Disclaimer: based on JK Rowling's "Harry Potter"-Books and the "Fantastic Beasts"-Movies as well as background information to the HP-world
The International Wizarding School Competition
Durmstrang: Let Bygones Be Bygones; A pure-blood
Write about a character forgiving someone who wronged them: An eye for an eye
Mandatory prompt: [Genre] Crime
Additional prompt 1: [Quote] "I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge in the other."—Mary Shelley
Additional prompt 2: [Dialogue] "I need you to understand that I am not emotionally involved in this situation."
Year: 3
WARNING: Implied torture and PTSD
A/N: This is a twist on canon that could be considered AU thanks to unclear circumstances. The story takes place somewhere between 1965 and 1968.
Betas: DebaterMax, Claude Amelia Song, KeepSmiling1, Littletee
Word count: 3545
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THE ARSONIST'S WRATH
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"I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge in the other." - Mary Shelley
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The fire was raging.
Black flames flared higher and higher with every minute he stared at them.
The cries within the flames were getting less desperate and more hopeless by the minute, not one of the screaming wizards able to escape the flames.
With hooded eyes, the man stood in front of the sky-high fire.
His golden eyes were fixed on the flames.
He pointed his black wand uselessly at the ground and kept standing there until the cries ceased. Then, he turned and strode away without another backwards glance.
Percival Graves stood outside a closed door in the British Ministry of Magic awaiting entrance. He had been requested to come despite him being on sick leave in Britain due to the long-term effects of his time with Grindelwald for the past seven weeks.
"How does it feel?" Grindelwald had asked him when he had been at the mercy of the Dark Wizard. He could feel his wand in Grindelwald's hand stroking his cheek. "How does it feel to know that nobody will come for you? That nobody noticed that I am not you?"
When he didn't answer, Grindelwald's free hand grabbed his chin to force him to meet the mismatched eyes of the monster who had power over him.
"Tell me, my pet," the monster said. "How does it feel to be at my mercy and to know you will forgive me my deeds, in the end? How does it feel?"
Percival's hands shook, and he balled them into fists in the fruitless hope of forgetting Grindelwald's voice in his ears. He wanted to forget what had happened to him in those months under Grindelwald's thumb. He wanted to forget what he had endured.
And yet, he was burning.
He was burning from the inside-out, and nothing could squelch the flames.
Not even the passage of time had dull the embers. No, for him time did not heal.
How does it feel?
"Everything has consequences," he reminded the voice in his head. "Everything is tied to conditions."
"Mr. Graves?"
Percival blinked and deliberately opened his fists before he turned and looked at the grey-haired man behind him.
"Mr. Graves," the man said coolly. "They're waiting for you."
Percival inclined his head and stepped past the other man and into the room. The man himself stood there, scrutinizing Percival as if trying to place him. In the end, the man shook his head, stepped into the room after Percival and then went and leaned against the wall next to the three people already waiting.
The three were sitting at the opposite side of a table and looked at him when he entered.
He inclined his head to them all before he stepped forward and towards the table.
"You asked me to come," he said placidly; his eyes wandered from one older man to the other.
"We heard you were in Britain," one of them said.
Percival knew him. It was Albus Dumbledore.
"As you can see, I am," Percival agreed, before he added, "But I'm also on sick leave."
He hated it, but everybody knew that even decades later, he was still suffering from the after-effects of his time in Grindelwald's hands.
"Ah, yes, Grindelwald," Hector Fawley, the former Minister of Magic commented. "Terrible affair."
Tell me, my pet…
Percival gritted his teeth.
How does it feel to know that nobody will come for you?
"Yes," he agreed mildly. "A terrible affair."
Then he looked at the four men in front of him—one after the other.
"Why was I called here?"
"You might have heard that we have a bit of a Dark Lord problem," the new Minister, Nobby Leach, finally said after a bit of embarrassed silence.
"So?" Percival asked. "I can't see any reason why this should concern me. I'm on sick leave."
