Picquery snorts.
“It’s all right, Credence,” Tina says. “You’ll only find out what fits by trying.”
Credence swallows. He tries another wand, which crumbles to dust the second he touches it and fills the room with a strong smell of burnt feathers. The one after that sprouts leaves. “Hawthorn,” Picquery remarks, propping a pair of spectacles on the bridge of her nose and leaning in for a closer examination. The spectacles make her look like a professor of arcane studies, which Tina finds uncomfortably attractive.
Wand after wand is tried and discarded (or exploded, in more than one case). Credence goes from panicky to grimly determined, going through the boxes as fast as he can, until the air becomes thick with sparks and smoke. Graves keeps making disinterested humming noises, resolutely not coughing. Tina thinks he will pretend that this is normal until they all go up in flames. Then again, Tina won’t leave Credence and Picquery is much too alive with scholarly interest to go anywhere, so Graves is hardly alone in his suppression of survival instincts.
“Stop a minute,” he says at last. “Wait here.”
He makes a small motion at Picquery that must mean something more to her than it does to Tina, as she doesn’t question him, though she does frown slightly. Credence shifts, obviously wanting to follow him out. “I expect he’s just getting more wands,” Tina says reassuringly. She wonders how much today’s experiment will cost the MACUSA, and why Credence is having this effect now when he has been training with Graves’ wand for weeks without any particular destructive tendencies. That wands have some sort of…awareness is a claim made by wandmakers everywhere, and it’s well-documented that a wand will serve a loved one better than a stranger: children who can’t accidentally curse themselves with wands stolen out of their parents’ pockets, twins who consider their wands almost interchangeable, lovers in the romance paperbacks that Queenie likes so much who swap their wands to be closer to one another.
Well, Graves is not Credence’s brother or father, and Tina isn’t sure she wants to know what his wand thinks Credence is – she is not comfortable with the idea of it thinking at all.
Picquery casts a few spells that gradually dissipate the smoke. “If all else fails, I hear you are quite talented with wandless magic,” she says to Credence. Her tone is neutral, but he ducks his head, shoulders hunching under her gaze.
“Only because I’m no good when I use a wand.”
“Is that so?”
“He’s exaggerating,” Tina interjects quickly. He isn’t, really, but complete honesty does not feel like the best strategy, given the limitations Picquery has already tried to place around his unpredictable magic. “He doesn’t have much basis for comparison.”
“Hm,” is Picquery’s only response. She returns to studying the remains of the ruined wands, putting out the one that is still on fire.
Graves returns with a length of unvarnished ebony and an irritated expression that implies it maybe wasn’t as easy to get hold of as he wanted. He puts it in Credence’s hand and presses his fingers around it. “Try this,” he says.
“That’s not a wand,” Picquery points out, folding her arms. Credence looks at the piece of wood; Graves’ hand is still curled over his. There is an intimacy in the touch, restrained though it is, that makes Tina see what she has been too distracted to notice before. Something has happened between the two of them – something more than long looks and quiet, intense conversations. It occurs to her that on those nights when Credence doesn’t come home, he might not be staying at the bakery.
When Graves lets go, stepping back, Credence raises his hand.
Golden sparks rain down around them. The air fills with the scent of caramel. Credence looks up wonderingly and the sparks land on his face, rolling in droplets, leaving shimmering trails across his skin. He glances delightedly at Graves, who is grinning back – grinning, a look Tina doesn’t believe she’s seen on him before, ever. Picquery holds out her hand and watches as golden rain fills her palm. Her eyes meet Tina’s in a moment of shared amazement. It feels like that second when the first firework hits the sky on the fourth of July; a breath of endless possibility.
“How is he doing that without a real wand?” Picquery asks softly. “How did you guess he could?”
“Shot in the dark,” Graves says, turning the grin to her.
She smiles back. “You don’t make shots in the dark unless you’re very sure you’ll hit your mark.”
“It struck me,” Graves tells her, with a trace of smugness, “that the Obscurus might act as its own core to whatever Credence uses. And he’s already accustomed to ebony.” He looks at Credence. “How does it feel?”
The sparks have stopped pouring down, but Credence is smiling so wide he is almost unrecognisable. He is golden. “It feels like magic,” he says.
*
Dear Tina,
Honeydukes is quite real, and quite wonderful. I used to go there with a friend of mine, she could never get enough of the toffee. That was before I was expelled, of course, I haven’t been in Hogsmeade for a long time. I should make a trip up during the school holidays, when it’s quiet.
