#lost-gryphin

Boston, March 1925

“Safety in the laboratory is everyone’s responsibility,” Lance said solemnly, looking at the assembled toys.  He’d gathered up Nighty Knight, Mr. Bear and Diego the stuffed dog.  All four of them surrounded Lance’s Junior Potions Kit with evident fascination.  “Our work is ‘sperimental, but our pro-s --” Lance frowned.  “Our processes are not,” he finished.

Dindrane had the cleverest son in the entire world.  She was sure of it.  Behind her, Robert was practically vibrating in glee.  He pulled her into a hug and kissed her neck.  Dindrane could feel his smile against her skin.  He was always delighted when one of the children showed the slightest interest in potions.

“No eating or drinking in the lab.  EVER,” Lance said, brandishing a finger in the direction of his toys.  “No tasting your potions ingredients, either, ‘cause that’s eating and that’s bad.”

“Well,” Dindrane murmured.  “He’s not wrong.”

“Hush,” Robert murmured back.

“You should always keep your space clean,” continued Lance.  He had, to his credit, cleared out a six foot patch of carpet to set up his Junior Potions Kit.  The rest of his room looked like a tornado had hit it, but that was par for the course with Lance.  “For safety!”

“Again,” said Dindrane.  “Not wrong.”

“I should have him give this talk to my staff,” said Robert.

“You should always do the reading, ‘cause it’s homework,” Lance told his toys.  He pulled out the instruction sheet that had come with the Junior Potions Kit and peered at it.  “This should be interesting,” he said, which was exactly what Robert said right before he tried something he wasn’t sure would work.

He really was the best of both of them, Dindrane thought.  Arthur was his father’s son, for all his talent with wandless spellcasting.  He was serious and studious, her shy boy.  Gwen was a Graves through and through.  But Lance was the one who took after both of them.

Sometimes Dindrane regretted stopping at three children.  She and Robert made beautiful, clever babies.

Case in point: her baby boy, who was carefully combining two of the little potions into a larger bottle.

“Hm,” said Lance, when nothing happened.  “I think maybe our ‘speriment didn’t work,” he said.  He gave the larger bottle an experimental shake -- which was definitely on Robert’s list of Bad Experimental Procedures -- and crowed when the bottle began to fizz.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Dindrane asked.

“... No,” said her husband.  “No, it is not.  Mijo, why don’t you let me take a look at --”

“I’m you, Papá!” Lance said excitedly, gesturing with the potions bottle.

The fizzing turned into a geyser of bright blue foam.

“Uh oh,” said Lance.

And some days Dindrane had no problems remembering why they’d stopped at three.  She looked over her foam covered husband and child.  “He gets this from you,” she told Robert.

The Woolworth Building, October 1930

There were probably more terrifying sights than Win Hughes sidling up and smiling, but in the heat of the moment, Sebastien found himself completely unable to think of a single one.

“Hey, New Guy,” she said.

Still.  The proper forms had to be observed.  

“What do you want, Hughes?”

Hughes’ toothy grin went distinctively waheela-like and terrifying.  “I thought you and me could have some fun,” she said.

“Auror Hughes, are you propositioning me at work?” Sebastien asked, faux-scandalized.  “How delicious.  I love it.  Take me to a supply closet and ravish me.”

“I can do better than a supply closet, New Guy,” Win informed him.  “And I wasn’t talking about that kind of fun.”

“Pity,” Sebastien said, with genuine regret.  Win looked like she’d be fun in bed.  “What sort of fun were you talking about, then?”

“I thought maybe you and me could remind the fucksticks from Alphabet Soup about MACUSA’s policy on upsetting Credence Graves.”

MACUSA’s policy on upsetting Credence Graves was actually pretty simple, and could be summed up in exactly one word: don’t.

Having met the man, Sebastien could understand why the entire American wizarding government had developed that particular policy in the first place.  It wasn’t just because Graves was a scary motherfucker who would rip anyone who upset his adorable husband to shreds.  Nor was it because Credence was one of those genuinely nice, kind-hearted people who would go out of his way to help you.  No, it was because Credence was fucking terrifying when he wanted to be.  Sebastien had seen actual U.S. Senators flee at the mere sight of Credence.

They fled from Tina, too, although Sebastien suspected that had less to do with Tina’s overall terrifying competence and was based purely on the fact that Tina was unstoppable once she really got started.

Sebastien felt his own mouth stretch into a waheela grin to match Hughes’.  “Fun indeed,” he purred.  “It would be my genuine pleasure.”

Win smirked.  “I thought you’d say that.”

*

Tina punched him in the arm.  “You asshole!” she yelled.  “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me along!”

“So pretty,” Sebastien sighed.  “And so violent.”

Tina punched him again.  “My looks have nothing to do with this!” she declared.  “Credence is my little brother.  Mine and Queenie’s.  You should have included me.”

“You should have included both of us,” Queenie corrected.

Sebastien eyed her warily.  Queenie was less prone to punching than Tina was, but that didn’t mean she was any less dangerous than her sister.

“Untwist your panties,” Hughes advised.

Sebastien took a prudent step out of the line of fire.  He adored Win, he really did, but he had no desire to get killed because she was too crazy to recognize how much danger she’d just put herself in.

“I beg your pardon?” Queenie asked, her voice as cold as a Saskatoon winter.

“I know the two of you are Palug’s big sisters,” Win told them.  “Everybody does.  You’re the obvious suspects.  Now you can say you had nothing to do with this.”

“Oh,” said Sebastien.  “Were we supposed to be subtle?  You didn’t tell me we were supposed to be subtle.”

Hughes narrowed her eyes.  “What did you do, New Guy?”

Director Graves appeared in the door of the conference room they were hiding in.  “Renault!” he barked.  “Hughes!  Get your asses in my office now.”

“I was not subtle,” Sebastien said.

Director Graves snorted.  “You really fucking weren’t.  You practically signed your work.”

“Seriously?” asked Hughes.

“I’m an artist,” Sebastien told her.  “It’s what we do.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, New Guy,” Win said.

“No,” Director Graves said.  “I’m going to fucking kill both of you.”