Salvation
1925
1 The sky was clear and the sun rose over the Atlantic, drowning the stark skyline of New York City in glorious shades of orange, red, gold, and pink. The Mauretania docked at Pier 54, the Cunard Line pier, just south of 14th Street. It was a crisp, sharp-edged, cold autumn morning. Celestia Prewett stepped off the ramp decisively, the heels of her soft leather boots clicking dully on the polished wood. She was clutching the handle of a relatively small leather briefcase, which carried an assortment of magical objects not meant for Muggle eyes.
Of course, anything had to be done to keep magical things away from Muggles. Heaven forbid the wizarding world be revealed to non-magical people.
Angrily stomping that thought down in its inception, she adjusted her scarf, sucked in a lungful of the cold, salty, humid air, and headed toward the customs officers. Protocols needed to be observed, after all. There was the law. She was a Prewett. Prewetts followed the law. That was how it worked.
Clearing customs was easy; she was a tourist visiting friends and would be returning to England soon, there was nothing suspicious in her briefcase etc. etc. She just smiled her way through the questions, said the right things, and then headed out into the streets. She’d been in big cities, before, including Rome and Paris and Berlin in Europe alone, so even though she’d been born and bred on a country estate in East Sussex, she knew how to navigate a metropolis. As she slowly ambled down 14th Street, weaving through busy crowds of tourists and commuters all wrapped up in long dark coats and scarves and hats, she couldn’t help but smile a little. New York, just like every other place, had its own flair, and it was a privilege to be able to live in times where travelling across the globe had become so easy.
That wasn’t the reason she was smiling, though. No, finally, finally, Celestia was getting somewhere. According to the most reliable source on the planet regarding fantastic beasts and where to find them, the frozen heart (it existed it existed it just had to no more questioning!) was here, in the capital of the American wizarding community. Just thinking about poor, sweet Newt Scamander made her stomach cramp a little. She tried to ignore the ugly sting of guilt that crept up her innards like a parasite. Yes, poor Newt. He was such a good person – sweet, intelligent, peace-loving, tolerant, unafraid. Truth be told, she’d grown rather fond of him on their little treasure hunt.
Little treasure hunt? She almost rolled her eyes at herself in annoyance. What was with her habit of resorting to ridiculous euphemisms all the time, even in her own head? Well, calling things the way they were wasn’t exactly considered proper where she hailed from, and her class of people was all about propriety, at least on the surface; not all Pureblood families relied on protocol as much as hers, but that didn’t matter. Her branch of the Prewetts was indeed very proper in its dealings with the outside world, and euphemism were certainly a key ingredient of this.
Her search for the mystical frozen heart had not been a little treasure hunt. No, the treasure in question was literally the one thing that could save her entire universe from falling apart.
Newt had understood her wish to search for and find the frozen heart, because he was the last person who’d just stand by and let someone suffer for no good reason. Celestia was pretty convinced that even if there were good reason, he’d still intervene. He was such a sweet, sweet boy, and she had betrayed him. It hadn't meant to be personal, but it had certainly felt that way. The problem was that he simply did not understand that in order to do what she had to, she’d need to cross a line that he would never. He told her, once he found out about her plan, that there was another way. She asked him what that way would look like, to which he hadn't had a better answer except, ‘We’ll think of something’. That was when she’d discreetly absconded, leaving him in a bit of a pickle in order to get a good head start. She was counting on the goodness of his heart, namely that he wouldn’t give her up to the authorities, but there was no telling. Different people had different priorities, and he might just come to the conclusion that preventing the end of her world as she knew it was simply not worth the price.
The most disconcerting aspect of this was that she agreed with him to a point.
The price she was willing to pay was horrendous. There was no other way to put it. This was always the case with magic: if one wanted to achieve great things and overcome immense obstacles, there was always sacrifice involved. Celestia of course wished she could be like the heroines of the stories she used to pen as a young girl, where the fictional super-witches got everything they desired without having to suffer any consequences: popularity, wealth, beauty, intelligence, freedom of choice, magical skills beyond anyone’s imagination. The one time she’d deliberately attempted to try her hand at wandless magic, she’d blown up a chemist’s shop and spent six month confined to the family estate under house arrest. She only hadn't gone to Azkaban because of her family’s influence. The real price had been a lot more costly, though, and in the end, she wondered if prison wouldn’t have been the better choice.