"You're also the Director of the American DMLE," Fawley said. "You're a pure-blood with an exemplary report—excepting the years immediately following 1926, that is."
How does it feel?
Percival glared at the man.
"I was tortured by Grindelwald for nearly eight months," he pointed out coolly. "I think I earned a bit of time to recover."
Not that he had ever returned to 100% afterwards…
"I repeat, why am I here?"
Albus Dumbledore sighed.
"There have been attacks," he said. "Eleven cases with twenty-four victims. They all were burned to death in their homes."
"They were all good and upstanding pure-bloods—often families," the Minister added stone-faced. "It's gruesome. The only thing left of them are their bones."
Percival closed his eyes.
"Children?"
"No. The youngest was forty years of age," Fawley said.
"You want me to investigate," Percival concluded.
"You and Senior Auror Fergus Mulciber here," the other man agreed and pointed to the man who was leaning against the wall, watching Percival with a disgruntled look on his face.
"Why me?" Percival asked. "I'm an American and on leave."
"You're an outsider," the Minister said. "Our Aurors are involved in the war with that dark wizard. We're low on manpower and Mulciber alone isn't getting anywhere. You're MACUSA's Director of the DMLE, and you're a pure-blood with an exemplary closing rate on difficult cases—especially arsons. A lot of people would feel better if somebody like you would take over the investigation."
"I have no jurisdiction," Percival replied.
"Easily amended," Fawley countered. "As long as you're willing to look into the deaths, we will ensure that you're legally secured. Auror Mulciber will help you with your investigation, too."
How does it feel?
Percival suppressed that mental voice before it could fully form.
"The cases—arson?" he asked instead.
This time it was the Auror who answered.
"What else can it be? There've been reports. Black fire, they say. They're burned by black fire," Mulciber said with narrowed, searching eyes and a frown on his face. "Some callers told us they saw someone watching the people burn."
"And nobody approached or recognized them?"
"They were gone whenever the person in question reached the place they stood at," Mulciber reported reluctantly. "Nobody knew them."
"Any descriptions?"
Mulciber hesitated even longer.
"Golden eyes, reflecting the flames," he finally said. "That's all the witnesses ever mention."
Percival paused in his tracks.
"Golden eyes?" he repeated. "Not brown?"
"No, sir," Mulciber said. "They insisted on golden."
"Unusual."
"But not that helpful."
Percival hmm'd in agreement.
"If I–"
"I don't need you," Mulciber blurted out at that moment before he turned to the other three men. "I can close that case on my own!"
"You don't have a lot of experience with arson," the former Minister said. "And new eyes might help you. This case has been going on for longer than a month! We need closure before the public turns on us!"
Mulciber pressed his lips together unhappily.
"Understood, sir," he agreed reluctantly.
In that moment a Patronus materialized in front of Mulciber.
"Another one," it said, and Mulciber cursed.
"Twelve cases, then." His eyes found Percival's. "Are you in?"
How does it feel?
"If it means getting justice," Percival agreed and closed his eyes in defeat.
"Good," the Minister said.
Mulciber pushed off the wall and passed Percival to open the door.
"Then follow me, Sir," he said. "We have new victims."
When Percival arrived at the crime scene, he had to admit that it looked gruesome.
The fire had burned down the house, including the stone. The only thing left were ashes and white gleaming bones – as if the fire had spared and cleansed them.
"Damn!" Mulciber cursed. "That's the Rosier house! Two skeletons, so we're up to twenty-six victims!"
"Rosier?"
Mulciber kicked the ground.
"Shut up, Yank! You're not useful to me, anyway!"
"Who are the Rosiers?" Percival asked, unfazed.
Mulciber scowled.
"They have a shop in Diagon Alley and are part of the Wizengamot!"
Percival hmm'd.
"Pure-blooded?" he asked.
"Of course!" Mulciber said before his fury returned. "Damn those bastard half-bloods and Mudbloods!"
Percival raised an eyebrow at that exclamation.
"Why are you cursing—?"
