Chapter 9
Graves sighed as she exited the interview room after speaking to the younger Potter, her folder tucked under her arm. Blindly, she made her way through the twisting halls back towards the Bullpen.
It was as she feared, the young wizard didn’t know anything. At least, not anything useful.
And that in, lay the problem.
They had captured one of the Death Eaters, but there were at least 3 still at large. And possibly a hostage with them, or maybe worse. Whatever those monsters had planned for the young Malfoy boy, Graves could guess it was not good.
Graves couldn’t stop the shiver down her back at the thought. They were trying to resurrect Grindelwald, the most feared monster of recent history, of Graves family history.
Gwen Graves wasn’t naive. And she, more that most, had reason to fear the name. Her family, tainted by the shadow of that monster. Even to that very day, older witches and wizards looked down on her, sneered at her. ‘Child of Grindelwald’ The whisper had followed her for as long as she could remember.
Passing down the Hall of the Fallen, the name given to the long gallery filled with the portraits of famous Aurors past, Graves tried not to look at the one she knew was not there.
The frame had since been removed, a few ‘concerned’ citizens demanding it be destroyed only a year prior. Sam had tried to fight against it, for his Head Aurors sake but with re-elections drawing closer, Gwen didn’t blame the President for doing what he did, even if it stung.
Reaching the silent Bullpen, Gwen stopped for a moment. A shadow shot out from under a nearby desk, a very solid and furry shadow which brushed against her leg. She looked around, ensuring there were no human in sight before looking down.
“Hello Mavros.” She greeted as her black cat purred at her feet. The creature gave a quiet mew, as if greeting her in turn. Gwen couldn’t help but relax a little as she leant down, allowing the creature to jump onto her shoulder and settle like a heavy, warm scarf.
Slowly she stood up, feeling the sharp claws dig into her arm as her cat steadied itself.
Most of her Aurors thought her cat was her spy, watching them for her, looking for any infractions. But that was far from correct. The truth was, Marvos, her faithful cat, was actually a little bit stupid and a little bit single minded when he thought someone had some tuna. Graves had once seen her cat follow Senior Auror Kent around the bullpen for 5 hours straight after he had made the mistake of eating a sardine sandwich at his desk. The poor man had almost had a heart attack by the end. Of course, it later came out that he was stealing from the illegal potions ingredients storage and selling them on to some less repeatable wizards for a profit, a matter which was subsequently dealt with harshly.
After that little incident, Graves had immediately seen the advantage the rumour had caused and wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. An air of mystery was always a good thing to have, her grandfather had always said. “Act like you are untouchable, and no one will try to get close enough to touch you and drag you down.” He had said to her when she was younger and the sting of the vicious rumours had hurt far more. And he would know.
The late Percival Graves had been a powerhouse in his time. A powerful wizard with a rare talent for wandless magic, the family gift, and a brave Auror. His legacy sadly tainted by one great catastrophe. One mistake he had made which had led to his capture and torture by dark wizards, while the monster Grindelwald himself had slipped into Grave’s place, ruining and destroying Graves allies and friends and almost destroying the very core of the American Wizarding World itself before he had finally been unmasked. Graves had been recovered months after the incident but even as he had fought to fix the shattered pieces of his own life, the rest of the American Wizarding World had turned against him.
They had seen that he had failed to fight Grindelwald and instead of seeing him as a survivor, they had seen him as an accomplice to murder, a war criminal.
Graves had managed to continue on in his role as Head Auror after his rescue but he had never shaken off the rumours that he, far from being a victim, was a dark wizard himself, a supporter of that monster. Being untouchable had been a means of survival.
When his daughter, Gwen’s mother had been born, the rumours had persisted to a second generation and finally, on Gwen’s birth, to a third. And yet, the Graves’ survived. They took pride in their survival and Gwen herself, had fought back to become a damn fine Auror like her grandfather and later take on his position as head of Magical Law Enforcement.
And yet, it was no easy thing being a legacy. She had struggled with it herself and she had seen it in the Potter boy when she had sat with him, gently questioning him about what had happened, why the Deatheaters had targeted him and his friend and why he had hidden himself away, hiding even from MACUSA. The answers, when they did come, were all too obvious.
The boy had been the heir to an impossible name. One he had tried to escape from, one he had let touch him. It seemed so obvious.
And yet, Graves knew that they did not have all the answers. Not yet. There were still forces at play here that MACUSA did not see. That Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy and the Ministry of Magic were unaware of. And Graves could feel that they were running out of time to find out before it all blew up in their faces.
Sighing, she walked into her office, motioning with her wand for the door to close behind her. A second motion sent her inkwell flying back into place on her desk as she sat down. She was exhausted.
Her cat jumped off her shoulder and onto her lap as she groaned and leant back in her chair. After a few moments, she became aware of eyes watching her. She looked up to the large portrait hanging on the wall.
