Author's note: Ahhh hello again! I'm so sorry it's been forever since the last chapter, university has once again sapped the life out of me. :') But now that Christmas break is here my muse suddenly came back and I busted out some writing lol. Please enjoy this new chapter, thank you so much for your continued interest in the story! And last but not least, wishing you all a happy holiday! :D
Disclaimer: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them belongs to J. K. Rowling.
Unearthed
Chapter Ten
i.
January 13th, 1927
It was slow progress, but the shop was finally starting to return to its former glory. The broken window had been replaced, and the mannequins had been repositioned into their usual poses. Any signs of damage on the inside had been reworked. Ironically, the shop felt new, as if it had just had a much-needed facelift rather than a troubling break-in.
Fern was in the storeroom at the back, reorganising the huge variety of fabrics her father had collected. Each was unique in terms of its texture, colour and even scent. Sometimes, she thought she could spend a whole afternoon going through each fabric and marvelling at its beauty.
"How're you doing?"
Fern jumped and looked over her shoulder. Booker was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in his favourite pinstriped suit. Fern felt a little flutter in her chest at the way he was looking at her.
"Good, thank you," she replied with a smile. She hauled the long roll of velvet off the floor and onto its respective shelf. "Just sorting out storage for my dad. The thieves left it in quite the mess."
"Couldn't you tidy everything with a spell or two?" Booker asked, his grey eyes scanning the piles of rolled up cloth by her feet.
Fern felt the back of her neck flush. "My dad prefers to handle the stuff by hand. In case a spell goes wrong and damages the fabric." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it certainly wasn't the whole truth either.
"I see." Booker pulled away from the doorframe and walked over to her side, the heels of his shoes clicking. "How are your parents, anyway? They holding up?"
"I think they just want to get the shop back up and running again. It'll help take their minds off things," Fern replied, noting the way Booker stood languidly before her, as though they were old friends catching up. She could smell fresh ink and cigarette smoke off his lapel. He must be doing overtime, she thought, and felt yet another surge of gratitude that he had personally decided to oversee her parents' case.
"I've got my people working on it," Booker said, sweeping his brown hair away from his forehead. "One of the crooks dropped a slip of parchment during the raid. I'm hoping we can track it down and go from there."
Fern placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you again, Booker. I really appreciate it."
Booker flashed her one of his toothy grins. "No worries. I guess it's one of the perks of dating an Auror."
The tone of his voice had been light and joking, but nonetheless it made Fern tense up slightly. Dating. The word sounded off; it belonged on the tongues of much younger people. And yet, she had been meeting Booker exclusively for almost two weeks now, getting coffee or dinner or hanging back after her sessions with Graves to talk. It was a routine she had slipped into rather easily, but not without noticing. It just hadn't occurred to her that that was how Booker saw her: a date.
"You're a Squib."
Would he become like Graves if he found out what she really was? Fern chewed her lip and forced herself to speak; Booker was gazing at her expectantly, a fond smile plastered over his roguish face. "I guess that makes me a lucky gal."
Apparently it was the right answer. Booker chuckled and made a funny movement like he was about to touch her face (his elbow crooked, his fingers lilting up) when they both heard approaching footsteps behind them.
"Ah, there you are," said Fern's father, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as Fern took a step back from Booker. "I see you've found some company."
"I just wanted to check on you all, make sure everything's all right," Booker offered before Fern could speak. "But I should get going. They need me back at the office."
"Of course," Fern's father replied. "Thank you for dropping by."
"Not to worry. So," Booker added, glancing back down at Fern with a flicker of a smile, "I'll see you around."
"See you around," Fern echoed, smiling back. She watched as Booker left the room, his footsteps fading away.
"Well now, isn't he a proper fellow," her father murmured, a hand scratching his chin. "They didn't make them like that back in my day. How long have you two been seeing each other?"
"It's nothing serious, Dad," Fern laughed, shaking her head.
"You ought to reconsider," he advised, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "A guy like that doesn't stay single for long. Better make a move before it's too late."
Fern rolled her eyes. "I've got it under control." And then it struck her: why was her father in such a good mood? Considering that their family had just lost a thousand and nine hundred Dragots overnight, it was surprising that he had such a wide grin on his face. "Did something happen that I don't know about? You're oddly jolly."
"I was just about to tell you before I got distracted by your new friend," he said with a chuckle. "Your mom just got back from the bank. Apparently someone's deposited three thousand Dragots into our account!"
Fern blinked. "What? From where?"
"We don't know. It was an anonymous deposit."
"But that doesn't make any sense," Fern said, frowning. "Who would want to just give us that much money? Are you sure it wasn't…some kind of mistake?"