"Because it was one of them!" Mulciber nearly growled. "They're jealous of us pure-bloods! They've a grudge against us and would do anything to kill us! You're a pure-blood! You should understand that!"
Percival hummed in neither agreement nor disagreement.
That stopped Mulciber who turned to stare at Percival.
"You're awfully calm," he noticed.
Percival inclined his head.
"I need you to understand that I am not emotionally involved in this situation," he pointed out. "I have no need to feel emotional because of the death of people I've never known."
"You're a pure-blood like us!" Mulciber countered and balled his hands into fists. "This… this bastard is after us! After pure-bloods! You should feel something! At least, you should be afraid! You could be next, after all! I—we all—could be next!"
"Do the victims have anything in common?" Percival asked, not responding to Mulciber's emotional reaction.
Mulciber glared daggers at him.
"You're a cold-hearted bastard," he said. "How can you stand there and ask that?! The Rosiers are dead! And you go and ask me about similarities?"
"I'm not a cold-hearted bastard by far," Percival retorted.
Mulciber snorted.
"Says who?"
"Most people," Percival said unbothered. "They normally tell me that I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe."
A small, cold smile caressed his mouth.
"I've been told that if I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge in the other."
"Sure." Mulciber scoffed. "Pull the other one, bastard!"
With that he tried to stomp away, but Percival wasn't about to let him go.
"What do they have in common?" he asked, while stepping into Mulciber's path to stop him.
"They're pure-bloods! Just like you and me!" Mulciber cried.
"Anything else?"
"Isn't that enough?"
How does it feel to know that nobody will come for you?
"No."
"Oh, Percival, my pet, don't cry," Grindelwald whispered in his mind, throwing him backwards into a memory. "I know it burns. Fire always burns. But it cleanses as well. You'll see. Me and my men… what we've planned will benefit us all!"
Grindelwald's hand touched Percival's chest seemingly gently. "You have to endure just a bit longer. But in the end… it will be worth it! And then you will understand and forgive me!"
Percival shook his head, banishing Grindelwald and the fury burning inside him back into the depths of his mind.
"Forgiveness is earned," he whispered to himself and then turned to look at the Auror in front of him.
"Similarities?" he reminded the man.
"Same circle of friends," Mulciber reported stonily. "Same mistrust of anybody not a pure-blood, similar leisure time activities."
Then he glared at Percival.
"But all that is true for me as well."
Percival hmm'd and then went closer to the bones to look at them.
"It's odd how well-preserved they are," he said before frowning and crouching next to one of the victims.
"There's silver," he pointed out, his eyes trained on something in the ashes next to the skeletons.
Mulciber visibly clenched his teeth.
"It's a triangle," he said. "There's been a triangle at every arson. We know it's a serial killer. We think the triangle is left by him."
"Do you have any idea why?" Percival asked.
Mulciber threw his hands into the air.
"No!" he cried. "It doesn't make sense! Whoever is doing this doesn't seem to have any reason!"
Percival raised an eyebrow at the man.
"Did you look into their background?" he asked. "Any clubs they're part of?"
Mulciber's eyebrow twitched.
Percival scrutinized him.
"You know something," he said slowly.
Mulciber's hands clenched and unclenched.
"No," he said in the end. "I don't."
Oh, Percival, don't cry…
"I understand," Percival finally said, banishing Grindelwald's words into the back of his mind. "I know how it is to lose people – especially those you're fond of."
Mulciber frowned.
"I… the Rosiers…"
"Were friends," Percival said calmly. "I lost some friends to Grindelwald. I absolutely understand."
Oh, Percival, don't cry…
Percival stood up and turned away from the bones.
"Why didn't they leave?" he asked quietly. "Why didn't they Apparate away?"
"It seems they couldn't," Mulciber said unhappily.
"Wards?"
"No, it has something to do with the fire," the Auror answered and balled his hands. "But we don't know what. We just know that there's something unnatural about it."
"Do we know what kind of fire this is?" Percival wanted to know. "It doesn't seem like the typical Fiendfyre."
"It isn't," Mulciber said with gritted teeth. "Our analysis says it's phoenix fire."
