Liz Graham. Auror.

Liz looks up in surprise. She nods and opts for a friendly smile, gesturing at an empty chair.

Liz‘ hands are slick with his blood. It’s red and wet and sticks to her skin pungently. His body is still warm, but thankfully devoid of life and, thus, pain. It is a small mercy. She is running on autopilot, can barely remember afterwards how she goes through everything without breaking down before she is alone, trying desperately to scrub his blood from her hands. It feels like those hours after Grindelwald had revealed himself in the subway station, only somehow even worse. Hollow. Deafening. Unreal.

He is dead. Gone. No more. Taken from them. Stolen away from Melly whom she does not know how to face now. There is nothing but a void, a friend-shaped hole next to her and inside her and trying not to think about him hurts but thinking about him hurts even more because he will never come back, never give her that lopsided smile again, never again crack one of his awful jokes that still make her smile.

She almost skips his funeral. She cannot keep away, in the end, out of representative reasons alone, although they mean nothing at that time, dull echoes in the back of the back of her mind. What good is duty right now, when a rift has opened and swallowed a part of her life. Her face could as well be carved from stone, as little as her expressions change during the ceremony. Her eyes are surely devoid enough of life to pass for it. She does not feel like crying. Crying is not enough. It is also not right. Crying is reserved for when the night is too dark and sleep too elusive and the silence too loud. But not in front of all those people. Not in front of his casket. He wouldn’t have minded, but he would have known that she would have minded, so he would have accepted her shutting herself off during the memorial. She is one of the six carrying his casket, on the left side, middle position. Walking at his side one last time. Carrying part of his weight on her shoulder just like all of them had always carried each other whenever one had been hurt in the field. They had faced death together too often to count and now it had claimed the first of them when he had been alone and surrounded by enemies. No friendly face to bid him goodbye from this world, no warm voice soothing his final worries.

She does not throw a flower on top of the casket. She pinned his auror badge onto his robe before the casket was closed. That had been her final honoring. They had been more than just colleagues, but it had all begun and it had all ended with them being aurors. It was such a fundamental part of both of them that she was sure he knew what she had been trying to say with that gesture and that he would appreciate it.

She had been asked, among others, to say a few words at the service. At first, she had refused. Absolutely sure that she could not do it, could not keep the composure to do it. But when the service is held, she cannot not say something, just like the others. But she struggles with the words. As so often for her, the right ones refuse to come. Perhaps, she decides for her own sanity, there just are no right words for this. And because that is something that does not concern the numerous people in front of her, she settles on a detail, a side note of what she wants to say. She keeps it at that one sentence.

“Charles Delgado was too good a man to not see when a sacrifice was necessary for helping people and he was too noble one to let others carry that weight.”

She does not visit his grave again.

She closes herself off from the others.

She throws herself into the war effort even more.

She gets more reckless, joining raiding parties and the front lines more often, now that an end to this war is on the horizon. Her tactics grow ruthless. Where she would incapacitate before, she is ready to kill now. She feels like having lost the polar star, like her moral compass cannot pinpoint north any longer. His unabashed goodness had been such a grounding force that she feels like a storm has torn the ground from under her feet. She also sees no reason to try relocate it.

The ambush is brutal, quick and no one knows what is happening before it is almost too late. Grindelwald’s second in command in leading the twelve wizards. Five of her aurors are dead before they hit the ground. She manages to evade the green jet of light just so, more with accidental luck than by any honed skill. Different colours fly through the air in rapid time and she is bleeding from at least four different parts of her body when she finally has a second to breathe, which she uses to disapparate instead. Her ears pick up that there are voices yelling but her brain cannot begin to filter for the words to make sense as she stumbles forward and collapses into the arms of a person with familiar black hair.

When she wakes up again, she is lying in a hospital bed and Amelia Delgado is sitting one of those awfully uncomfortable plastic chairs that are part of every hospital in the world, chin fallen onto her chest and eyes closed. Liz does not know what to feel, is afraid of working through what she is actually feeling but she cannot stop the tears from falling silently as she slowly drifts back to sleep. The next time she wakes up, the others are there, too.