As for Albus Dumbledore, he was, and I suppose still is, the very best kind of teacher: patient, good-humoured and quite willing to be argued with as long as you could make your point well enough. It is hard for me to understand how he and Grindelwald became friends. I can only imagine that Grindelwald made a compelling case for himself. And people can change a great deal, for better or worse. My friend might not like toffee any more; she might not like me. Everyone is a little bit unknowable, I find.
Your letter has been burned. I would say, not to worry! We are all on the same side! Only I fear it is not as simple as that. You and me, however, we are on the same side. Ask if you need my help, any time, and I’ll be on the next ship.
In that spirit of international wizarding co-operation, I have copied out everything I have to hand on shapeshifters, hoping it may prove useful to you. I understand it’s a different matter but some of the suggestions may help and there is a guide on how to spot an Animagus that served me well during the war. Be careful, Tina? Grindelwald’s lieutenants have been making promises to dangerous people. I am told he’s brought a large number of werewolves onto his side, and it is nearly impossible to differentiate a werewolf from an ordinary human by eye alone. Once transformed they lose all control, mindlessly vicious in a way no real wolf truly is, yet also retaining a certain unnatural intelligence – or perhaps it is better to say, a human cunning. The worst of both worlds, in my opinion. I was hunted by a pack in Russia once, and that I escaped was entirely due to the intervention of Fitz, the dragon I was training at the time. Dragons do not get attached easily. Once you have their loyalty, though, you have a friend for life. I will never understand the bias so many wizards have against them. It’s the fire-breathing that puts people off, I think, but most breeds are really more likely to use their claws than their flame on a human.
I don’t know what your training was like regarding werewolves, so do forgive me if I have repeated what you already know. I’m told I have an irritating tendency to lecture. That is an advantage of communicating by letter – if I bore you, all you have to do is move on to the next sentence.
The newspapers of America are not the only ones with wavering allegiances, I’m sorry to say. The Daily Prophet is more cautious in its language but there are many here who approve of Grindelwald’s aims, if not his means, and they write in with opinions I hear all too often on the pavements of Diagon Alley. I do what I can to counteract them. I wish I could do more. When people listen to me, it is usually for my family name, or out of respect for my brother. My own opinions do not count for very much.
I have written to Credence but do pass on my congratulations if this letter reaches New York first. His progress is nothing short of astonishing. Imagine what he might be doing in five years, with a bit more training under his belt! Don’t be cross if I try my best to convince him to come and work with me. Though I daresay Mr Graves may get there first. He has an eye for assets, doesn’t he?
The attached parcel contains socks I have knitted with Demiguise fur. They may occasionally turn invisible but I think all socks do that sometimes, and these are the warmest you’ll ever find.
Best wishes,
Newt
*
“Mr Graves,” Tina says, “do you have a minute?”
Credence has been seen safely outside, where Queenie was waiting with cake and congratulations, wrapping him in a huge hug that almost made up for her not being allowed in the room while the wand-choosing was taking place. Graves said his goodbyes and left them to it, and was about to disappear into his office when Tina caught up with him. He gives her a curious look, but allows her inside.
The door clicks firmly behind her. She’s aware of layered enchantments locking into place as it does so and swallows, taking the seat she’s offered.
“I need to talk to you,” she says, because it has to be said, “about your intentions.”
He blinks. There’s a pause. Tina realises he’s waiting for more.
“Towards Credence,” she elaborates.
A complicated expression crosses his face, somewhere between pained and amused, before he says, “I really should have expected that.”
“He hasn’t told me anything,” Tina says, trying not to sound upset about it. Credence is entitled to live his life as he chooses – except what does he know about life, other than pain and doubt, where does a boy with so many scars on his back learn the art of making choices that are good for him? Tina does not believe that Graves would ever deliberately take advantage of Credence, but it would be easy to mistake hero worship for something stronger, she knows that from experience. And oh, she is not qualified to be having this conversation, why did Credence have to fall for her mentor?
“I understand that the two of you are…in a relationship,” she says.
“You’re right,” Graves says evenly. “It’s also none of your business.”
“With all due respect, Mr Graves,” Tina says, drawing herself upright, “that’s not true.”
He’s giving her the ‘I can demote you if I feel like it’ stare, but after a long, uncomfortable silence that she refuses to break first, he says, “My only ‘intention’ regarding Credence is making him happy. He seems to think I can.”
“What does that mean?” Tina asks, then blushes violently when Graves raises his eyebrows. “I mean, what are your plans? Does he intend to live with you, are you going to ask him to join the Aurors once his training is complete…?”