“Grandfather.” She acknowledged. From the portrait she had saved from destruction only a year before, Director Percival Graves nodded. He was painted as his younger self, from the image he had presented when he had been in middle age, around the time of the Grindelwald War. Not the slightly bitter old man Gwen had known in his later years, burned by the wizarding world and longing for rest.
“Guinevere.” The portrait replied, black eyes meeting her own, a trait shared by both.
“How did you do it?” Gwen asked quietly. “How did you go out every day, knowing that monsters could be right around the corner? How did you keep fighting?”
There was a pregnant silence, Gwen Graves looking away from the portrait which was watching her intently.
The canvas finally said. “We did the best to survive today in the hope that we could do it again tomorrow.”
Gwen shook her head, smiling slightly. It may only be canvas and paint but her grandfather’s portrait always seemed to say the most bizarrely comforting things. Growing up during a World War led to some funny ideas, she supposed. He had always had a taste for the theatrics when he was alive. Gwen guessed that was why she couldn’t see the portrait destroyed, why the President had given it to her to keep in her office, rather that have it incinerated. The concerned citizens may have thought they won, but really they have lost ground. Gwen would protect this last memory of her grandfather so that future Aurors could learn from the mistakes of the past.
“Is he….Is Grindelwald truly back? Is this the start of all of ‘it’ again? The No Mag deaths, the wizards turning against each other? The war?” Gwen finally asked. She looked up at the portrait, of one of Grindelwald’s greatest victims. She didn’t need to elaborate. Her grandfathers physical portrait may have been removed from the Hall of the Fallen but he still had the shadow of an Auror about him. He still listened and studied and investigated. She didn’t need to ask to know the painting knew some of what was going on. Her grandfather looked down at her.
“I do not know. But if he is, I think you will be tested like you never have before.” The painting replied. “And I hope that you, all of you, are strong enough to handle it.”
Gwen bit her lip.
“Harry Potter. He defeated a dark wizard. Voldemort. That has to mean something here. Mean some advantage for us?” She looked back at the painting to find her grandfather gone.
“Fuck.” She swore. Straightening up in her chair, she reached for the folder from the boy, from Albus Potter’s interview. It may not be much but she had to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. She had already ordered that no one apart from the healer was to speak to the boy until she was sure there was nothing left he could tell them about the attack and the Deatheaters plans for the young Malfoy boy. She could not have her one witness interfered with. One of her most trusted Aurors would remain in the room at all times with the young man to ensure nothing was missed and nothing was twisted. Harry Potter had not been impressed, he and his son both verbally attacking Graves, trying to bully her into giving them access to her witness. But Graves was not a woman to have her hand forced. Young Albus was an adult and despite his label as a runaway, Harry Potter had no legal right to sit in during his questioning unless the younger man asked for him. Of course Graves would not stop him if the boy asked to see his father or any other Auror he trusted but somehow she thought that would not happen. Of course, Albus was asked if he wanted to see certain people but so far he had refused everyone and Graves was not going to force him. Potter would just have to wait for a little while longer to speak to his boy.
There was a movement on her desk. Graves looked over as Mavros leapt up off her lap, knocking down the paper mouse which was crawling towards her. Reaching up, she took the paper from the creatures claws, the mouse folding in on itself, rearranging itself as a letter. She opened it and read.
“Fuck.” She swore again as she read over the request to use Veritaserum on the imprisoned Deatheater. The Truth Potion was one of the most restricted potions in America and was only to be used in the most dire of situations. If her people were asking for her to sign off on it, they were all in trouble.
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Draco strode through the street, his jacket flying around his body like a finely made robe as he made his way back towards the destroyed apartment. His sons home.
He had been told that the American Aurors had gone through that place the moment Harry Potter had grabbed Albus and apparated him away, searching for any clues as to the Deatheaters plans. Draco, as Albus’ only champion in this situation, had felt that he had no option but to follow, to ensure Albus’ safety in MACUSA. He knew Potter wouldn’t be thinking, too caught up in his own world to see the pain and fear in his son and Albus, stunned and possibly injured, would be unprotected against anything his father could pull. He also hoped that somehow, Albus would know something about Scorpius, about where they had taken Draco’s only child.
Thankfully, Graves seemed to understand the situation with almost unnatural clarity and had made sure Harry would keep his distance until Albus was ready, if he was ready.
Draco had watched from the other corner of the hall as Graves had spoken with Albus, the stern Director kind to the young man as she tried to find out where Lucius could have taken Scorpius. Draco had watched from the shadows as Potter and his oldest had lost patience and had tried to muscle their way to Albus and Graves had knocked them back with little effort, the woman an impenetrable wall against them. The woman had left soon after, leaving a stern Auror to guard Albus as she left, no doubt to deal with Knott, much to Harry and James’ despair. Neither man would get access to the younger wizard unless Albus agreed to see them.
For a moment, Draco thought about asking if he could see Albus but quickly dismissed it. He wouldn’t know what to say to the boy and Draco could guess that Albus was hurt and worried for Scorpius, the same as he was. Until Draco knew exactly want he wanted to ask, he could do no good for Albus.
