Blue Velvet

“I can’t imagine what to do, Percival,” Picquery sighed, tossing aside the box of matches and lighting a cigarette. Graves knew all too well that if Madam President refrained from using magic, she was in a particularly foul mood. Picquery’s only consolation in these moments was that her anger always had a justified cause. “You’re hesitant to involve the Aurors because you suspect… some sort of covert interference?” Graves declined the cigarette she offered him. “Exactly.” “I’d be kidding myself if I said I had full confidence in each of them,” he admitted, his brow furrowing. “And that unexpected visit from the Austrians only adds to my confusion.” Picquery nodded gravely, her expression hardening. “First, they stall the investigation citing a lack of evidence, and now they propose this visit to 'finally resolve the conflict'!” She snorted derisively. “It’s absurd! Complete and utter nonsense, Percival! Even the most naive clerk would see through this charade.” For Graves, the case had been a haunting presence for over a month. The day MACUSA reported that three out of five Aurors sent to Europe to assist in the hunt for Grindelwald were found decapitated in the Austrian Alps, Graves realized MACUSA had once again grievously overestimated their capabilities and underplayed the sheer lunacy of Grindelwald. He had no doubt that the brutal slayings were Grindelwald’s handiwork. But he had no proof. And so, the Austrian National Magic Assembly had been dragging its feet on the high-profile case. And this bizarre gala reception — it couldn’t be free of Imperius influence. Graves and Picquery knew that a direct approach was both dangerous and foolish. “Espionage, then.” “I’m sorry, what?” Graves, snapped out of his thoughts, hadn’t quite caught Picquery’s words. “We plant a spy at the reception tomorrow, Percival,” she declared with her usual unwavering resolve. Indeed, Madam President had voiced the very plan he had been contemplating. But he had hesitated, knowing how challenging it would be to find a suitable candidate on such short notice. “All our classified agents are currently engaged. Take Shaw’s youngest son, for instance. I won’t even start on the Second Salemers. Disillusionment charms won’t cut it — none of us can probe the minds of those present without being noticed,” he said, spreading his hands in exasperation. “Besides, we mustn’t forget the regulations… all magic wands will be elegantly displayed on velvet pillows, Madam President.” And that was the crux of the problem. The International Magical Convention, seemingly drafted by imbeciles, mandated seven years ago that all magicians in delegations attend receptions wandless. Amidst grand fanfare, they all handed in their wands to a designated custodian before heading to the buffet, unarmed. “And that’s the biggest problem,” Picquery pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated. “But we can’t let tomorrow’s reception proceed without gaining some upper hand.” “Why not hire a No-Maj fortune teller from Fifth Avenue to serve herbal tea and read palms — friend or foe?” Graves chuckled. “But in all seriousness, I’ll handle it.” “How? You’ve got less than a day,” she pointed out skeptically. “You always doubt my schemes, yet you’re always impressed when I deliver on my promises,” he replied with a confident smile. Standing up, he waved his wand, causing his cloak and black fedora to levitate towards him. “You have my word.” Picquery shook her head, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “So be it. Until later, Percival.” “Until later, Madam President.”