“Am I going to exploit him, is what you mean,” Graves says coolly. “No. I could, if I wanted to. I am aware of that. But you underestimate Credence. He grew up in a cult with a mind of his own. He knows there is a better life within his reach now, and I have every confidence that he is going to make the most of it.”
“Yes, but what life?”
Graves stands up, the interview clearly at an end. There is something that could actually be sympathy in his tone when he answers, “That’s not up to us, is it?”
*
Dear Newt,
The socks are wonderful and they only turn invisible when I put them on, which was a godsend this evening because I had to go out wearing heels and the only pair I’ve got are awfully uncomfortable without padding on the toes. It was a ceremony for the Aurors , awarding commendations for valor in these difficult times . Of course Graves got a medal. Everyone upstairs wants to be able to look him in the eye again. I got one too. I guess I should be feeling honored. It’s probably enough credit to wipe out that demotion, but when the President put it on me, it was…it’s just metal, Newt. It feels like a bribe.
All the most prestigious wizarding families were in attendance, dressed up to the nines – up to 1809, anyway. The purebloods don’t move with the times if they can possibly help it, you should have seen the crinolines. There was a woman who had what looked like a whole vulture on her hat and I still don’t know whether it was alive or not, even though I was sitting behind her for most of the ceremony (luckily I didn’t mind not seeing most of the ceremony). Queenie wasn’t there. She doesn’t get invited to these things any more. I don’t think I will, either, after some of the the things I said.
My God, Newt, what is the point of fighting men like Grindelwald if ladies in silk robes and men in cravats get together afterwards to chat cosily over champagne about how No-Maj-borns are never going to be quite up to scratch? Perhaps we should focus training on ‘reliable bloodlines’, they said, as if we are racehorses being bred for speed. Some days I don’t know what I’m doing here. Other than throwing away my career by arguing with them, and Mr Graves wouldn’t let me do that. He hauled me off into a corner to calm down. I don’t know where he was before that, he let Picquery put the medal on him, shook hands with a few people and vanished for a couple of hours.
“I know,” he said, when I tried to explain why I was so angry. “You should hear some of the things my mother says, but hexing people isn’t going to change their minds.” (I wouldn’t have hexed anyone, that is illegal. I can see why he thought I might, though.)
He got hold of some fire whiskey and put a charm around our corner to keep people from noticing us there. We’d just sat down when the President came over and pulled up a chair. “Still not taking a hint, Seraphina,” Graves said, pouring her a drink. “Damn straight,” she said, and drank it all down in one. She had looked so serene before, I didn’t know she hated these occasions as much as Graves does. After a few drinks they started swapping the most outrageous gossip about the people at the tables nearest to us, so straight-faced it was hard to tell if they were being sarcastic or not. Vulture-Hat Lady is apparently sleeping with both her sons-in-law. The man in the violet cravat, a table over, is a notorious nuisance known for transfiguring gum wrappers into bank notes so he can go on shopping sprees in No-Maj shops. Graves and Picquery had a drinking game where they compared the number of times they’d arrested him and what pointless things he’d bought that time. Picquery won with thirteen cuckoo clocks.
It’s not like they were being nice to me, really, but I felt better anyway.
Credence was delighted with your letter and with the dragon scale you sent. It’s enormous! How big was the dragon? Do all dragon scales glow a bit in the dark? I’m afraid I have neither socks nor exciting artifacts for you, but I think you will like this – I encountered a few reports buried in the MACUSA archives about beast activity near New Orleans and am formally inviting your collaboration. That means I can send copies of all the reports for you to see yourself. What do you think? Oh, you also get paid. You’re an official consultant now, if you want.
I had better send this before I go to work, Graves h as called another meeting and that can’t mean anything good . Say hello to all the beasts for me, especially the Demiguise.
Yours, Tina
*
“No,” Tina says, furious, hopeless. “No, we can’t.”
“The order came through first thing this morning,” Graves says. They are in his office, where the argument cannot be overheard. “With everything Henry Shaw has been saying, it’s been decided that he represents too much of a risk.”
“He’s already been Obliviated once! What will it do to him to have his memory wiped again?”
“Nothing good,” Graves says, matter-of-fact. “But it’s going to happen, so you and I are going to make sure it’s done right.”
“The President signed off on this?” The disappointment is a painful sting. Tina’s crush is never going to go anywhere – she knows that, she doesn’t expect anything – but now she has seen Seraphina Picquery with her guard just a little bit down, drinking Graves under the table and making biting jokes. The woman she saw that night was somebody she could be friends with.