The boss yells at her. Kit threatens her with bodily harm if she is ever that stupid again. Yassa’s voice is so thick and her eyes so bright, Liz feels rotten all over again. And then, Amelia enters the room, a plastic cup of coffee in her hand, and she rushes to the bed and pulls Liz in an embrace, mumbling into her shoulder almost the exact words Kit used about never doing something that stupid again. And then she adds that she does not want to lose any of them, too. A dam breaks inside Liz. She tightens her arms around that young, brilliant woman and clings to her. She does not care for the tears that are falling freely. She babbles that she is sorry over and over again and it feels like it is not enough.

She has to spend a whole week in the hospital. By the fourth day, the president visits her to rope her back into tactical planning since she does not have to move for that. She has never seen a nurse get that angry at the highest ranking MACUSA employee, and she has been an active auror for very long by now.

When she is allowed to sign her lease, she expects to quickly drop by her flat and then head over to MACUSA. She does not expect for Yassa to wait for her on the hallway. She smiles at Liz faintly and escorts her to the Graves manor. The boss, out of all people, is pulling some sort of intervention crap for her. She can stay there. As Yassa does – of course. And as Amelia does. Apparently, even Kit is there most of the time.

“Being alone does not seem to be a good idea for any of us,” they say. They are righter than even they may realise themselves, she muses.

Amelia tries to talk with her. A lot. Liz is still rubbish at talking. They still understand each other, though. Amelia asks her to accompany her to Delgado’s grave. Liz feels like drowning but in the end, she agrees. It is the worst thing she has ever done but standing there at the stone engraved with his name and birth date is, in the end, strangely liberating. Amelia leaves first and then, as she is alone with him, Liz starts talking. She tells him how proud he ought to be of his daughter. How smart she is, smarter than Liz anyway, and that everyone is looking out for Amelia. She tells him how the mattress in her room is too soft and how weird it is to see the boss with bed hair every odd morning. She tells him how stupid she was and apologizes for not dealing better. She tells him how Picquery could not even wait for her to get discharged from the hospital before pestering her again. She tells him how Ibrahim had wreaked havoc in the kitchen at breakfast and how much he would have hated it. She tells him the names of their fellow aurors that also fell. She tells him they will win the war. She tells him how she wants to personally see to bringing Grindelwald to justice. Not by defeating him. She has no delusions of grandeur. But afterwards, when he already is brought down. She tells him she wants to be part of the people deciding his fate, if it comes to a trial, how she will be doing everything to get him the death sentence.

He has always been a good listener. And it is still so easy to confide in him.

“But I’m still not going to bring you flowers next time.”

The next time, she does indeed not bring flowers, but tells him how Grindelwald’s forces are crumbling.

The next time, she feels so numb she is not sure if she should not lie in the ground around somewhere close, too. She stays in front of his grave for two hours. In all that time, she only says two small words.

“It’s over.”

She visits his grave several days every week. He is still the easiest, the best person for her to talk to.

She tells him about the trial. About how long the process is dragged out. She rants about that lunatic Brit that is pledging for life-long imprisonment and how he has no right to rob thousands of people of their justice, no matter how big his final part in taking down Grindelwald has been. She tells him with tears of anger brimming in her eyes that Gellert Grindelwald will not be executed for his crimes.

She tells him, with no little smugness, when Picquery has to resign due to public demand. She tells him with a chuckle that the boss asked her to run for the elections. She tells him how she replied with ‘only if you’ll be my head of DMLE until I can find someone competent for the job’.

She tells him with bafflement that the boss showed up for work the following Monday. She tells him with a helpless laugh that she guesses she has to follow through, now, too.

She visits less frequently during the planning and carrying out of her campaign. It might also have something to do with her workload on top of that, which may not include Director of Magical Security right then, but demands countless hours to rebuild the nation that is still torn after the war per request of the appointed president, who might or might not try to keep her from running against him successfully.

Three years later, the elections take place.

“You’re not gonna believe it, Delgado,” she greets his tombstone with a hollow laugh, “I’m fucking president. I can’t believe I let myself get talked into that shitshow.”

She tells him how she has an eye on Amelia who is climbing ranks faster than a bludger. She tells him how proud he would be of her. How proud she is of her. How proud the others are of her. She tells him all about Amelia’s first own apartment and about the pictures of him on the mantlepiece. She tells him about the order Amelia gets for heroic actions in the field.

She tells him about how annoying politicians are and how much she misses being an auror. She tells him how she thinks that it was a mistake to run for office. She tells him about little things that annoy her, of stones other throw in her way sometimes. She tells him distraught how Amelia was injured on a dangerous mission. She tells him how much more she hates politics now that she has to deal with it as the only part of her job. She tells him when she manages to re-establish a new MACUSA office branch in San Francisco. She tells him how she thinks about screwing with the British delegate in the ICW every now and then because she still hates them sometimes. She tells him how the reform of laws on magical creatures is started.

