The Mystery of the Frozen Heart

1925

1 Graves (and it was so important to truly embody that identity) sent Tina out of the interrogation chamber so he could have a nice little chat with the wayward rebel, Ethel Partridge, just as the poor thing had requested. She really was a poor thing, wasn’t she? All heart-broken, consumed by hatred and desire for revenge. That was no way to live.

Then again, keeping to the shadows, creeping around in dark corners for the sake of primitive little apes who couldn’t even use magic was no way to live, either.

This woman – more of a girl, really – was uncouth and impulsive, but she was useful. Not only that: she was a believer. She was loyal. She was unafraid. Those qualities made up for most of her inadequacies.

Besides, he did have a lingering fondness for her. If there was something he could get behind, it was deep, all-encompassing, raw passion. The moment troublesome little Tina was gone, he leaned back in his chair, started drumming on the metal table-top with the fingers of his left hand, and jabbed the index of his right at Ethel.

She was just looking back at him, unabashed.

He said, “You should’ve told me about what you were planning to do to my Auror.”

“You would’ve said no,” she said, and shrugged, trying way too hard to convey nonchalance.

“Indeed, I would’ve. You have no right to interfere with my plans. You also don’t have all the information. If you veer off-path, that could have catastrophic consequences for us all.” He face-palmed. “Ethel. Ethel.”

“She murdered my brother and now she murdered Ares without breaking a sweat. Not only that, but she don’t care that she ended the lives of two wizards over a bunch of worthless No-Majs. She’s our enemy.” Her tone was pleading, as if she were willing him to understand something both fundamental and obvious.

Young people. It was to despair.

He threw up his hands, exasperated, and shook his head at her. “We’re at a crossroads here, Ethel. The times are changing. What we do will transform our whole world, but we haven't won yet. There’s still a long way to go. We cannot” – He leaned forward, placed his hands flatly on the table’s cool metal – “cannot afford mistakes. It is vital that you follow my orders. Do you understand that? If we don’t, then we’ve got a problem.”

Her pleasant face flushed red. She broke off eye-contact and looked down at her lap. “I understand. I’m sorry, sir. I…” She trailed off and snorted disdainfully. “She ain’t got no idea who I am. She murdered my brother and can’t even remember. Now I’m supposed to let that slide? How is that fair?” Her breathing grew ragged. Her expression contorted. She closed her eyes. Tears spilled through her eyelashes. She sniffled, clearly trying hard to suppress sobs.

Oh, dear. Poor thing. Sighing inwardly, he got up to his feet, circumvented the table, and placed a hand on Ethel’s shoulders. Young love. Always a heartbreak, wasn’t it? Someone always got left behind, wiser to how the world really worked.

Thinking about Albus Dumbledore right now would not do. No, it would not do at all.

He said, “I’m sorry for your losses, Ethel – really, I am. Both your brother and Ares Malfoy were extraordinary young men. Their deaths were great tragedies.” Nonsense, of course. Young Mister Malfoy had been an intelligent, capable, and crafty wizard, yes, albeit an arrogant, self-important, self-enamoured little shit. Ethel’s brother, though? He’d been useless. Telling that to the girl, however, would be counter-productive.

Ethel was a passably talented witch, but her real use were the contacts within the North-American wizarding community that she had. She was a person of interest to MACUSA, of course, and therefore needed to be protected. That being so, it was a bit of a bafflement that Tina Goldstein, of all people, had no idea who she was.

After a few minutes, she had herself under control again and raised her head to face him. “Thank you. I’m sorry I messed up. I just…you know, get so angry sometimes.”

“I know. I understand – really, I do.” He gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “But we must set aside personal animosities, grudges, and even sorrows. Our goal is so much more important than our personal lives, Ethel. Everything we do is for the greater good, remember?”

She nodded. “Yeah, boss. I remember.”

“So…about Goldstein?”

Her face turned into a mask of misery. “The tattoo…it ain’t reversible. That was the whole point: her knowing she’d die horribly.”

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “My dear, every single curse in existence is reversible. There isn't a one that cannot be undone. Some present mysteries nigh-on impossible to untangle, but a sharp, disciplined mind will always manage, in the end. Now please, tell me where you got the tattoo, and I shall do the rest.”

“Sure. Of course. But what happens to me? And when do I finally get to kill Goldstein?” She made a face. “If she survives the curse?”

The smile blossomed. “All in good time, dear.”

2 How could Graves cave to such a childish demand and actually let that crazy Partridge woman dictate the terms? That was…oh, it was just so odd! Frankly, it was out of character. Not so long ago, he would have vehemently declined such ultimatums. Did Partridge know something that Tina didn’t? Was she an informer? A double-agent, perchance? What about Celestia Prewett (and some of those English witches and wizards had ridiculously pretentious names, didn’t they)? Had Tina only spooked her? Did Prewett have ulterior motives related to the Grindelwald movement? Had she fooled Graves into setting her free despite Queenie’s assurance that she was not a Grindelwald supporter? There were so many questions Tina couldn’t answer, so many details that didn’t make sense to her.