* * *

Graves massaged his temples wearily, hunched over hundreds of scribbled papers. He had recorded every thought, every possible lead that could connect the Auror murders to Grindelwald. With covert information-gathering off the table, playing his hand at the reception was a gamble he had to take, despite lacking a solid ace up his sleeve. The Austrians had ludicrously pinned the main suspicion on a No-Maj, an old hermit living in the mountains. It was ridiculous. Graves recalled a line from the New York Ghost: “…forced to endure this Republican circus, dancing around a truth clearer than the Austrian mountain streams, clearer even than Cleveland’s Cuyahoga.” Newspapermen had a knack for information, whereas Graves hadn’t slept in over a day and was still grasping at straws. He had fifteen minutes before his next appointment. “Knock, knock!” A female voice, unusual for his office, accompanied the double rap at the door, replacing the usual bell. Graves, with a flick of his wand, swept the papers off his desk, watching them dive into the top drawer in seconds. “Yes, come in.” The last person he expected entered, surveying the office with curiosity: Tina Goldstein’s younger sister, a notable figure in her own right, if the snippets of conversation from the men’s room and her tally of broken hearts were anything to go by. Graves sometimes mused how she’d even found her way into the magical world; she seemed more suited to gracing the front page of the New York Times, arm-in-arm with a future state senator. Yet, here she was, diligently serving coffee, filling out wand permit forms, and bestowing smiles on every clerk as if promising each a fairy-tale ending. “Mr. Graves, I have a very pressing matter to discuss with you!” “Please, Miss Goldstein.” He observed her as she settled into the chair opposite him, straightening her dress and placing her hands on the table with a comical seriousness, so out of character for her. If not for the weight of the reception on his mind, Graves might have found the scene amusing. “I’m all ears.” “Mr. Graves, it’s absolutely outrageous!” Her indignation was genuine, yet it lacked the malice typical in others. “And who has dared to wrong you, Miss Goldstein?” “Oh, let me tell you! You’re aware, of course, that Mr. Abernathy fell ill recently? But two weeks ago, he promised me two days off, just two! And guess what?” Her cheeks flushed with anger, and she slammed her palm on the table. “Now he refuses to honor his word because he’s not in the MACUSA building, claiming his decisions outside are legally void! Am I supposed to wait for sunny Florida days until Mr. Abernathy’s influenza stops rattling the entire avenue?” After hearing Queenie’s passionate plea, Graves found himself distracted from his brooding thoughts for the first time in what felt like ages. Her determined stance even brought a slight amusement to his otherwise stern demeanor. Who else, indeed, would confront their superior over a thwarted vacation to Florida? Yet, there was something undeniably unique about the younger Goldstein, a trait that kept her the subject of relentless office gossip. She was like a bright, unexpected moth that had fluttered into MACUSA by some ironic twist of fate. It was probably Tina’s doing, Graves recalled. She had approached him, her cheeks flushed and fingers nervously intertwined, asking for a simple, low-stress position for her sister. “Queenie might seem a bit flighty, but she’s deeply empathetic. She’s kind, intelligent, and an excellent cook!” Tina had said with a smile. “And she’s a natural Legilimens, able to hear everyone’s thoughts! It was tough for her initially, but she’s adapted well.” A sudden realization made Graves’s palms tingle. Could it be true? He needed to verify this before getting his hopes up. Casting aside his usual mental shields, he thought deliberately, “The edge of your silk blouse is peeking out from your dress.” Instantly, Queenie’s hands darted self-consciously to her neckline, her face a mix of surprise and embarrassment. Bravo, Percival. “Miss Goldstein, please forgive my bluntness, it was a deliberate test of your Legilimency skills,” Graves’s tone was different now, imbued with newfound certainty of his impending triumph. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your thoughts, sorry. I can’t always control it,” she apologized. “Don’t worry, Miss Goldstein. My line of work requires me to maintain constant mental barriers, that’s all.” “Why did you test me?” Graves leaned back, appraising Queenie. She had regained her composure swiftly, unlike her sister. “I have a proposition for you.” “What might that be?” Her voice held a note of intrigue. “I’ll grant you ten days of leave if you accompany me to tonight’s reception with the Austrian delegation.” “That’s it? There must be a catch, that’s what Tina always says,” Queenie replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Indeed. You’ll be more than my companion; I need you to try and read the thoughts of our guests. Sure, some might shield their minds, but I believe you can navigate those defenses discreetly.” “Am I gonna be a spy?!” Her eyes sparkled with excitement, a reaction Graves hadn’t anticipated. He spread his hands silently, nodding, barely concealing a smirk. “Here I thought I’d die of boredom in Mr. Abernathy’s office!” Queenie straightened her hair with a flourish, leaning in conspiratorially. “What do I need to do?” “At the reception, there might be guests overly interested in us or, conversely, those trying hard to shield their thoughts.” “People don’t usually go to such lengths, sir,” she