Her father nodded. "Your mother double and triple-checked, they insisted it was legitimate. Besides," he added with a laugh, "if it was a mistake I think the bank would've told us by now!"
Unable to grapple with this new development, Fern could only bite her tongue and nod absent-mindedly. It was strange that this anonymous donation had come so soon after the robbery. She continued to dwell on it even after her father had left the room. The fact that the money was nearly double of what had been stolen made it seem like they had some sort of guardian angel watching over them (a very rich one, at that). But only a handful of people knew about the incident. So who was this mysterious benefactor? Fern quickly listed all the people who were involved, crossing off their names in her mind one by one…
Of course. There could only be one individual who would have done such a benevolent thing in total secrecy, like a saint hiding in the shadows. Fern didn't want to be right, and yet the more she thought about it, the more nauseous she felt. There didn't seem to be any other plausible explanation.
And then, quite suddenly, the anger set in.
Fern let out a frustrated grunt and set the matter away, for now.
ii.
December 7th, 1926
Weak. He had never felt so weak in his entire life.
Even lying on the floor was exhausting. The sheer effort of filling his lungs with the foul-smelling air left him depleted. The blackness felt heavy, pressing down on his bones, preserving him like a fossil. It would be his mark on this earth. The runt of the litter, the one that does not survive. The darkness was so solid he could not tell if he was awake or sleeping, if up was up or if up was down. Everything was everything and he was nothing.
It was impossible to tell how much time had passed (if it did at all). Sometimes, he would shut his swollen eyelids, and it would be milliseconds or years before he awoke afresh into the void. He would cry out, but recently (or was it years ago?) his voice had dried, reduced to nothing but a thin, whimpering croak. It was better to let his voice go to waste; at least then he would not be able to talk to the shadows, which would chide and scare him. How afraid he was of the shadows.
You see, not even the pain was as bad as the fear. The cramps came when he least expected, ripping at his stomach, causing his whole shell to spasm in shock. Afterwards, he would lie on his side, curled up in a ball and clutching himself, the sweat slicking his forehead. And he would cry. No, the pain was not the worst. It was the fear of being taken and not missed.
But now, he did not even have energy to spill tears. He simply lay there, the forgotten skeleton, seeing nothing…
He heard voices. No… He thought the shadows had stopped talking. Why were they returning? His limbs twitched in an attempt to scurry away, like a cockroach underneath the cupboards. Please don't hurt me—please don't hurt me!
Then—blindingly, piercingly—black became white. Searing hot light burned his retina and flesh. He cowered at the heavens, arms trembling as he lifted them above his head to protect himself. The purity of everything scorched him: the fresh air, the white sun, the holy voices. It was like being born into a crueller world. He screamed for the angels not to touch him. Please, it hurt too much. He wasn't ready.
"It's him! He's in here!"
"Somebody get a Healer right now!"
"Mr. Graves, are you okay?"
Percival screamed again, but his voice had finally rotted. So his saviours lifted him from hell, and he went, silently.
iii.
January 14th, 1927
Fridays were now a thing of the past in the Auror department. Each time Fern walked past the desks on the way to Graves' office, there was always the usual turmoil and sea of worried faces. In a way, the scene altered her mood even before she entered the office. Perhaps she should disengage herself from the on-going hunt for Grindelwald, for Graves' sake.
But today was different. Fern was already unsettled by the time she arrived at MACUSA Headquarters, her eyes blindly sweeping the grand entrance hall before heading for the elevators. She knew she would have to be careful with her words, but at the same time she wanted to make her point clear.
Same elevator chime, same cold corridor. Before she knew it, Fern was standing in front of Graves' door (recently she had found herself dreaming of that very door, of how she felt before she took the handle and stepped inside). Behind her, the room was humming with busy Aurors and the flicking of parchment.
Knock knock.
"Come in."
Fern walked into the office and closed the door. Graves was looking up from his files once again. She had just about memorised the way he reacted when she approached: the raising of his dark eyebrows, the leaning back in his chair, the slight part of his mouth, as if it was habit for him to speak first, except he rarely did so when it came to Fern. Apparently he preferred for her to lead their conversations.
"Good afternoon," Fern greeted, sitting opposite his desk as he did the usual Vanishing of his files. "Before we start, I need to talk to you about something separate."
Graves regarded her with his cool, unwavering stare. "Let's hear it."
"Well, I'm sorry for being so forward, but my parents and I can't accept your money."
Fern waited, but all Graves did was blink and reply, "I don't follow."
"I know it was you who deposited that money anonymously into my parents' account."