She was leaning against the cold stone wall outside the interrogation chamber, arms crossed, trying so hard not to scratch her wrist or even look at it. It was itching pretty badly now. Tina had no idea whether the curse was really already this itchy or if she was just making it worse in her own mind by thinking about it so much.

Graves had said that she had a week.

Partridge had said that there was no cure.

Tina supposed that that was the whole point. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to think of something else. Either they’d find a way to cure her, or they wouldn’t. Made no sense to fret about it. That, of course, didn’t help – logical thinking and all that. The fact was, she was cursed, and there was a real chance that this curse would kill her seven days from now. How did one stay objective in the face of such odds? Besides, death, should it come, would not come quietly. Tina’s wrist was already itching like crazy, and only a few hours had passed since Partridge had cursed her. How bad would this get the next few days?

Again, she took a deep breath, tried to focus on her heartbeat, tried to relax and not to think about things like impending death, the questions she couldn’t answer, the whole Celestia Prewett issue, her itchy wrist.

It was a horrible itch, wasn’t it?

She needed to keep these two things separate: her curse and her investigation. So little about what was going on here made sense to her. Celestia Prewett and the object she was looking for, the Grindelwald supporters’ involvement, Graves’s unwillingness to reveal all the information he had: all of that was part of the same mystery. The curse wasn’t mysterious at all.

The challenge was to keep a clear head during all of it, until it was over.

When she was just about to give into the urge to scratch her wrist, the door was opened from the inside.

Graves stepped out. He looked solemn, but not defeated. “She told me all I need to know. Now, first things first: let’s get you fixed.”

Tina’s brows knitted together. She felt a little ill. “Does she know how to cure the curse?”

“No, but she told me where to find the witch responsible for it.”

“Has she told you anything about Prewett and the-”

“Tina.” He arched his eyebrows at her. “Priorities. Everything will be taken care of. The question is: can you for once follow my orders without messing it all up on company time?”

Even though all of her questions were still threatening to just bubble to the surface, she made herself nod curtly. “Yes, sir.”

A few seconds ticked by, during which he only watched her, looking thoroughly unconvinced. Finally, though, he nodded, too, and said, “Good. So let’s get started.”

“If you’d tell me where to find this witch, I could-”

“No. I’ll take you there.”

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Sir?”

“This is too important, and frankly, I don’t trust you not to just abscond and try to find Celestia Prewett, first.”

To be honest, neither did she.

3 Leta materialised inside an empty house in the outskirts of a city called Portland. They’d been here before, she and the others, because this place was supposed to be the point where they’d regroup in case of an emergency. The house was nice, but uninhabited and, courtesy of some wards, pretty much off the Muggles’ perspective. Muggles. No-Majs. Whatever.

Leta had to think about her mother, who always made good-natured fun of the differences between England and the United States.

It was, frankly, rather useless to reminisce right now – even more useless than usually. There were more pressing matters at hand.

First, Leta checked whether she was alone in the house – turned out that she was. Second, she needed to calm down and organise her thoughts. Things hadn't quite gone the way they had all planned, had they? Were any of the others even alive? Nocturna Prewett should be; she’d left with her airheaded sister.

In retrospect, this didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore to Leta.

The real question was this, though: did MACUSA know about her personal involvement in this disaster? She knew that the Grindelwald supporters had people inside the government, yes, but she had no idea who or what those mystical potential allies might be aware of in terms of details. If MACUSA knew about Leta’s involvement – peripheral as it was – then they’d no doubt rat her out to the Ministry of Magic. What would happen to her then? How could she return to England under such circumstances? How was she supposed to show her face at social events if she was a wanted criminal on the run?

Theseus would no doubt find this pretty hilarious. What did he know, though? He was a natural adventurer, that one.

Okay, okay. Time to think. Time to find solutions.

Newt had accused her of being self-centred and selfish, but in reality, she was a survivor. This was a cold, cruel, unfair world. Either a person was capable of looking out for themselves, or they got chewed up and spat out. She’d never meant him any harm, but he was just too gentle. So naturally, people walked all over him every chance they got. He was just too blind to see it.

She brushed these thoughts aside. They were a waste of time on her best day. She really needed to focus and to decide what to do next. At a brisk pace, she walked into what was probably the living room, headed straight to the fireplace, pointed her wand at it, and said, “Incendio.” Immediately, the long-dead embers burst into bright, crackling flames. Great. Now, all she needed to do was reach Theseus and tell him that the time had come for her to go home.