remarked, shrugging. “You’re right. So pay close attention to anyone who ‘thinks’ quietly. Any odd question, any name, any detail that seems absurd or trivial, remember it all, Miss Goldstein.” She paused, a knowing glint in her eye, as if she’d already unraveled his plan. “Will you probe my memories afterwards? I guess I’ll have to think more carefully then,” Queenie let out a quiet laugh. “Although Tinny says, I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve.” “I think leveraging your charm will only enhance your effectiveness tonight,” Graves nodded and glanced at his watch; there were only seven minutes left before his appointment. “Are we running late?” “I’m afraid we need to make haste.” “Oh, but, sir, in this dress…” Queenie looked down at her attire with evident distaste. Her candid belief that a mere dress could sway the evening’s outcome had its own allure. The sigh she let out, the expressive wave of her hands, and that look of dissatisfaction. Yet Queenie Goldstein was no fool; she wouldn’t have agreed to this venture otherwise. Her combination of intelligence and beauty was daunting, and Graves suddenly understood the underlying bitterness in some of the MACUSA staff’s remarks about her. “I believe I can assist you with that, Miss Goldstein,” he said, noticing her surprise and snapping his fingers. An instant later, his house-elf appeared in the office, exuding dignity and impeccably dressed, as always — naturally, given Graves' generous compensation. “I await your command, sir,” the elf said with gravitas. “Fido, please fetch the dress belonging to Mistress Serena,” Graves bit his lip, turning away to avoid Queenie’s inquisitive gaze. “Right away, sir.” Fido promptly returned, cradling a luxurious velvet package in his arms. “Thank you. You may go,” Graves said, and with a flick of his wand, he summoned a dusty screen from the corner of the office. The blue velvet dress glided towards the screen and settled on it, leaving a trail of faint, aged perfume in its wake. “Please, Miss Goldstein.” “And Mrs. Serena is…?” Queenie inquired, eyeing the exquisite garment. “My ex-wife. I assure you, she won’t mind,” Graves replied, his back to the window. Moments later, he heard the rustle of the dress’s fabric and the silk of the shirt, the crisp snap of shoe clasps, and the muted thump of heels on the parquet floor. The scent of another person’s perfume increasingly filled his office, evoking memories Graves had no intention of revisiting before the evening’s reception. “Mr. Graves, I think I’m ready.” He turned to see Queenie standing before the large closet mirror, examining her reflection closely. Serena had never been fond of that dress. And Graves found himself thinking that it suited Queenie, a virtual stranger, far better. She could dazzle in high society, and the blue velvet seemed like her royal right. Yet, something about it was… “It seems you’re not entirely pleased with the dress, Miss Goldstein?” “This style is a decade old,” she remarked, carefully inspecting the hem and its faded lace. Of course… Graves remembered now that Queenie was dubbed “MACUSA’s main fashionista.” How could he have forgotten? He approached her from behind, gazing into the mirror. Reflected there was a different Percival Graves — perhaps with a different companion, possibly content and free of the evening’s burdens. He would escort her home and, come morning, send a motley falcon with an invitation to dine at Roman Gardens, which she would undoubtedly accept. In another world, beyond the mirror. But for now… With a sharp wave of his wand, Queenie’s dress began to transform: the long hem shortened, adorned with rich silk fringes that revealed her slender legs; the sleeves were now encircled with beads, and the old lace at the neckline morphed into a delicate peach boa, accentuating the flush in Queenie’s cheeks. She watched the transformation, breath held, mouth agape. The dress seemed to caress her waist, chest, and hips — a luxury only the most affluent women could afford. When Graves lowered his wand, the reflection showed an entirely new Queenie Goldstein, one a state senator couldn’t even hope to court. No, she was beyond his reach. Absolutely. “You look stunning.” Queenie’s eyes met his in the mirror, holding his gaze for a long moment before she finally spoke. “The finest tailors in Manhattan couldn’t have altered someone else’s dress so skillfully. You’re more than just thoughtful, sir.” “Consider it part of my job,” Graves said, trying not to ponder why his transfiguration skills were so effective for such an unusual task. “Just give me a minute, and we’ll be ready to go.” With another wand gesture, a velvet box flew out from his table. From it emerged a silver pin, glinting with emeralds. Graves caught it mid-air and, facing the mirror, attempted to fasten it to his shirt collar. His fingers fumbled; the silver pin, a family heirloom from his great-great-great-grandfather Gondulfus, adorned with two tiny scorpions at the ends, was notoriously difficult. Any wrong move, and the scorpions would sting — Graves had learned that the hard way in his youth. “Damn, I could never quite master it!” “Let me help,” Queenie offered, reaching out. Her hands deftly smoothed his silk tie. In seconds, the pin was securely in place on his collar, her fingers accidentally grazing his neck. Graves consciously overlooked the fleeting touch. “Just like that.” “Thank you, Miss Goldstein. How are you feeling?” He smiled, offering her his hand. “Wonderful. Already dreaming about Florida, sir,” she responded with a light laugh, accepting his gesture.