As soon as the woman had disappeared from sight, Draco had turned. He had always had a good sense of direction and it hadn’t taken him long to find the Apparition Point.
Taking a breath, Draco had reappeared in the street outside his sons home. Quickly he had strode towards the apartment building. He turned a corner to enter the building and stopped as the tip of a wand suddenly appeared in his face.
Acting automatically, Draco drew his wand and raised it to block the oncoming curse.
Someone swore.
“Fuck! I’m so sorry Sir. You surprised me.” A youngish voice said.
Draco looked over the point of his wand at the witch before him. She was dressed as an American Auror and was hurriedly lowering her wand, frantically trying to push it up her sleeve. The woman was looking at him in awe and a little fear.
“Please don’t tell the Director Sir.” The young woman pleaded. “She would pull me from the field if she learnt I hexed a foreign Auror.”
Draco blinked, suddenly realising what was going on. This young Auror believed he was a senior Auror from England like Harry and his boy, that he, in his tailored suit and carefully styled hair, had the power to hinder her career. She didn’t know he was not in anyway connected to the Ministry, had no authority over her. The young woman was still babbling almost hysterically now. Clearly, she was fresh, untried and nervous. MACUSA had sent everyone who could be spared to work in this attack, even the untried ones.
Draco lowered his wand.
“Its alright.” He said, thinking rapidly. He wouldn’t be a Malfoy if he didn’t use this situation to his advantage. He didn’t have to correct her assumption and if he could use this to find his son, he would. He slipped his wand back in his pocket. “No harm done. I’ve come to see the crime scene.” He tried to keep his voice level, to avoid showing his worry for Scorpius. If he could fake authority, the aurors would be less likely to challenge him, less likely to block his work.
The woman smiled hopefully. “Of course Sir. This way.”
The woman turned and walked towards the stairs which would lead to the damaged apartment. Draco, amused by the situation despite his worry, followed.
They passed several Aurors on the way, all of them on guard and yet, none of them questioning Draco’s presence. Clearly a foreign wizard was automatically a Ministry Auror in their minds.
Finally, they arrived at the destroyed door to the apartment. Draco stopped at the threshold, a single line of tape the only thing keeping him out. Blocking the room and marking it as a crime scene.
The young Auror stopped with him.
“Is there anyone in there?” Draco asked, peering into the room. In his mind, he saw the memory of his arrival here only a few hours before. Of Theodore Knott holding Albus hostage. Of the torn up room, the signs of a struggle. The dark presence Draco had not felt in years. The presence of his father. He fought back a shudder.
“No sir.” The woman replied. She was sounding nervous again. Clearly she wasn’t sure she should be here.
“Go back to your post.” Draco ordered. “I have some things I need to see.”
The woman nodded, clearly unsure but not willing to challenge Draco. Turning, she left.
Draco squared his shoulders before ducking under the tape and stepping into the room.
Despite the dark feeling in the room, Draco could see the imprint of his son in the room. In the bright walls, the pictures hanging up, the organised chaos of a young man.
Scorpius was a sunny young man, always had been and Draco would not trade that for the world. This had been his home. His safe space. Here with Albus, Scorpius had made his life. It was almost overwhelming, now that Draco had time to really feel it. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed his boy until he was here in the wreckage of Scorpius’ muggle life. The older wizard suddenly felt weak at the knees, fighting to hold himself steady. Instead, he tried to focus on something else. On the burns from the curses still on the walls, of the broken wood underfoot. The shattered remains of a fight.
There had been a struggle here. Although Draco couldn’t confirm, he could guess that Scorpius had put up a fight against his attackers before being overpowered. Draco could only hope that Scorpius was not injured, that Lucius had not stooped to doing something unforgivable to his grandchild.
Shaking off the dreaded thought, Draco walked through the room, his grey eyes scanning his surroundings. He moved around, looking into the bathroom, the cupboard and finally finding his way into the bedroom. The place Scorpius shared with his love.
Sighing, Draco sat down on the bed, looking around. Unlike the living room, this room appeared to be untouched in the fight. The bed was unmade, as Scorpius had always done as a child. A few stray items of clothing were on the floor but nothing was damaged. Nothing looked to Draco’s eye, like it was out of place. He looked over at the table next to the bed where a muggle device, an alarm clock rested, showing the time. Next to it, opened at a specific page, was a muggle book. A small white case wedged between the pages. Curious, Draco reached for the case. There were two compartments to the case. He opened one.
Oh.
Closing the case, Draco slipped it into his pocket. If he was not mistaken, these would be needed very soon. Suddenly, he knew what he needed to say, or rather do, for Albus.
Standing, Draco left the room. He had allowed himself to tarry too long in his thoughts and they would not help him find his son.
He didn’t bother to go back to the street to leave. Instead, he disappeared from the apartment, returning to MACUSA.
He needed to talk to Albus.