One day, she tells him that she has decided to run for a second period. She tells him with the same befuddlement as the first time, that the public is apparently stupid enough to like her as their president. She tells him that she doesn’t mind all that much that they seem to not notice how much of a mess she is, even more so after the war than before. She tells him how someone in the wizengamot told her that the people like her for the jaded war hero persona. She tells him how stupid it sounds to her that they think it partly makes her a good leader, or at least a reliable one. She tells him how she still sometimes thinks about just sticking it to everyone and go join the boss who has finally opened his bar. She tells him how stupid she sometimes feels for still calling him boss, since she has technically been his boss for some time and now not even working with him anymore. Again. She tells him how much it hurts to head to the auror offices and not be able to tease Graves about something or other or just share a wary sigh in mutual understanding. She tells him how stupid she thinks herself for that after all that time and with how much she sees him at home since she never moved out of Graves manor after the war.

She tells him how Goldstein the younger came to her office and actually hugged her when the laws forbidding marriage with nomajs are abolished.

She tells him how much she misses the time before the war, when everything had been so much easier.

She tells him when she promotes Amelia to head auror.

She tells him when she starts to think about retirement.

After her last day at work, she first goes to Delgado’s grave. After half an hour of silence, she heads over to Graves’ bar.

She tells him about the Quidditch world cup that is hosted in the US.

She tells him when Amelia decides to run for president.

“You better be fucking proud of your baby girl, because she is going to be the fucking president.”

Maybe someone close by hears her and looks at her, shocked because that kind of crass language seems somewhat inappropriate for a woman of her age. But the one she is talking to would never mind. She knows that. He definitely did not mind while he had been alive, so why should he mind now.

The first time Liz has to attend an ICW meeting, she is somewhere between annoyed and amused.

It is late in the evening when Graves walks up to her desk, a frown marring his features and irritation rolling off of him in waves.

“Graham, I want you in my office at ten to nine tomorrow morning,” he tells her unceremoniously, “You’re going to the ICW with me.” He leaves again before she can even open her mouth to ask if she really has to or even just why.

She gets an inkling of ‘why’ when she comes to work the next morning. Because there is a large banner pinned to the office wall, reading ‘Congratulations On Getting A Law About You Passed’ with some drawn hands clapping in smoothly charmed animation and one giving a thumbs up. A law? Liz frowns in confusion. She looks at the clock. Half past eight. Determinedly, she throws her coat over the back of her chair and marches to the DMLE’s administrative office. As she suspected, Kit Perkins is already sitting at her desk, a ridiculously large stack of folders in front of her.

“How can I help you?” she asks in a rather bland tone without looking up from the papers until she presumably reaches the end of a paragraph she apparently concentrated on. As her eyes take in the woman in front of her desk, Kit’s face and tone get more friendly, “Ah. Good morning, Graham.”

Liz leans against another, still unoccupied desk, and folds her arms.

“What kind of law is that about the boss that got through congress?” Humor tinges her voice and a grin splits her face when Kit looks up to her with a mischievous look crossing her features.

“He asked you, didn’t he? Knew it.”

“…about the ICW? Yeah. How did you guess? What has that got…” The lines on her forehead deepen as the inkling intensifies.

Perkins actually honest-to-Merlin cackles at the sight.

“You’re getting there. Picquery had enough of Graves being…well, Graves. He is legally banned from speaking out loud at ICW meetings,” Liz snorts loudly, “So he needs a spokesperson. Congratulations are in order, I guess. I would have made you a banner as well, but I only had one old tablecloth at home that I was going to throw away.”

“Feeling the love,” Liz retorts with good-humored sass, “Anything useful you can offer on the matter? Please, Booky, you’re bound to know something.”

“Mostly about the paperwork of issued complaints against the American Director of Magical Security,” Kit shoots back, drawing another chuckle from Liz, “Give me a heads-up when I should draft a form for complaints about his deputy, too.”

Liz gives her a theatrical affronted look. “Oh, ye of little faith,” she tuts but Kit’s glare shuts her up.

“No. I know you. I know the boss. Just wait at least two sessions or so before you start getting on their nerves even worse as a double feature. I’ve got enough paperwork as it is, thank you very much. And the curse isn’t finished yet, either.”

