Delia arrived shortly before noon. She carried with her the scent of antiseptic and iron. Her eyes were dark, not quite focused as she entered the sitting room. It looked like the center of a war room with papers floating about and notes scribbled all over them. Theseus was in a deep discussion with Queenie by the fireplace, staring at a blueprint of MACUSA that was hastily marked up.
She hadn't been to the scene of the crime for some time. After evacuating the injured, they'd let the No-Maj police step in. It had been too much of a risk for them to go out. As the others had already figured out, the Congress had a mole in their midst. There was rumor that a smattering of wizards had returned with the intent to seal the crime scene, and was now missing. Now, though, the coast was clear. She still didn't intend to return alone.
Delia didn't place faith in such rumors. She'd maintained contact with the safe houses throughout the day, and to their knowledge, all employees were accounted for. Though not were all doing well. Ronnie had second degree burns and was still fighting for her life. Parth was paralyzed until they could find the materials to treat his damaged spinal cord. But they were alive. Everyone, somehow, had survived.
The room was quiet when she entered. She'd been updating the quartet there every few hours, and they'd adjusted their deductions as needed. No list had been compiled of the offending wizard, but a small one was set as to who the possible No-Maj behind the attack was. At the top was a woman Tina knew well, Mary Lou Barebone. Her portrait was floating beside a map of the city, beside two others.
Delia moved a stack of papers aside from a love seat and huffed, collapsing into soft cushion. She waved a hand at the works floating around. "It's a storm out there. The No-Maj haven't the slightest clue what's really going on, though they're puzzled as to why none of their kind were harmed. The fire bomb broke the barrier between our headquarters, though they won't find anything odd. We'll Obliviate anyone who knows too much once this is all over."
"But it's safe to go back," Queenie reminded her. "Now that you're back we can split up. Tina and I will investigate the leads. You and the men can head to MACUSA."
No one argued the plan. Queenie was good with people, Tina knew the facts. They were suited to the job of investigation. The other three were Aurors, the strongest of the strong. Together, they'd be safe.
In an uncharacteristically quiet voice, Delia said, "I'd like to bring Sam. She's studying psychology. Pretty damn good at it. She would be of immense help."
"No-Maj psychology is different than wizard's," Tina protested halfheartedly.
If she'd been in better spirits, Delia would've laughed. They weren't. At all. Sam had psycho-analyzed her and the knuckle headed naysayers at the Congress too many times to count.
It was Theseus who made the final decision. Being from a country with (slightly) more advanced attitudes towards Squibs, he was interested to see if the woman was anything like her aunt. He recalled a moment from a few hours ago. The demure squib had come downstairs to clear their dishes, quiet as a ghost. She studied the notes floating about, then made a quiet comment on the notes the Commander had been studying, argued her case to the point that there was no sound reason not to believe her Quiet people had the loudest minds.
"I will go with you two," he said, pointing to the sisters. "Delia, take your niece to headquarters. I do believe she will be of help."
Tina and Queenie traded a look of acceptance. It was impossible to be around both Graves and the Stormbrooke. Both were nothing short of demanding and expecting, and while they were full of charm and charisma, there was also no doubting their "no shit" attitude. At least Theseus, who'd retired from his illustrious career, had a somewhat easygoing nature.
He was also, in truth, absurdly handsome.
Tina extended an arm to the man. The three joined together and were gone in a whirl of wind.
Delia turned to the hall, expression curious. She raised a brow, and called, "Sam?"
The young woman peeked out from behind the wall. She was clearly dressed to go out, in a wool coat and large scarf. She did not, however, look eager to go. "Your Madam President is going to Obliviate me," she mumbled as she approached the two Aurors.
"Why would you think that?" Delia drew her close. She gripped her associate's arm, and he gave her a look. He was fine with the Squib herself, but he didn't like the idea of having to watch her. She wasn't suited to deal with an attack from a wizard, not one who they couldn't identify.
Sam shared Percival's sentiments. For years she'd been balancing on the edge of a knife above an abyss. She could fall back and die, or fall off and loose herself. Her memory. Her life. She was sure aiding this investigation would be the hand on her back, pushing her onto the blade.
Not to mention, she was close to an Auror. A Squib, with plenty of reason to lash out at their community. Thought she'd never do such a cruel thing. Would they suspect her?
"I know too much," Sam answered simply. She closed her eyes, exhaled deeply. The squeezing sensation of Apparition was over quickly, but still left her dizzy.
She sobered up when she opened her eyes. They were standing in the charred center of a disaster zone. All around them, ruined furniture, scorched walls. The signs of a quickly abandoned hell.
The first words to come from her lips, however, were calm. "This was not the work of... muggle."
Percival studied the woman. The word was no doubt picked up from Theseus' vocabulary, and for obvious reasons. It was kinder than No-Maj. But today was not about kindness. The job had to be done.