* * *

“I must say, Percival, I expected better judgment from you,” Picquery remarked in a low voice, eyeing the interaction between Queenie and the head of the Austrian delegation from across the room. “What were you thinking?” Graves had anticipated back in the office that Madam President would not immediately appreciate the ingenuity of his plan. Picquery was a pragmatist, always calculating the potential gains before endorsing any idea. But Graves had faith — faith in his plan and in the woman who was now effortlessly captivating the guests in the center of the elegant hall. “Her charm is disarming, wouldn’t you agree?” he replied with a grin, his eyes tracking Queenie’s movements. As the evening progressed, Graves kept a vigilant eye on her, justifying his attentiveness as necessary for the night’s business agenda. “You’re letting your biases show,” Picquery whispered, lighting another cigarette. “As are all the men in this room,” Graves shot back. Picquery resorted to informal address when conceding defeat, a longstanding tradition between them despite their differing ranks. “I seriously doubt the efficacy of your 'fiancee, '” Picquery commented cynically as they overheard bursts of male laughter and compliments. “I had to improvise,” Graves admitted, realizing he hadn’t had the chance to inform Queenie of his plan to introduce her as his wife. When Picquery presented the delegation leader to the guests, Queenie stated her last name. Graves quickly interjected, “Miss Goldstein will soon be Mrs. Graves.” This ruse was crucial to ensure no one invited her to dance, which would hamper her ability to eavesdrop on thoughts. He was confident that his 'fiancee' would garner heightened interest and respect. “The only saving grace is that she is indeed charming,” Picquery finally conceded, a smile softening her features. Graves was about to agree, noting Queenie’s allure, when their eyes met across the room — hers searching for him. Something was amiss. He noticed it instantly. Queenie stood slightly apart, conversing with one of the guests — Ernst Sembach, senior advisor to the magical embassy of the Republic, if Graves recalled correctly. “Excuse me, Madam President, I need to intervene.” Picquery nodded, her expression tightening with concern as she picked up on his urgency. Approaching Queenie, Graves caught the tail end of Sembach’s conversation: “Goldstein, of course! I remember reading about that unfortunate incident in the papers! I hope it didn’t affect your sister too deeply?” “Tina and I aren’t so close as to delve into each other’s personal matters, Herr Sembach,” Queenie replied, her voice steady. Graves mentally applauded her quick thinking in sidestepping the guest’s probing questions. “What became of that young man?” “I’m afraid I know nothing about him,” Queenie responded. “Yes, yes… And just imagine, there are so many unfortunate young wizards in the orphanages — who knows who they will become?” Sembach chuckled, his hands resting on his satin-covered stomach. “Darling, I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long,” Graves interjected, drawing Queenie close by the waist. “But it seems Herr Sembach has kept you company?” Graves felt Queenie instinctively lean into him, as though his presence offered her sanctuary. He clasped her hands and tenderly stroked them with his thumb, asserting his protective stance. “You’re right, Percival. Herr Sembach was delightful company,” Queenie replied, but her tone hinted at unease. “Just, please don’t leave me alone for so long next time. You know how I get in these state rooms.” She squeezed his fingers subtly, offering Sembach a light smile. Graves understood her sign. “Ah, Mister Graves, I’ve heard much about your triumphs over dark wizards! Allow me to express my deepest admiration for the mutual efforts of our nations in combating such threats!” Sembach enthusiastically clicked his boot heels together, turning his attention to the delegation head who was already bidding farewell to Picquery. “Ah, it seems the evening is coming to an end! Marvelous gathering, truly marvelous! And yes, we eagerly anticipate your visit!” “Thank you for the invitation, Herr Sembach. It was a pleasure to meet you,” they exchanged brief bows and parted ways. Graves watched the last of the guests leave and saw Picquery exit the hall, giving him a meaningful nod. When only the staff remained, he led an eager Queenie to his office. She was bursting to share her insights, but he knew they needed privacy, letting her hear his thoughts once more: “Not here, Miss Goldstein.”