Deciding to try her luck, Liz tries for her most winning grin. “Wouldn’t even more paperwork be useful for the curse, then?”

“Get lost,” Kit growls, half serious, half in good humor.

“Alright, alright, just don’t curse me,” Liz says over her shoulder as she saunters out of the office. An enchanted paper ball hits her on the back of her head.

“You’re looking the way I feel,” she tells Graves emphatically as soon as she sees his scowl when she enters his office at ten to nine sharp. He shoots her a half-hearted glare, putting down a document of some sorts onto his desk.

“Enjoy yourself while you still can,” he grumbles and jerks his head to motion at the chair before the table, “This meeting will suck out your enjoyment of life and leave an empty shell for a couple of hours even after it’s over.”

The gaze Liz fixes on her boss is decidedly unimpressed. She knows all too well what an overdramatic fucker he can be. Or, as he likes to call it, have style.

To her, truthfully not completely surprised, yet nonetheless abject horror, the auror has to find out that Graves did not exaggerate the mind-numbing boredom of an International Council of Wizardry in the slightest. Not even twenty minutes in, she feels a headache throbbing in her skull and she wants nothing more than to desperately curse one of the foreign ambassadors. Or Picquery. That would work to, she muses. Or perhaps even Graves for dragging her along with him. On the other hand, she really cannot blame him for wanting a kindred mind in this sea of stuffed short-sightedness and desperate clinging to tradition over common sense.

Politicians, Liz sneers inwardly.

She is pretty glad that all topics so far had required as little participation on her part as possible and hopes that the meeting will stay that way. But, as so often, the universe appears to hold Liz’ wishes in little regard and promptly causes the Hungarian attaché to mention the international smuggling ring Liz has had the pleasure of busting herself as part of the cavalry of MACUSA’s finest in a hair-raising mission in Utah mere six weeks ago. The aurors did a mighty fine job on the sons of bitches, if she may say so herself. The problem is that the Hungarian Dipshit sees that accomplishment in a rather negative light and demands on behalf of the country he represents that the criminals of Eastern-European origin that are still alive and, thus, in prison, be turned over to the HuMaPa, the Hungarian Magical Parliament, to proceed with them as seen fit. Liz fumes from the mere thought. They had repeatedly asked the HuMaPa and other Western governments for assistance once they had narrowed down their suspected base to the USA, and no one but France and Germany had offered help, and people were still wary about what Germans offered these days – albeit less so with the magical part of society. To get back to the point, the HuMaPa declined to send some of their men but now wants to carry off the laurels.

Liz turns to look at Graves to share her disgust and is less than surprised to see him not even trying to hide his annoyance. She lifts an eyebrow at him in silent communication and he responds with a snort, interrupting the Bulgarian politician who is doing his best to verbally crawl into the Hungarian asshole’s asshole. An eerie silence fills the hall as almost all present wizards and witches turn to look at Graves and Liz.

“Does the American Head of Security have something to add to this discussion?” echoes the obnoxious moderation from the Swiss mage that looks like he swallowed a pumpkin whole and is currently presiding the ICW.

Liz gives Graves a fleeting look to catch his subtle nod. She clears her throat and speaks for the first time in the meeting as Graves scribbles onto a piece of parchment. “Yes, Sir. The American DMLE would like to say something.”

Liz does very deliberately not look at Picquery whom she can basically feel her nostrils flaring as she accepts the note from her boss. She reads the words, her eyes widening marginally for the fraction of a second before she pulls up her poker face. She politely waits for the Bulgarian to end his little monologue and for the Swiss to grant Graves and, thus, by proxy her the podium. Of course, there is no literal podium. But it means the attention of the council and the permission to speak. Liz stands up, clears her throat again and makes a show of studying the scrap of paper again before looking up into the crowd.

“MACUSA has only one thing to say to this proposition,” she makes a dramatic little pause and savors the feeling of knowing her next words as opposed to her audience, “Hungary can go fuck themselves.”

She sits back down and swears for a moment Graves looks at her as if he is willing to give her a fist bump for her outstanding performance. That expression even makes Picquery’s tirade two hours later bearable.

The next morning, when she enters the office, another banner adorns the wall. The letters on it are bright red and read ‘You made me buy a brand-new tablecloth just to say fuck you, I hope you are proud of yourself’.