"Then how could you possibly know for sure?" She could hear a hint of a challenge in his voice now. "If it was an anonymous deposit?"
This was the difficult part, the part that could hurt him. "I have my reasons."
Surprisingly, the corner of his mouth lifted. After a beat, she figured out why. She was behaving like he had done during their many sessions: defiant and difficult. "Is that so." He sounded like he was mocking her.
Fern sighed, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "Please forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I feel like I owe it to the both of us to be honest. I know it was you, Mr. Graves, because of your guilty conscience. I can see how you're torturing yourself about letting Lamarche and Grindelwald escape. You felt responsible for the robbery, and it would be so easy for you to send three thousand Dragots into my parents' account, just like that. You didn't even bother checking with Booker how much was stolen, because the number doesn't matter to someone like you."
Fern paused to breathe, wondering if Graves would react. Was he going to ridicule her again? Tell her that she was falsely accusing him on made-up grounds? Their eyes met. His were as stony as ever, but he gave an almost imperceptible nod that she took to mean: go on.
"You wanted to help my parents in order to fix your guilty conscience over Grindelwald. But I think there's more to it. I think…I think you sent the money to make up for the fact that you insulted me. Don't think that I haven't noticed your inability to apologise for that incident. I know it must be hard for you, but I didn't think you would use money in place of an apology, or to make yourself feel less guilty about insulting me." Fern breathed in sharply. "My family doesn't need pity money."
A swelling silence followed the end of her speech. Fern sat there, once again feeling like she had crossed the line. Her heart was beating fast in her chest, either with pent-up anger or nervousness, she didn't know. It always seemed to come to this. There was a fundamental difference between them, and in a way, its presence saddened her.
"Well," Graves said suddenly, making Fern jump, "I'm impressed by your powers of deduction, Miss Holloway. Even some of our trainee Aurors aren't as skilled as you in that regard."
Fern bristled at his comment. So Squibs aren't even supposed to think as well as wizards, is that right? By some miracle, she held her tongue and instead returned his gaze. Graves' expression was unreadable, which was strange, because usually she could read him freely. Then, Graves did something Fern had not anticipated. He leaned forward, clasped his hands on top of his desk and cleared his throat. "All right. I'm sorry, Miss Holloway, for insulting you. I should never have belittled you for being a Squib. I was wrong."
Fern was so stunned that she just stared at him. Graves seized the opportunity to continue.
"And you're right, I did deposit that money into your parents' bank account. I felt that it was the least I could do. But if you refuse to accept it, I understand."
When had he become so empathetic? Or had he always been like this, but had simply refused to show anyone (even her)? Of course the world couldn't know about Percival Graves' heart. It had not been her intention to make him apologise, but suddenly a weight lifted from her chest, and she no longer felt quite so small in his office any more. The change was small but oddly liberating. And moving. "I—thank you," Fern replied hastily. "It really does mean a lot."
Graves nodded. "It was overdue."
Fern smiled for the first time that afternoon. "Let's put it behind us. I'll transfer the money back to you tomorrow morning."
"But how will you explain it to your parents?" Graves was also smiling, but there was something devious about it.
"What do you mean?"
Graves was smirking now. "You would be violating your confidentiality agreement if you told them why I had sent the money, and why you think they should return it."
Fern blinked. Shit. It was true, she couldn't possibly tell her parents what she had just spelled out to Graves. Those were his private thoughts, his internal rationalisations, and they belonged in the confines of his office. As his Hearken, it was her duty to keep his secrets safe. And just like that, against her will, Fern felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
Oh Merlin.
"I'll find a different way to explain," she said shortly, flustered. She couldn't believe she was actually blushing in front of Graves. Admittedly, it was rather embarrassing that she had just lectured him for ten minutes straight, only for Graves to apologise and point out this little detail that she had completely missed. It made her feel unbearably pretentious and wrong-footed. Fern tried to push the thought aside. All she wanted was for the colour in her cheeks to go away as quickly as possible.
"I'm sure you will," Graves replied, breaking her out of her reverie. He hadn't moved since his apology, but she thought he was looking at her a little differently. His eyes seemed lighter, less scrutinising. Perhaps he was amused at having successfully teased her. Oh well, she thought in defeat. The encounter could have gone worse. If Graves was happy because of a small slip-up on her part, then so be it.
Fern took a deep breath before hitching a smile back on her face. She was relieved to find that it was a genuine one. "Thank you for your vote of confidence." She took out her notepad and quill. "Now, I think it's your turn to talk, Mr. Graves. Have you taken any of the Sleeping Draughts yet?"
Graves smirked and relaxed into his chair. "I thought you'd never ask."