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1.
Tina had finally completed her report about her last case. It was page after page carefully detailing the latest illegal potion brewing and distribution fiasco. Nasty business--it had resulted in two Auror hospitalizations and a round of Obliviations.
She knocked on Graves’ office door, heard a gruff come in, and nodded a greeting. “I finished the report on the Haywhistle case, sir.”
“Thank you, Tina,” he said, barely looking up from his desk.
Tina craned her head to see what he was reading, curious what was holding his attention. It was today’s issue of The New York Ghost, and Graves stared at it intently like he was expecting...something.
Maybe it was news about MACUSA, Tina speculated. Or the war on the continent.
Her eye caught the byline. “A guest column by Professor Albus Dumbledore?”
Graves’ gaze immediately snapped upward at the mention of the name. “Yes,” he said slowly.
“Professor Dumbledore once guest-lectured at Illvermony when I was a student,” Tina remarked. She remembered him--a red-haired British gentleman who had a kindly, sharp air about him. “But he’s rather eccentric, I’d say,” she added.
“That sounds like a fitting description of him,” Graves said. He tapped a finger on the paper. “His Transfiguration theory is solid, but much of it is rooted in the British school of thought. Very much settled into the habitual laws in place--flick, swish, all the routine nonsense. The occasional out-of-the-box suggestion, but nothing truly creative.”
Tina didn’t know that Graves kept up with magical academia. “I suppose his pieces in newspapers contain basic theory for the average reader.”
Graves scoffed. “I would say that’s still inexcusable. And he has to add in ‘charming’ little anecdotes to illustrate his ideas.
“Take this issue right here, Tina. He relates a story from his boyhood about Transfiguration class with some Elphias Doge and how Doge’s Transfiguration mistake resulted in good-tasting tea instead of pumpkin juice. Who cares about this Doge friend of his, who he mentions in an aside has a position in the British ministry and gave him good-natured permission to print this story? And how he still visits his friend to Transfigure that same exact type of tea, which he found could not be replicated by himself or anyone else?”
Graves’ voice rose, laced with menace.
Tina blinked. Most of what she could recall about the guest professor was that he had showered Illvermony students with No-Maj candy after the lesson, flicking his wand and sending the sweets spraying over them like confetti.
She said, “Are you alright, sir?”
As if abruptly realizing himself, the anger dimmed on Graves’ face. He cleared his throat and shuffled the report Tina had delivered to him. “I’m fine, Tina. You’re dismissed.”
Tina turned and left. She wondered what on earth this Albus Dumbledore had done that had pissed off Percival Graves so much.
2.
Abernathy dropped in for his usual customary morning hello to Director Graves. It was routine politeness that he hoped would pay off toward an eventual promotion. He was about to speak when he heard Graves mutter, “Appalling,” under his breath.
“Sir?” Abernathy asked.
Graves was reading the morning paper, his face twisted in a sneer at a black and white shifting photograph. Abernathy glanced at it--it was a picture of a wizard with long hair, a goatee, and half-moon spectacles. The man wore a robe patterned with what appeared to be turkeys and leaves. The fabric turkeys strutted across the robe’s folds, beaks bobbing and feathers shifting.
“It may have been Thanksgiving when he gave this interview, but wearing these robes makes absolutely no sense,” Graves said in disdain. “He’s a British wizard, not an American Mu--No-Maj. Don’t you agree, Abernathy?”
“Er, yes sir.”
“It’s almost as if he keeps wearing these awful things because he knows I’ll see it. I was able to talk sense into him years ago, but he’s relapsed.”
Abernathy didn’t know what to say to that.
“Twenty-seven years of news articles,” Graves continued. “A different horrendous robe pattern each and every time, often with a matching hat. I have a wall filled with these newspaper photographs. It’s a reminder to me how much he’s wasted himself, wasted his potential.”
“I--I see,” Abernathy said. “There is a saying that clothes make the man.”
He dubiously eyed the new, shining, and rather dramatic scorpion pins on Graves’ coat as he said this.
3.