***

The office was a sanctuary of calm and quiet — a place where their conversation would be safe from prying ears. “What did Sembach discuss with you, Miss Goldstein?” Graves inquired, standing by the window. “He was very chatty! Kept congratulating me on my impending marriage to one of the most influential wizards in the States,” she recounted. Graves let out a soft chuckle. “Then he began asking about Tina and that incident when…” Queenie paused, her fingers nervously playing with the fringe of her dress. “Yes, I caught that part. And I don’t like it,” Graves said, levitating a glass of water towards her. “You seem flustered. Drink this. I don’t keep anything stronger in my office.” “Thank you.” “Was there anything else? Anything suspicious?” “Just a relentless barrage of tasteless jokes and a few unkind remarks,” she replied with a wry smile. “Do you mind?” Graves approached Queenie, wand in hand, poised near her temple. Understanding his intent, she simply nodded. “Memories, especially from a Legilimens, are best collected fresh,” he explained. In moments, a slender silver thread of memory floated in the air before being secured in a carved crystal bottle. Graves placed the bottle in his desk drawer and turned to Queenie, who looked visibly drained. “You’re exhausted, Miss Goldstein. You should head home.” “You’re right,” her voice was softer than usual. “May I escort you?” “No, it’s fine, I can Apparate. Tina’s probably waiting up,” Queenie managed a faint smile, adding, “But I’ll only go if you promise not to spend the night in your office.” Graves chuckled. In all his years at MACUSA, no one had ever chided him for working late. “I promise, Miss Goldstein.” “Thank you for this evening, even if Mr. Sembach did put a damper on it.” As Graves watched her leave, closing the door gently behind her, he realized that for the first time in years, a reception hadn’t wearied him but had actually been enjoyable, especially in Queenie’s company. This revelation struck him as particularly odd. “It was a pleasure spending this evening with you, Miss Goldstein,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly, watching her depart. Graves ambled over to his desk and leather chair, slowly sinking into it. He leaned back, loosening his tie and shirt collar. A sense of lightness, unfamiliar and puzzling, enveloped him. Thoughts of Sembach and the evening’s events drifted away as if bidding him a casual “See you tomorrow, sir!” This lightness was alien to him; he was accustomed to his duties being a heavy burden, rarely affording any semblance of pleasure. Yet today, everything seemed to have flipped. Graves mulled over the malicious gossip and snide remarks he had heard about Queenie. Hours ago, he wouldn’t have given them a second thought, but now, he found himself imagining the satisfaction of setting straight those who had spoken out against her. He especially wished for the envious ones a fraction of Queenie’s intelligence — or Serena’s, for that matter. Memories of Serena lingered in his mind all evening. He had stubbornly pushed away thoughts of his ex-wife, not wanting to ponder her current well-being in North Carolina with her new No-Maj husband, despite the laws. Serena and Queenie shared some similarities — brilliance in beauty and intellect, perhaps. But Serena was tough, the only kind of person who could have tolerated someone like him, Graves had always believed. And Queenie? Perhaps she harbored a strength even greater than Serena’s, hidden beneath her radiant beauty. Beauty often masked a resilient core, forged in response to the harsh, greedy, and rude reactions it evoked in people. To defend itself, beauty could be cruel, subtly destructive in its thoughts, gestures, and moods. Yet Serena belonged to the past, a chapter Graves had closed long ago. Even what he once deemed love had ended, like all things in life. No-Majs had a point with their concept of the “perpetuum mobile” — a metaphor for love’s inability to last forever, defying all laws. And as a high-ranking MACUSA official, he knew the importance of abiding by laws. A knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie. Graves already guessed who it might be. “Miss Goldstein? Have you forgotten something?” Queenie playfully gestured towards the screen where her dress hung. Graves couldn’t help but smile. “Of course, how could I forget,” he said, watching her approach the carved mirror, admiring her reflection. “But you know, I thought this evening that I’d be pleased if you kept the dress. I hope I haven’t offended you with my offer; after