Oh, well. There was no use in complaining, and nobody wanted to listen to her whine – not even herself. With one gloved hand, she brushed a wayward strand of her reddish-brown hair behind her ear, dodged into a conveniently deserted alley, and apparated into the coordinates given to her by the dealer she’d contacted before leaving Southampton on board the Mauritania.
She materialised smack in the middle of a small clearing amidst a thick group of trees. Red-golden and brown leaves were swaying from the branches and gently landing on the grass. Taking a deep breath of the fragrant air, she smiled again. Autumn was the loveliest season, wasn’t it? It made her think of falling leaves and crisp cold and blue skies and pale sunshine gleaming in blue eyes the smile that voice the sense of humour-
Alastair.
No. Good God, what was wrong with her? She needed to focus, to stay sharp, to be in and out of this place as quickly as possible. The mere possibility that she might be minutes away from finally holding the frozen heart in her hands was making her light-headed and queasy and strangely elated. Part of her didn’t believe it. After all the hoops she’d jumped through, after all the close calls, here she was, about to receive the solution to the most horrible calamity she’d ever suffered through.
That was when the sound of people apparating close by cut through the atmosphere. Why more than one? What was-
Damn it, this was a trap!
She wanted to hightail it, and found that she couldn’t.
“Don’t even think about it,” a woman said from behind her.
Several men and women in long leather coats pointed their wands directly at her head. One man was dressed in a sharp suit and a black overcoat. He was tall, dark-haired, and perhaps in his mid-forties – the boss of the leather types, Celestia presumed.
She pocketed her wand, dropped the briefcase, and raised her hands. “If you want to rob me, rob me. There’s nothing here that can’t be replaced.”
“We’re not here to rob you, Miss Prewett,” the man said, in a thick American drawl that sounded pretty nasal to her ears. Maybe she was just disinclined to be gracious due to the circumstances. There was always that distinct possibility. “We’re here to arrest you.”
Arching one eyebrow, she said, “Really? May I ask what the charges are?”
“Illegal contraband of magical species,” sullen boss man said. He actually looked more disappointed than angry. “Put your hands behind your back and don’t resist.”
Smiling sweetly to compensate for the fact that her innards were in knots and that she suddenly felt chilled to the bone, she said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
2 Little later, they were at the rather impressive MACUSA headquarters, where she was led to a rather unimpressive grey little office inside the bowels of the structure. They sat her down at one side of a grey desk on a grey chair. Opposite her was Sullen Boss Man, who turned out to be one Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was an impressive title; one had to give him that.
Celestia’s hands were cuffed behind her back. The powers that be had confiscated her wand and her briefcase. Like this, she was effectively powerless. She tried not to squirm in her chair and to keep the icy steel hooks of panic in check as best she could. Well, of course she wanted to tell American Sheriff over there why she needed to be sent on her way, how important it was that she complete her quest, that she would do just about anything to get out of here and find what she’d set out to find. Instead, she focussed on sitting still and upright, on not breaking eye-contact, and on not revealing more than necessary. Her education sure had its uses, and she was now actually grateful for the strictness of her parents.
Graves folded his hands atop the metal table and frowned slightly at her. He looked tired and so put upon, it was almost funny – almost. “Miss Prewett, what were you thinking? Did you really believe that you’d be allowed to waltz into our country and smuggle an artefact back to Britain that is so dangerous, it might well turn the tides in favour of those who’d wish to ignite an all-out war between wizards and No-Majs?”
How she hated the American version of the perfectly serviceable term ‘Muggle’. Seriously, they just had to do everything different on purpose, didn’t they? It certainly seemed that way. Maybe this was her bias piping up again – well, all right, probably. Certainly. Trying very hard to keep her composure intact, she replied, “Mister Graves, I am by no means a law-breaker, nor am I a follower of Gellert Grindelwald. That is what you were not so subtly hinting at, if I’m not terribly mistaken.”