Percival looked at the Auror in surprise.
"Phoenix fire?" he repeated. "I thought it was black."
"It is, and yet, that's what the analysis says," Mulciber answered before he scoffed. "The others… they've started to call the arsonist 'Black Phoenix' because of it."
Percival raised an eyebrow.
"Considering that phoenixes are creatures of the light… it seems extremely unfitting, don't you think so, too?"
Mulciber just glared at him.
"Thought so," Percival said, as if the man had voiced his agreement.
For a moment, Percival looked around the scene, then he sighed.
"I need to return to the Ministry," he said. "I need to see the case files for the other arsons."
"I can give you a run-down," Mulciber offered unhappily.
"I prefer to look at them and our evidence myself," Percival replied.
With those words, he Apparated back to the Ministry.
Working through the case files took most of the rest of the day and the entire day after.
They painted a gruesome picture, but the really unsettling things were those the acquaintances, colleagues, and neighbours had to say.
"The Gamps… they weren't the friendliest of people… especially if you were a half-blood like me," a neighbour said about one of the cases.
"The Princes and the Max family… there were rumours about them… I heard they had dealings with the Travers, and we all know that the Travers were part of Grindelwald's people," a colleague said about some other victims.
"The Travers… good riddance, I have to say. You know, there have been cases of missing Muggle-borns in the last decade or two? I'm sure the Travers were at fault there!" Another witness, another case.
Percival's fingers balled into fists.
"My people are everywhere, my pet," Grindelwald whispered in his mind. "Join me! We could be great together!"
"You tortured me for months," Percival countered the memory. "And yet you expected me to forgive you and join you afterwards. As if I'd give in after surviving that long."
You have to endure just a bit longer. But in the end… it will be worth it! And then you will understand and forgive me…
"Forgiveness is earned."
"Sir?" Mulciber's voice pulled Percival back out of his mind.
"Mulciber," he said and looked at the clock. "Do we have another case?"
"No, sir," Mulciber said slowly. "But I have more statements of people who knew the Rosiers… and I have the forensic report."
Percival nodded and held out his hand towards the information.
Mulciber frowned.
"Don't you want to go to bed, instead?" he asked. "It's way after midnight. I could take a look for you and give you a condensed version of those statements and the report tomorrow?"
"No, thank you," Percival said, unperturbed. "I prefer to take a look myself."
For a moment, Mulciber hesitated, then he handed over the files in question.
"Go home," Percival advised. "It's late."
And with those words, he returned to reading.
In the morning, Percival was exhausted, nevertheless he was on his way to one of the witnesses to clarify some things.
"The Rosiers," the man said nervously while sorting through the merchandise of the former Rosier shop. "They… look… they had dealings with that new Dark Lord."
The man looked around skittishly.
"They, the Travers and Mulciber," he whispered. "They're all pure-bloods that believe in this whole idea of pure-blood elitism or whatever the new Dark Lord preaches."
Then he scrutinized Percival suspiciously.
"Someone like you," he said. "They would approach you. They would trust you. Talk to you."
"Why?" Percival asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm an unknown to them. I'm American."
"You're a pure-blood," the other man retorted. "Everything about you screams pure-blood."
"So?"
"They would talk to you and let you inside their homes," the man said.
"Are you implying that I killed them?" Percival asked.
"No, no, no!" The man immediately backed down. "I just meant… that whole idea with a Muggle-born or half-blood going after them… that's rubbish. They wouldn't have gotten close enough. I tell you, whoever killed them was another pure-blood."
"Thank you for your analysis," Percival said dryly. "You said they worked with the new Dark Lord?"
"With him and before that with Grindelwald," the man agreed.
For a moment, Percival said nothing, then he inclined his head in thanks and said his goodbyes.
When he saw Mulciber again later that day, he approached him then and there.
"We need to talk," he said. "I heard something interesting about the Rosier's alliances."
For a moment, Mulciber hesitated and something in his eyes flickered.