all, ex-wives' dresses aren’t typically given away.” Queenie turned to him and laughed heartily. “No, Mr. Graves, you haven’t offended me. This will be one of the most unique gifts I’ve ever received!” She twirled in front of the mirror, her smile radiant, appreciating her reflection in a way only the most sophisticated and daring beauties could. “Besides, I’ve grown so fond of this dress that I almost forgot about my own.” Graves enjoyed watching Queenie, appreciating her honesty and lack of pretense. He could have continued to do so if not for the sudden look of indignation on her face. “Wait, why are you still here, Mr. Graves?!” Queenie crossed her arms, her fingers drumming on her beaded sleeve. “Lost in thought, I suppose,” Graves replied with a smile, amused by the unexpected tone in her voice. “No, that won’t do. You promised me you’d go home. That you would finally rest. And yet, here you are.” “Believe me, I’m quite accustomed to these late hours, Miss Goldstein. It’s often necessary for me to stay behind.” Queenie paused for a moment, then asked teasingly, “So, you’re not planning to sleep anytime soon?” A flicker of mischief danced in her eyes. “No, Miss Goldstein,” Graves replied, his gaze momentarily drifting over her figure. “Great, then I have an idea!” Queenie beamed with excitement, approaching him and perching on the edge of the table. “Tina’s probably fast asleep by now — she’s used to me staying out late for movies on Third Avenue.” Graves watched, both amused and surprised, as Queenie slipped off her shoes and moved slightly closer. “Besides, this evening was far too eventful to just end like this, don’t you think?” she mused. Before Graves could respond, Queenie slid her fingers under the slit of her dress, reaching a little deeper between her thighs. In a swift movement, she produced a flask from beneath a sparkling satin garter, waving it triumphantly. Graves was still processing the scene when Queenie teased him: “Mr. Graves? Having second thoughts?” She laughed softly, her eyes playfully scanning his face. “What’s that?” He nodded towards the intricately carved silver flask. “Oh, this?” Queenie uncorked it and let out a dramatic sigh. “A strong calming potion for the times Mr. Abernathy gets on my nerves.” Graves couldn’t contain his laughter. “You know, only your 'calming potion' could smell distinctly of fine bourbon.” “…which works better than any magic,” Queenie raised the flask, straightening up. “To tonight!” She took a modest sip, closing her eyes and exhaling a soft moan of pleasure, then handed the bourbon to Graves. As he touched her fingers briefly and gripped the flask, he felt its warmth, heated by her body. There was something indescribably intimate about it, like touching soft, warm skin, catching the scent of evening perfume mixed with luxurious French soap, fingers tracing from a satin garter to slender ankles. Indeed, the bourbon was excellent. “You know, I have a toast of my own, Miss Goldstein,” Graves cleared his throat. “I can’t wait to hear it!” Queenie shifted closer, now sitting quite near him on the table. “To your upcoming vacation in Florida, hmm?” He raised the flask in a silent salute, took a sip, and passed it back to her. “To Florida!” She coughed slightly at the strength of the drink, then added, “You know, Mr. Graves, you really should visit there too. And don’t you dare laugh!” “Forgive me, I just had a vivid image of my colleagues' faces if they received photographs of my tanned portrait in a striped swimsuit,” Graves imagined Picquery’s reaction — she’d probably suspect a Polyjuice Potion identity theft. “No, you don’t understand!” Queenie insisted earnestly, taking another sip of bourbon and passing the flask back to Graves. “You need to see Florida for yourself — the palm trees, the warm ocean, and of course, the jazz bands from sparkling orchestras!” Graves shook his head, a wide smile adorning his face. “Even if I were there, I doubt I could appreciate it all with the same sincerity as you.” Queenie paused for a moment, then her face lit up with an epiphany, practically jumping in her seat with excitement. “You need to fall in love!” Graves' mood lifted noticeably: “Miss Goldstein, you truly are enchanting!” “You don’t believe me!” Queenie exclaimed, slapping her knees in mock frustration. “Just imagine: you’re strolling down a moonlit magnolia alley, cicadas singing, the ocean whispering, and beside you walks a beauty in a fashionable hat and boa! You wander together until dawn, and then part ways on the pier amid seagull cries, kissing her hand, and in