That was when she heard the sound of someone Apparating behind her. Quick as lightning, she spun around and pointed her wand at the newcomer. When she found herself face to face with Nocturna Prewett, she immediately relaxed.

Nocturna’s carroty hair was messy. Her pasty face was flushed. Her clothes were crumpled. She looked tense. “You’re the only one here?”

“I am. There, uh…there were problems at the barn. I got separated from the others. They fought. It was really hard to see what was actually happening. There was nothing I could do to help, so I figured it’d be smarter to come here.”

For a moment, Nocturna just frowned at her, but then she sighed, walked over to the broad windowsill, and sat down. She buried her face in her hands and groaned.

Leta just watched her impassively. It would be obvious to an infant that something had gone wrong. In all probability, Celestia had bolted – no surprises, there. That girl had a one-track-mind and was not the kind who liked to share with the other kids.

Nocturna let her hands sink and gave Leta a wretched look. “Change of plan, Leta. There’s no way in hell that we’ll find Tia before she finds the frozen heart.”

“Does she know how to make it work?”

“I have no idea. What I do know is that she’s either already got it, or she’s about to. We can’t stop that from happening.”

“So what now?”

Nocturna pressed her fingertips to her temples. “We stop trying to chase or woo her. We go back to England and intercept her, instead. That’s her final destination, isn't it? The Fawley home? So that’s where we need to be. Their time is running out. If she wants to save them, she needs to get a move on.”

“What about the others?”

“We can’t wait for them. Odds are, they’re all dead or captured. No, it’s just us now. We need to act.” Nocturna locked eyes with Leta. “Are you up for it?”

Well, that was fortunate. Leta allowed a small smile to curve up the corners of her mouth. “As a matter of fact, I was just working on a way back home.”

4 Celestia had to admit, Ronny was a lot more capable as a wizard than she remembered him being. Memory was a selective, not to mention fickle thing. She remembered him being good at Quidditch, but it would be absurd to assume that he’d graduated based only on that. Athletic prowess was something commendable, of course, but utterly meaningless in the academic area. Whoever graduated Hogwarts must be at least a passably competent witch or wizard.

Now, she learned that Ronny wasn’t just good at being a wizard, but he was pretty great at logistics, too. Not only had he tracked down the informant meant to lead Celestia to the frozen heart, but he’d had the foresight to actually plan a daring escape back to England. In all honesty, she had to admit that for all her tenacity, she’d only got this far for two reasons: a) her money, and b) Newt Scamander. He was smart and resourceful and had a knack for thinking unconventionally. Also, he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty – something that she’d had to get used to, being the sheltered, pampered little princess that she was…or had been, in any case.

There was nothing quite like adversity to induce some healthy character growth.

As always, thinking about Newt made her feel like the worst person in the world. He was such a good friend. He was such a decent human being. He’d stood by her and helped her all the way, and she’d just ditched him the moment he’d started inconveniencing her.

Should she actually survive this ludicrous adventure, she would find him and apologise to him. It would be the second time she’d stabbed him in the back. Expecting forgiveness was too much. All she wanted was to tell him that she was sorry. In his eyes, the end did not justify the means.

She wasn’t sure that it did in hers, either, to be honest.

It was way too late to start questioning her conduct now, though. Here she was, on a luxurious Muggle ocean liner, seemingly crawling back to England at a snail’s pace. This thing had won some sort of speed price or something called Blue Riband, she’d read in a book, but it still took about five days to reach its destination. Going back via ship was bold; one had to give Ronny that. Going back as oneself would be stupid, though, which was why she and Ronny had used Polyjuice potion to take the place of two Muggle passengers aboard the ocean liner.

He’d brewed it a month in advance, just in case – cunning. Cunning and smart.

Another thing Celestia had to admit to herself was that, in her desperation, she might actually have tried to Apparate all the way back home, probably splinching herself to death in the process. This was something she’d found out about herself: she would cross nearly every line in order to get back to Alastair in time. It wasn’t a particularly savoury realisation, but it was the truth nonetheless. She’d hardened her heart over the past year; that much was a fact. Even during her Hogwarts days, she’d been somewhat talented at trampling down discomfort in order to preserve the status quo, but the lengths she’d gone to these past twelve months in order to kill off her capacity for empathy? It all scared her. It scared her, but she convinced herself that it was all necessary.

Newt, of course, would disagree. He’d say that violence and lack of empathy were not the way to go, even if they rendered the desired results. The price would be too high.

In fact, he had said that, right before she’d left him behind.

No use bemoaning her fate, now, even if it was only in her head. It never helped, anyway.

Five days from now, she’d be home, with only a short time to spare in order to save Alastair and his parents. Whatever might happen, however all of this might end, at least it would be over – one way or another.