“Shaw won’t let the city settle,” Graves says. He stalks out of his office and Tina has to hurry to keep up with his longer stride. “The President is under a great deal of pressure to do something about it. There were suggestions that Obliviation was not a strong enough measure.”
“Assassination?” Tina whispers.
“He’s a No-Maj,” Graves says, as if that explains everything. Unfortunately, it does. There are precedents for this. That they were supposed to be left behind in the Great War doesn’t make much difference.
“His son was killed in front of him,” Tina says desperately. “Do you honestly think we can make him forget what he saw?”
Graves turns around to look at her as they reach the doors. He is steely; in this moment, she is reminded of why Grindelwald went unchallenged for so long. “We don’t choose which part of the law we uphold, Goldstein. It is there in all its mess and glory, and we volunteered our service. So we do it well, and when it changes, we do it better.”
“Too late for some,” Tina says bleakly, but it isn’t Shaw she’s thinking about. She understands, though she doesn’t like or agree with it, why he needs to be quieted. He is an omen of sorts; a precedent on its way to becoming a norm. Graves must be thinking it too, because Tina sees her own frustration mirrored in the tense lines of his face.
“Yes,” is all he says.
They Disapparate together and go to find Shaw at work. Graves, with his elegant clothes and authoritative air, easily convinces the nearest secretary that he has an appointment and is shown up with all due haste. The office door is opened by a different secretary who, from the smudged mascara she’s trying to discreetly wipe away, has been crying hard.
“Women,” Shaw says jovially to Graves, “always making such a fuss.” Tina is apparently invisible. He probably thinks that she is a secretary herself. “Damn fool girl forgot to take down the appointment,” Shaw continues, coming over with his hand outstretched for Graves to shake. “I don’t believe we’ve met before?”
If Henry Shaw was a wizard, Tina thinks, he would be first in line demanding this Obliviation.
Graves takes the offered hand. His Stunning spell is so cleanly done that Shaw is still smiling when he hits the ground. After that it’s clockwork, a task as familiar as it is distasteful. The first Obliviation removed all traces of magic; now they scrub out the ghosts that linger behind, the little reminders that all is not as it should be. It is delicate work, demanding concentration and skill. When they are done, Graves hoists Shaw into his desk chair and steps back to scan over the scene.
He nods, satisfied, and on the way out he stops the secretary (who has fixed her make-up and pasted on a smile) to tell her in a low voice that Shaw asked not to be disturbed. The way that his memories have been stitched together, he should believe that too. Tina and Graves leave the way they arrived, walking with confidence among people too busy to really notice them, and once they are outside, they find a quiet place to discreetly Disapparate.
“That took longer than expected,” Graves says with the same dead-pan expression he used while tearing apart the reputations of his parents’ friends at the presentation ceremony. “A good half hour, don’t you think?”
“Very unexpected, sir,” Tina agrees, and when they Disapparate it is not to return to the MACUSA. Tina materialises in the alley behind the bakery. By the time she gets into the blissfully pastry-scented warmth, Credence is gone, already collected by Graves for an early lunch and most likely other activities that Tina would rather not picture.
Queenie, for whom denial is never an option and who must have known what was going on right from the start, as Credence’s mental shielding is still very patchy, is arranging pastries with her usual equanimity. She catches Tina’s flash of disapproval and rolls her eyes. “Credence isn’t a child, you know.”
“I know.” Tina does, most of the time. “I worry about him, is all.”
“So does Mr Graves.” Queenie is briefly distracted by a customer, making friendly conversation for the few minutes it takes to wrap up a parcel of Jacob’s incredibly good bread, before coming back to Tina. “Credence is having a really good time.”
“Oh, don’t,” Tina implores, putting her hands over her ears. Queenie laughs merrily.
“I meant in general. I can’t hear him from here, they went to Mr Graves’ apartment.” Queenie tilts her head, curls bouncing but mouth going serious. “It’s hard to get a read on Mr Graves, but he wasn’t happy when he came in and you’re worse. What happened today?”
Tina doesn’t tell her – she doesn’t have to. When she thinks about it, Queenie looks down. “Oh,” she says. “Makes sense.”
“That won’t happen to Jacob,” Tina swears, projecting her sincerity so hard Queenie winces, but she smiles again too. It is a different smile, small and tight, one that most people never see.
“Nothing like that is going to happen to Jacob,” she agrees, “because I’m right here.”
