Silhouettes

Organized papers and files lay about on Picquery’s desk, a quill and ink pot next to an article she had been looking over before. The previous president’s office had been a drab sort of place he recalled, with little to no decoration aside from a few photos of his family and other important figures. Picquery’s office was like his, the same size and furnishing, but with mauve floral wallpaper that hinted at a feminine touch. The flower, the Cherokee rose, was a reminder of her home state of Georgia. Serving as the only reminder of her southern roots. A single photograph of her and her mother when she was younger the only indication of how close she was to her family. There was a smaller photograph on her desk hidden from any outside view that was tucked away behind a quill pen holder, holding two photos of a man and a girl. Her husband and her daughter whom he had met before on a few occasions. The only two people he had ever seen her display a seperate aspect of her personality; a smile and kindness reserved only for them.

It was certainly not shown for him at this moment. She sat at her desk with her hands laced together and her dark eyes staring straight into his. A cup of black tea let out small puffs of steam but was left ignored for the time being. She looked as tired as he did, and he wondered for a moment what was keeping her thoughts occupied, but knew now was not the time to ask. Amidst the papers was The New York Ghost, and the image on it immediately drew him in.

There she was, the little girl, standing in the center of the page with a familiar coat wrapped around her. Newt stood next to her, a comforting hand on her shoulder as if he felt he could take the entire weight of the world off her shoulders.

“It was taken earlier this evening,” Picquery answered the unspoken question with a slightly drawl tone. “Apparently your team didn’t do such an extensive job to keep the press at bay.”

He ignored the not so subtle jab with a grimace, fingers lightly tapping the arm rest of his seat in thought. “The press would have gotten wind of the event regardless of our efforts,” he responded boldly, meeting her steely gaze. “The most important thing is we got the children out, obliviated, and returned to no-mag custody.”

“All of them?” and though her voice had lowered and hardened, there was a softness in her eyes that a select few would be able to dissert out. She had leaned forward, resting her chin momentarily on her individual ringed fingers. He didn’t have to answer that question either; she already knew and she sighed. “She’s in Goldstein’s custody, am I correct in that assumption?”

“Technically Scamander’s,” he amended, and she raised an eyebrow. He tactfully added on to that previous statement. “It was Mr. Scamander’s idea that she stay with him and Goldstein for the night. They-we, thought it would be best if she had some time away from all the chaos her father caused.”

She twisted the ring on her left ring finger, the wedding band casting a soft golden light to dance around on the table. She closed her eyes briefly, letting out another sigh and shook her head. “You should see what the press is saying; mind you, none of it’s good,” she added darkly, sliding the paper over to him. “One commentator, I believe, mentioned awful things about that little girl. Said something about sending her back to Korea.”

“As if she would have been able to go in this economy,” he muttered, taking the paper off the desk and opening the crisp off-white pages. The image of the girl had been forever ingrained into his memory, along with the tender look on Newt’s face as he draped the coat around her. He felt a sharp pang of sympathy go out towards her, an innocent victim caught up in a devastating turn of events. His eyes moved down the page, quickly absorbing the comments and opinions that already seemed to have collected in quite a large quantity.

They varied from sympathetic to downright atrocious, and he found it difficult to stomach the few comments that mentioned her impure blood heritage. Stating that indeed, she should be sent back to her mother’s family’s home country, or that she needed to be obliviated and left to her own devices. The most harrowing one had to be that her whole family should be ashamed; that they got what they deserved.

Despite this, she had felt so light in his arms. The warehouse hadn’t been in use since 1910 and the city had made no move to do anything with it. A few no-mag repelling charms and it was completely indistinguishable to the no-mag’s. The inside had been so dark, dimly lit with a few enchantments and tossed on the damp ground had been the girl. Staring at him with dark brown eyes that told him that somehow, she knew that she was alone in the world.

“You didn’t oblivate her,” it wasn’t a question, and Picquery’s voice had changed its timber to mild curiosity.

“No,” he responded curtly, purposefully avoiding her gaze. It was not entirely uncommon for other wizards to feel another’s magic. Some were gifted with this sensitivity, though few had ever been able of refining it. Albus Dumbledore, if he recalled correctly, had mastered this ability to the point of recognizing another’s magical signature. He recalled, albeit bitterly, that his own ability of this had been lost during his imprisonment. Through torture and experimentation, Grindelwald had nearly destroyed him. Would have left him to waste away in that pocket watch if it were not for his name and importance in the magical community.

Perhaps he felt like he was, at times, and then he would appear in a flash of blue. Robin’s egg blue eyes would find his and there would be a soft brush of something nourishing and calm, easing him into a sense of serenity. Grindelwald’s had been something forceful and heavy, like a dark oppression that suffocated him. The girl’s, though only feeling it for a moment, was raw and unrestrained with potential.

“She’s not a squib; she has magic,” he said after a pregnant pause. “Ashwood most likely knew this, and I doubt he expected Illvermorny to take her in.”