return, she gives you a real kiss…” Graves was captivated as Queenie closed her eyes, lost in her daydream. “If you ever go to Florida, it should be with someone you love!” Queenie concluded, her smile radiant. “And what about you, Miss Goldstein? Are you in love?” He hesitated before asking, uncertain if he truly wanted to know the answer. Queenie glanced at her hands, then spoke softly, “I think you can answer that for yourself.” Graves understood her implication. The urge to let down his mental barriers nearly overcame him. “Your gift doesn’t make this easier, does it?” She nodded, her smile tinged with sadness: “Many people see me as just an object, something to be flaunted at fancy Wall Street parties. But I don’t let it bother me!” She shrugged with feigned cheerfulness. “Besides, maybe I haven’t yet met the person who can see beyond that.” In that moment, with her legs swinging and her dreams of true love, she was beautiful. Graves’s thoughts drifted to Serena, who had often fantasized about retiring together in a quaint cabin in Pennsylvania, where she had grown up. He wasn’t opposed to such an end, deep in the forests, away from the city he loved. But those distant dreams never came to fruition, and he had come to terms with it swiftly; dreams seldom led to anything substantial. And now, observing Queenie, who accepted others’ flaws without judgment or fear, he realized her remarkable strength and bravery. Beauty always needed safeguarding, or it would be trampled. Regardless of what others said, Queenie Goldstein was the most extraordinary woman he had ever met. “You’ve probably heard this before, but you truly are an incredible person, Miss Goldstein,” he said earnestly, looking into her eyes. Queenie’s smile faltered for a moment, then she replied, her voice softer, “It’s so refreshing not to hear someone’s thoughts, not knowing what they really think every second. About me. But I believe you, Mr. Graves,” she said, her head tilted slightly as if studying his features. “No one has ever spoken those words to me with such sincerity.” The flask was nearly empty. “To you, Queenie,” Graves said, finishing the bourbon. He ran his thumb over the flask’s intricate pattern, as if trying to imprint it in his memory. Perhaps it was a habit formed over years, or maybe he sensed deep down that this evening would remain a unique memory, and never to be replicated. “Why are you smiling, Mr. Graves?” Queenie asked, her own smile mirroring his curiosity. “This is the first time I’ve ever so shamelessly robbed a lady. It’s quite terrible of me to return an empty flask to you,” he jested, shaking the flask lightly. “Terribly naughty, Mr. Graves. Perhaps there’s a way you can make amends?” She played along, still swinging her legs playfully. Before he fully realized what he was doing, Graves found himself gently catching Queenie’s ankle, his gaze unwavering from her face. Queenie paused, a brief stillness enveloping them. In those fleeting seconds, something shifted, a palpable change as if an ending and a beginning coalesced. Fear of consequences seemed to vanish. Graves recognized this rare sensation of reckless freedom, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he was fifteen — the liberty to act on one’s true desires. He knew what he wanted, had always known. His fingers traced her skin through the silk of her stocking, moving higher until his palm rested against the black ribbon of her garter. He watched Queenie’s face intently; she was breathing unevenly, her lips parted, eyes fixed on his hand. No words or mind-reading were necessary — they understood each other perfectly. He slid his fingers along her thigh, barely grazing the slit of the velvet dress, and gently tugged the stocking tape, pressing the cool flask against her warm skin. Queenie shuddered at the sudden chill of the metal but remained transfixed by Graves’s movements. He didn’t withdraw his hand but instead leaned in slightly, closing his eyes and briefly pressing his lips to her thigh. After a moment, he pulled back, lowering his head. The room felt stifling, the air thick with unspoken intensity. “You can’t offend with an impulse if it’s sincere…” Queenie’s voice was barely audible, her words coming after a pause that felt like an eternity. Graves realized that in his unguarded moment, he had let down his mental defenses, allowing Queenie to hear his thoughts. Was it frightening? Was he now vulnerable? No, it was Queenie who bore the vulnerability, her expression revealing fragments of his own unvoiced thoughts — worries, conjectures, and most