Mr. Graves was talking about his visions again. About the child’s great and mighty power, how he or she would be a storm the world had never seen before.
Credence thought it was always curious and strange, how Mr. Graves spoke of the future. Mr. Graves said that this ability was special even among wizards and witches; what he had was rare and powerful.
Out loud, he wondered, “Are you--are you like a prophet, Mr. Graves?”
Mr. Graves halted his speech, initially seemingly annoyed at the interruption. But then his mouth smoothed over; he looked pleased. “A prophet--I am something like that, Credence, although I answer to no god.”
Wizards and witches didn’t believe in God, Credence reminded himself. It was another thing he had to learn to get used to. It was blasphemous, but magic, Credence thought, was better, more real, and it would free him more than prayers did.
But his upbringing still informed him.
There were many prophets in the bible. Noah, who had been told of the flood. Isaiah, who knew of the countless mysteries of the faith. David, who had been a mere shepherd boy, who wrote the book of Psalms through the Lord’s guidance, who became a king.
For not the first time, Credence felt a sense of awe when it came to Mr. Graves. This prophet--this savior--could heal his hand with a sweep of his palm.
Mr. Graves smiled at him, at the look on Credence’s face. He rested a gentle hand on Credence’s shoulder. “I appreciate that you acknowledge the importance of my visions, Credence. They hold the key to the wizarding world’s salvation.”
Credence nodded.
“Ever since I was eight years old, I have foretold of a future where non-magical people would discover the magical,” Mr. Graves said softly. “I have foreseen the great monuments of the wizarding world being desecrated. Our leaders and resources exploited. Muggles taking what is rightfully ours.
“It means something to me, to have someone by my side who listens and understands. This future must-- must --be prevented.”
Mr. Graves withdrew his hand from Credence’s shoulder and looked up above, his eyes trained on the darkening sky.
“I told someone about my visions when I was a boy,” Mr. Graves said. “We made charts, lists, of how historical events would take shape and take place. Causality spread across parchment notes and sketches on a bedroom wall. That fool--he didn't choose me. He didn’t listen, in the end.”
It was---overwhelming. Credence had little knowledge of the magical world and less knowledge about the impact of visions.
He thought of the prophet in the Book of Isaiah, of the ember the angel put under the prophet’s mouth to cleanse him. He wondered if he would burn his tongue if he tried to kiss Mr. Graves.
(He didn’t. Mr. Graves was watching him with a sort of sardonic wistfulness and there was something about it that unnerved him.)
+1
“Mr. Barebone, I understand that Gellert approached you under the guise of Percival Graves.”
It was a gentle request. Professor Albus Dumbledore had a sympathetic tone in his voice, with only the slightest hint of apprehension.
Credence told him.
Then Dumbledore interrupted, “He told you about his visions of the future--?”
“Yes, sir. He said that he foretold--”
Dumbledore made a muffled sound that could be a cough. “Ah, is he still doing that? ‘I have foretold.’ ‘I have foreseen.’ ‘I had a vision.’ He is not sixteen any more--but of course he persists.”
That did sound remarkably like Mr. Graves--like Gellert Grindelwald. Credence said tentatively, “What do you mean, sir?”
Dumbledore regarded Credence with those piercing blue eyes, a contrast to the auburn of his hair. “The probability of a Seer’s specific vision coming true is very low. The Department of Mysteries has calculations about prophecies--Credence, there are various possible futures. There are many possible paths. Gellert has always been fixated on one particular apocalyptic path, the worst possible future.”
Surprised, Credence processed this information.
“It is unbelievable,” Dumbledore continued, shaking his head, “that he continues to use the same language. ‘Albus, I have foretold a future where we rule as kings, masters of death.’ ‘Albus, I had a vision that you gave me the Resurrection Stone embedded into a ring, sliding it onto my finger like a wedding band.’ ‘Albus, I have foreseen a future where the Durmstrang library burns and the British Minister of Magic is tortured, and it is absolutely imperative that you comfort me right at this moment.’”
Credence opened his mouth and then closed it.
“So tell me, my boy,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling, “did he happen to mention me? Anything about the robe designs?”