"I heard you're not talking to my men, my pet," Grindelwald's voice whispered in Percival's memories. "You're ignoring them."
Percival's wand pressed into his cheek, guided by Grindelwald's hand.
"Will you talk to me?"
"Not without conditions," he countered the memories and shook his head to rid himself of them.
"How about we talk at my house?" Mulciber offered at that moment.
"Of course," Percival agreed before following him to his home.
They went inside, and Mulciber closed the door behind Percival.
Percival immediately gravitated towards a window and looked out of it.
Then Mulciber stepped up next to him.
"You said you had information about the Rosier's alliances?" Mulciber asked.
"Yes," Percival said. "They were allied with that new Dark Lord. Them and the Travers and most likely the others as well. The victims… they've all been perpetrators in other cases. The one after them might have known this."
"Anything else?" Mulciber's voice sounded tight.
"Hmm," Percival agreed. "Your name was mentioned."
Something touched Percival's jugular.
It was a wand.
I heard you're not talking to my men, my pet…
"You're not the arsonist," Percival said, unfazed.
"No," Mulciber agreed before he added. "You should have let me take the lead in the investigation. You should have let me give you the condensed version of the information gathered."
"You mean the nicely arranged information."
"It would have kept you safe," Mulciber replied.
"Which I am not anymore?"
"You know too much."
Percival looked at Mulciber thoughtfully.
"About you all being men of What-Is-His-Name? Voldemort?"
Mulciber sneered.
"While some of us had dealings with him, we aren't his men," he retorted.
"Grindelwald's, then," Percival concluded, unperturbed.
Mulciber stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes narrowed.
"That sounded…" He frowned at Percival. "You knew!"
"That you're Grindelwald's man?" Percival asked. "Since before we met. Or are you asking me if I knew that they were Grindelwald's men?"
He crooked his head.
"I guess it doesn't matter since my answer wouldn't differ."
"Wouldn't differ?" Mulciber stared.
"I've known since before we met," Percival said placidly.
"You met?" Mulciber's face showed his dawning realisation. "You met them before–!"
Percival's eyes started to glow.
"You all thought I had forgiven and forgotten, didn't you?" he asked while his golden eyes pinned Mulciber where he stood. "You trusted me; you trusted my sense of justice. You went and let me inside your home."
Mulciber's eyes widened.
"You're Grindelwald's pet!" he whispered.
"No," Percival said. "I'm the rage that he left burning after he took everything important to me."
Mulciber hastily grabbed his wand tighter before he opened his mouth, clearly about to curse Percival.
"You believed that I would forgive you," Percival said. "But you, like them, forgot that forgiveness is earned. They earned my forgiveness—you're the last who still has to!"
And before Mulciber could verbalize his curse, something landed in front of Mulciber's feet.
A bisected triangle with a circle in it.
Circle and line ignited.
Black fire flared.
Percival walked down the hallway towards the cell on its end.
Inside, a blond man was sitting, in his hands a newspaper.
The man's eyes were unreadable.
"Grindelwald," Percival greeted the man calmly.
Mismatched eyes met Percival's.
"They're dead," something in Grindelwald's voice quivered.
"They are," Percival said. "I heard they were all that new Dark Lord's men. What was his name again? Ah, yes. Voldemort."
Grindelwald stared at him.
"You know that wasn't the case."
Percival smiled. His smile was more teeth than mirth.
"You and I know," he agreed.
For a moment, Grindelwald stayed silent as he closed his eyes in defeat.
"Why are you here?" he asked. "Do you want to finish it?"
Percival just shook his head.
"No," he countered. "I'm here to talk to you."
"Oh?"
"I'm capable of forgiving you now," Percival said sincerely. "I forgive you for what you and your people did to me."
"My people were burned by your flames, Black Phoenix."
"An eye for an eye," Percival retorted. "That's how you earned my forgiveness."
Then he turned away.
"I've never said that my forgiveness didn't come without conditions, after all."
And with that, he left Grindelwald to his fate.
...
I have no idea where that came from, but I hope you liked it.
Best wishes
Ebenbild