He just kept scrutinising her, fairly unimpressed. “Several of your family members seem to at least sympathise with Grindelwald, and your own older sister is a known associate of his. There’s also your husband’s brother, who-”
“Ex-husband,” she cut in before she realised, her tone sharper than was smart. Forcing herself to smile – another thing she was grateful had been drilled into her from an early age on – she added, “Apollo Malfoy and I separated two years ago. What he or any of his family do is none of my concern and has absolutely nothing to do with why I’m here in your lovely country.”
For a moment, he didn’t react, but finally, he said, “What makes you so sure the thing you’re looking for even exists?” Was he serious?
She gave him a pointed look. “Well, one, I actually saw the beast it belongs to; two, your reaction is kind of telling.” When no reply came, she suppressed a sigh. “Mister Graves, I don’t want to get mixed up in wizarding conflicts of any kind.”
“You already did.”
“Not deliberately. I am not a political person, of that I can assure you.” She paused for a moment after realising she was starting to talk faster and faster, took a soothing breath, and collected herself. “Do you know of my predicament?”
He nodded curtly. “I do. That doesn’t change the fact that what you’re planning is highly illegal.”
She dearly wanted to be mad at Newt, whom she highly suspected of being the culprit, but she found that she couldn’t. Everyone would do what they had to, including Newt. “All I want is a chance to save my family.”
His frown steepened. “As far as I understand how things work on your side of the planet, the Prewetts are only very distantly related to the Fawleys.”
Anger pierced her gut and made her want to bite his nose off. She felt her teeth clench without her permission. Her back and shoulders were terse and knotted, and her fingernails bit into her palms as she balled her hands into fists. “Then you don’t understand anything.” It came out as a flat whisper.
“Ah,” he said, and uttered a wry little chuckle. “I get it. You’re in love with one of them. Hence the divorce. Hence your dogged determination to tear the world apart if need be, just so you can save the guy in question.”
“It’s not just that,” she said, sounding frightfully disdainful in her own ears (which was frightfully distasteful), but not caring. “They are my family. I love them. Tell me, is there anything you wouldn’t do for your family, Mister Graves?”
A good number of seconds ticked by as he just watched her solemnly, but then, the subtlest hint of a smile briefly made the corners of his mouth twitch. “The American wizarding community is my family, Miss Prewett, and I will not allow you or anyone else to just prance in here and endanger everything we’ve worked for all our lives.”
She had no idea why, but this somehow deflated her. Her shoulders slumped. She leaned back against the metal of the chair and gave him a sorrowful look. “Then you understand how I feel.”
Serious again, he said, “I do. It changes nothing.”
“I know,” she said, and closed her eyes. A little while ago, her thoughts would have been racing even now as her brain tried to find a way out of this predicament. At the moment, though, she couldn’t think clearly. She’d got so close to salvation, only to have it snatched from her grasp again. God, she was just so, so tired. Sometimes, she just wanted to give up and lie down and sleep sleep sleep forever. That was a nice thought. Unfortunately, it was also a hopeless dream. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing,” he said, to which she just stared at him in bafflement. “You haven't actually broken any laws. Your contact never showed, so there was no crime except for the intent. You’re gonna tell us what you know about the frozen heart, about the beast it belongs to-”
“Hibernus Horridus. Also known as Hibby to his admirers. Admirer. There’s only one of those around.” Even the most dreadful creatures still had a right to a whimsical nickname, it seemed. That at least was Newt’s philosophy.
Graves gave her an irritated look. “After that, we’ll send you back home with a slap on the wrist. Of course, you won’t get another permit to travel stateside for at least a decade, and if you are one day allowed to return, you’ll be under constant surveillance.”
She snorted dry laughter. “Quite the police state you have here, if I may say so.”
“Call it whatever you like,” he said, and shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re still-”
The ground shook. The building groaned. Was there lightning? The air smelled of ammoniac. A bright light blinded her. The door blew inward in huge chunks of charred metal. She was caught by the shockwave and slammed against the opposing war. The world went black.