She is wearing a pastel pink blouse and a matching bow over her golden curls. There is a dab of icing sugar on her temple. She looks like the dream housewife from a magazine cover and that’s who she is, in a way Tina could never be – effortlessly nurturing, endlessly supportive – so good at being exactly the person you need that most people who meet her never realise how very good she is at getting exactly what she needs too.
A skilled Legilimens is not limited to reading thoughts. Under the right circumstances, in a mind that is not prepared with a defence, thoughts can be shaped and fitted into place so well that they seem like they were there all along. Queenie has never done it. She has been very careful to avoid anybody even considering that she could do it. Between Tina’s Auror training and a lifetime’s experience of being Queenie’s sister, she is probably the only one aware of just what Queenie could accomplish if she was unhappy enough.
If anybody ever succeeds in making Queenie that unhappy, they deserve whatever she does next.
*
Dear Tina,
There is nothing I would rather do than go to New Orleans to find out what is eating people in the swamp – I have some wonderful suspicions, please encourage your colleagues to show restraint and not kill anything before I get there – but it looks like I may be stuck in London for a little longer than I planned. Theseus came to see me last night. He would not like to know that I am writing about this to you, but when I said that you and me are on the same side, I meant it.
I don’t believe I’ve said very much about Theseus. I’m sure you know who he is – either as the war hero Captain Scamander, or for his position in the Ministry, or for both. We are not close. He does not think much of what I do, but I was involved in the capture of Grindelwald and I think it worries him that I’ve drawn the wrong sort of attention, because he wanted to warn me. President Picquery has been backed into a corner. Grindelwald will be transported to England for trial. She has held out on the demand that her Aurors will escort him there, but Theseus has doubts that it will be enough and I am certain that it won’t be.
There is a concerted effort underway to get rid of Picquery. She was never popular with the pureblood hardliners, from what I’ve heard, and the Grindelwald revelation was an international embarrassment. If my brother’s sources can be trusted, there will be a shift in policy to keep America out of whatever happens next. There are a lot of people who don’t care what Grindewald does as long as it’s not on American soil.
I wish I had better news. You may have already been told about this, but if you haven’t, forewarned is forearmed. Be safe. Send me word if you need help.
Please.
Newt
*
Tina sits on the bench five minutes walk away from work, where she always goes on her lunch break, with the letter in her hand. She has been sitting for a long time. Her break may actually be over and she’s still here, too weighed down to think of moving yet. At last she crumples the paper between her hands, whispers a spell, and lets the bits ash trickle through her fingers to the ground.
Spring chose to arrive today of all days. The sky is a gentle watercolour blue and morning showers have left the street looking deceptively clean. Children splash happily through shining puddles, cars rumble back and forth, and Tina sits, her hands empty and ash-stained on her lap.
She doesn’t notice at first that someone is trying to get her attention.
“Ms Goldstein?” It is tentative to the point of timidity, belonging – as Tina sees, when she finally looks up – to a girl a couple of years younger than herself, clutching her purse in both hands and biting on her lip. An intern, Tina thinks, and gets up wearily.
“Ms Goldstein, I’m sorry to bother you,” the girl says, pitching her voice so low Tina almost can’t hear her. “But. I heard. About your sister. And the Obscurial.”
“What did you hear?” Tina asks, shoulders squaring, hackles rising.
“That you’re not like the others,” the girl says. She wrings her purse between anxious fingers, but her chin is mulish and her eyes are hard. “My name is Sarah. I'm a Squib. They said I was unteachable, but I want to learn, I want to defend myself.”
There is no need to ask from what ? Squibs exist on that thin line between the world of the wizards and the world of No-Majs; which side they end up on depends largely on luck. Anybody who lives on a border like that needs to know how to defend themselves. Squibs don’t get a wand. Depending on the head of Ilvermorny at the time, they might not get to go to school at all. That is why Credence Barebone, growing up among No-Majs, never got an Ilvermorny letter.
Tina dusts off her hands. “You came to the right place.”
*
Dear Newt,
I’m writing this while Queenie gets Credence so I’ll have to be quick. Here is what I did this week: I volunteered to teach a study group of Squibs, convinced Queenie to join in and am about to try and talk Credence into helping us start a newspaper. He can show me how to use a printing press and Jacob knows how to develop photographs. I'm going to write about wizarding law. We would all like it very much if you wrote a column about magizoological conservation for us.
I’m no Albus Dumbledore, but something needs to change right now, so this is where we’ll start. I am an Auror, I won’t break the law. I am going to shout at the law until it starts listening.
Wish me luck,
Tina