dominantly, thoughts about her. She gracefully descended from the table and moved towards him, settling softly onto his lap. Her hands, delicate and seemingly golden in the dim light, rested on his shoulders. Graves felt her presence envelop him — the texture of velvet slipping under his fingers, the spicy scent of her perfume, Queenie’s essence everywhere — in the light, the air, in himself. He noticed the mole at the curve of her neck, watched her breathing, and gazed at the velvet dress contouring her figure. Queenie gently ran her fingers over his temple. “I like your gray hair; it suits you,” she said, her smile tender and accepting in a way Graves had never seen before. Graves remained silent, both in thought and word, as he recognized the depth of understanding that passed between them without the need for language. He felt the softness of Queenie’s palm against his cheek, her fingers gently tracing his neck, and her breath, warm and close. “I suddenly feel sad,” Queenie confessed softly, “because now Florida doesn’t seem so enchanting anymore.” Graves, curious, silently urged her to continue. “I came to the reception with you, fantasizing about that silly vacation,” she said, smoothing a stray lock of his hair back into place. “But this evening… it’s become something far more meaningful than any trip could be.” He observed her, taking in the gentle curve of her lips, the softness of her hair, and the delicate pearls at her ears. She was a vision, as ethereal as a dream. “You’ve nearly convinced me to join you on that vacation,” Graves responded with a smile, amused by the flicker of mock indignation that crossed her face. “Nearly?!” Queenie pulled away slightly, then, closing her eyes, leaned in to plant a tender kiss at the corner of his mouth. Graves felt the rhythm of her heart beneath his fingertips, a delicate drumming under layers of silk and velvet. He lifted her hand, pressing a gentle kiss into the warmth and softness of her palm. At that moment, time seemed to stand still. His thoughts quieted, his surroundings faded, and for a brief instant, he felt as though even his breath had paused. But it was perfect — this singular moment. There, in his office, enveloped in the scent of Queenie Goldstein’s perfume and captivated by her gaze, he felt a connection meant just for them.

* * *

Queenie was in search of Mr. Abernathy, a man notoriously difficult to find in his office during working hours, as he preferred to be anywhere but there. As she rounded the corner of the wide corridor, a familiar voice reached her ears, drawing her towards the source of the growing commotion. Ahead, house elves bustled about with office supplies: some levitated books into boxes, others loudly cross-checked various items against a list, loading them into enormous containers. At the center of this flurry was Mr. Abernathy, orchestrating the chaos. Just as Queenie was about to call out to him, she caught sight of whose office the elves were emptying and halted. “Ah, Miss Goldstein! You look particularly radiant today!” Mr. Abernathy greeted her with a wide smile. “Excuse me, may I ask you something?” Queenie’s voice faltered slightly. “Of course! Ask away,” Mr. Abernathy responded cheerfully. “Why are Mr. Gr-… Graves' belongings being removed?” Mr. Abernathy’s expression turned grave for a moment as he briefly reprimanded an elf for a broken crystal jug. “Apologies, it’s all a bit hectic here! You see, all of Mr. Graves’s possessions are to be auctioned, as is customary in such situations.” “In what situation? He hasn’t been found yet!” Queenie struggled to maintain her composure. “Oh, you might not have heard…” Mr. Abernathy sighed heavily, lowering his voice. “Grindelwald confessed how he disposed of him and where he hid the body. A dreadful tale, really. The details are quite horrific…” Queenie walked away, her fingertips trailing along the wall, lost in thought. She didn’t bid farewell to Mr. Abernathy, nor did she share any news. She simply needed to walk, to follow the long, opulent corridor of MACUSA, not knowing where it might lead. Not knowing she would live a long life, likely a happy one. Not knowing that no one would ever love her as exquisitely, reverently, and passionately as the man who once finished all her bourbon and promised to join her in Florida. A man who couldn’t keep his promise, and who thought of it before his tragic end as the only thing real. ~~~ The name “Fido” (1) was chosen by Lincoln for his dog. The Latin root of “Fido” means “faithful” or “worthy of trust,” a fitting name for such a loyal creature.