"What makes you think that?" he inquired. He led the way through the building. They were near the top of the structure, were the No-Maj dared not explore. Nor could they. The staircases had long crumbled, as all were wooden.
She waved a hand about to gesture to the general scene. The ash and the dust stirred about her, creating a brief dance in the dark.
"I know what it's like to hold your kind in a ill light. I know what the jealousy, the anger feels like. And this isn't that. This is calculated. indifferent." She bent to examine a shred of paper, eyes dark and shining.
"If I wanted to attack wizards... I'd do it one at a time. Strike fear into them slowly. Not this."
Her words were biting, frank and frightening. But earnest.
"The arsonist acted alone?" He offered a grimace. Ran through the evidence in his mind, turning it over. Yes, that was a possibility. And as much as he wanted to deny the option, he couldn't. He was the analyst.
Sam echoed his thoughts as she walked away, calling behind her, "'"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'"
On she walked, glancing through the offices and rooms. Thinking. She had decided to study the unforgiving field of psychology because it fit her. This place reminded her of her childhood. A dusty room, far out of the view of others. Oppressing silence was her only companion, and it drove her half insane. The constant, almost methodical way in which everyone treated her like something sad and pitiful.
They wouldn't win. Just a few more months, a few more hundred dollars and she'd be gone. To college. To make something of herself.
For now? She wandered around the place that hit too close to home, and thought some more.
Somehow, in the gloom and dark, a conversation struck up between the Auror and the one who wasn't supposed to know about their world. Between the comments, observations, and questions there were anecdotes, tales from childhood.
He was the child of Cor and Laniakea Graves, raised in the family home, pursued the life he'd always been told to. He was an Ilvermorny graduate, from the Wampus house. The same as her sister. Amusingly, they'd crossed paths in school on occasion and their relationship had been nothing but aggressive. Then he came to MACUSA. Somehow, he enjoyed the life he didn't have much a choice in. It was stressful, true. The hours were long and the work was tedious, but it fit him, the ladder climber. He trusted no one but himself to keep the country safe from those who sought to do it harm.
She told her story carefully, with white lies scattered where she didn't feel comfortable admitting the truth. She was careful. Her fear of him never vanished, though it had dimmed considerably. But he was a career man. He'd do anything to get the job done. A sad little squib wouldn't stop him. She measured her words and spoke with meticulous care, never revealing too much. Overall, it was an accurate tale. Squib born to a noble family. Cast aside, worked her butt off to stay afloat. She wanted to make sure no child ever felt the pain she had, and so now she was working to help them. Somehow, despite the dark matter of which she spoke, she never above a soft, airy murmur. Her general attitude seemed apathetic, though he knew firsthand that meant nothing.
Percival was aware of what she was. He knew she'd have to remain at arm's length at least. because someone like her would never really be accepted into this world. He was not intimate with here. Merely cordial. Helpful. She thought better when her mind was constantly running. Like a car engine, she couldn't idle too long. And still, somehow... speaking to her felt comfortable. He pretended otherwise.
Delia led them to where the bomb struck. It was across from the meeting hall where a mere eight hours ago, they'd been hearing about the New Salemers.
When they were actually at the sight of the disaster, the obvious became evident. It had indeed been someone they knew. Because the meeting hall that was now but ashes...
"We were supposed to be there," Delia whispered. "But there was a misprint."
Percival's mind was a series of interconnected ideas, theories, words. Like a domino effect, when one fell, so did the rest. One was toppling, and yet it hadn't quite fallen. That would come later.
For now, he knelt and thought. A wizard. Why would a wizard attack their own?
"The three most ancient motives for violence are sex, politics, and greed," Sam said.
Delia hummed as she paced. Thinking. "Well I don't think sex had to do with this. It isn't passionate enough. Greed? We help our own. We have a monthly donation pool. No one who works here wants for food or shelter. But politics..."
"The elections," Percival said. "Yes. Every four years we elect our President. Madam Picquery is in the running and looking to win again."
"It won't be a candidate," Sam said. She stood still, gaze looking into nothing. Absorbing, musing, correcting assumptions. Solving the crime as well as she could with all the new information. "It won't be that obvious. But someone who'll benefit if she doesn't win. Aren't the New Salemers on the list for the others? They're wasting their time We need to investigate anyone running for election. They've got to have something tying them to the arsonist."
Delia clapped her hands together and breathed. "Okay. We have a list, then. Let's get going. I have an odd feeling that at least one of the running wizards' homes will be untouched. That will be our arsonist, right?"
"Perhaps not. They can always frame someone," Sam said. She offered her hand to the other Auror, who took it silently.
The elder witch sighed at her niece and shook her head. She didn't know how Sam kept all these ideas, facts and figures straight. She was lucky to be so normal.
'It is far better that she live this ignorant life than know her potential,' Delia thought. For a moment, her expression flickered. Sorrow was there. Pity. Fright. Then it was gone.
She waved her wand, and they vanished from the ruins of smoke and ash.