“Last time I heard, Hogwarts isn’t taking in any American students,” Picquery commented dryly before abruptly changing the nature of the discussion. “Anyway, we’ll get back on the child later. My question is how something like this was allowed to happen again?”

“We didn’t obtain every member into our custody,” he reminded her, an odd feeling of irritation causing him to grind his teeth. “However, I believe the nature of their work was different this time around.”

“Oh? How so?”

“They didn’t have Grindelwald’s mark back then,” he watched as she bristled at the very name, a similar sensation running through his blood as well. “And they made it almost too easy to find us. I suggest that this isn’t over with; they wanted us to find that girl.”

She frowned harder. “Other than going against everything Grindelwald stands for, not to mention a personal attack towards MACUSA, I ask what sets this girl apart from the other children. Why did they want us to find her?”

It’s a question that made him rack his brain for an answer, but was unable to come up with one. What Picquery stated was true; Grindelwald and his followers were not subtle in their attitudes towards no-mag’s and the nonsense of blood purity. He cleared his throat, running a hand over his face and sighed. “We need to do more investigating on that. In the meantime, have the Ashwood’s responded?”

“They won’t get here till tomorrow,” she responded quickly. “They’re upset, to say the least.”

“They didn’t even know they had a granddaughter,” he stated, shaking his head in pity. “How are they going to react?”

Picquery’s lips tightened in a way that suggested an answer he would rather not hear, but needed to anyway. “Ashwood came from one of the few pure blood families in the states. How do you think they’re going to react now that they know their youngest son married a no-mag woman?”

“I see.”

“If they don’t react well, there’s the matter of custody towards the girl. She’ll be placed under MACUSA protection until suitable arrangements can be found,” she said briskly, changing the focus of the subject back to the girl in once swift moment. “Aside from that, there’s something else we need to go over. It’s imperative to this case that we know exactly what happened.”

He held back the grimace. “You want to go through her memories.”

“As I said, we need to know if she has any other information. If Ashwood or his wife were still alive, it wouldn’t have to be this way. But she’s the only remaining witness and the sooner we have the memory, the better.”

“This is a child we’re talking about-“

“Don’t think for a second I’m not aware of that,” she interrupted sharply, an almost murderous gleam in her eye and her hands gripping her desk so tightly he could see her knuckles pale. “It’s uncomfortable, yes, I know, but if something like this were to happen again, we need to apprehend the one who is responsible.”

He felt tempted to sigh again, but refrained from doing so. “I can extract the memory and use the pensieve, but it’s risky. I don’t recall the last time we used it and…” he trailed off, finding no room in his heart to finish that sentence. Begrudgingly he had accepted that his magic skill was not the same as it had once been, but accepting it left him with a bitter feeling. “Otherwise, I can always get a legilimens to do it.”

“I imagine she’d be more cooperative if you or Mr. Scamander were to do it,” Picquery added quickly, though not as an afterthought. The firmness in her eyes had lessened, allowing for a split second of possible affection to seep through. “Ashwood would have had you do it.”

He caught a glimpse of heaviness hidden deeply, very deeply in her chocolate brown eyes. He could count off hand how many aurors he’d lost on numerous of cases and raids. He remembered them all, each man and woman who now had their photos framed on the wall outside, a reminder towards all who became aurors that these were the people who held the highest honor. Yet it was he or even Picquery who wrote the letters to the families when one of them died. Picquery couldn’t express how this affected her. She didn’t have the luxury of being emotional and had an image to uphold. The burden she, and the rest of them, bared with unwavering loyalty.

“You aren’t thinking of obliviating her, are you?” he asked abruptly, immensely uncomfortable with the silence that had befallen her office.

She kept her expression neutral, looking towards the tea cup as though it were the most unusual thing in the room. “Given any other circumstance, she would have to be. However, since you and the reports say she has magic, I’m not sure we can. I wrote to Illvermorny, asking if she had already been written in their book of incoming students, but I have not heard back yet.”

“Hm,” he shook his head. “It can wait; she’s only four.”

“Regardless, if we know now, we can at least have the information put away for the time being,” she countered evenly, the crinkling of a smile pulling at her lips. She leaned back her chair, scanning his body with a scrutinizing stare. “Percival, you should go home. You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine-“

She raised her eyes. “As president, I would say that if you’re this exhausted, you’re a liability. As your friend, however, I’m telling you to go home. It’s late, and I need you to at least have some rest for tomorrow.”

He bowed his head. “As you wish.”

Before he could even step out the door, her voice stopped him just as he was about to turn the handle. “Percival,” her voice cut through the thick silence. “That twitch…have you seen a mediwitch about that?”

“How?” he asked, but he didn’t need to. Of course, she knew; why wouldn’t she? One of the others must have informed her, or quite possibly she concluded this question from her own observations.

“That’s not important,” she stated firmly. “I would recommend-“

“Thanks,” he interrupted, holding up a hand. “But I assure you that I’m fine. It’s nothing to worry about.”

From the look on her face, he knew full well she was calling him out on his bullshit. Tempting him to see how long he could keep it up.

He could only sigh for the umpteenth time that night.