Chapter Text
What if I told you that the fables the No-majs tell- their mythologies, their fantasies and legends, are our history? That, even if often mis-told, the stories are as real as that old broom by the door, or this half-dragot coin I hold in my hand? As real as you and I sitting here on the sofa in front of the fire? Would you believe me?
The story I wish to tell you concerns three witches who knew how to sew Fate. Their names were Nona, Decima, and Morta. They were sisters, and their family name was Parcae.
CHAPTER ONE
THE OCCULATOR AND THE AUROR
1997
Transfigured to look like a young man with shoulder-length, curly blond hair, the Occulator walked out of the Woolworth Building onto the crowded downtown sidewalk. The late-July evening was sweltering and the businessmen that the Occulator passed carried their jackets on their arms. It had been very easy to rouse the auror’s suspicion, such were the times. All it had taken were a few nervous glances in the bearlike man’s direction on his way out of MACUSA Tower. Now that the auror was following him, he would need to pick his spot carefully. He was on his way to do something very unscrupulous, and it was essential that this transfigured version of himself be seen acting strangely.
The crowd of pedestrians thinned, and the Occulator feigned one last anxious look over his shoulder and saw the auror trying, but failing to blend in. They made eye contact for a brief moment before the Occulator turned on the spot and disappeared into thin air with a soft “pop”.
Moments later, he reappeared in a nice, sleepy, New England town, though rather famous among his kind. The Occulator had not apparated into a MACUSA-approved apparition zone, but he did not worry about that. He did not need to. As one of the people trusted to enforce apparition laws and the International Statute of Secrecy, no one would ever question him. In fact, as the Head of Magical Congress of the United States of America’s Department of Concealment, magical secrecy was entirely within his chain of command. The only authority he answered to was that of the President, and perhaps occasionally a couple of arrogant congresswizards who thought they were above him… but they did not even know his real name.
An unwitting woman, homeless by the look of her, had seen him arrive, however. She stared at him open-mouthed. The Occulator wasted no time in obliviating her memory and wordlessly throwing her down an alley with a thrust of his wand.
The Occulator could smell the sea nearby as he walked past old but well-maintained colonial-style houses. It was truly a beautiful town, yet the no-majs still made many references to its bloody history, some subtle, and some overt for commercial purposes. For the first time it occurred to the Occulator just how fitting it was that this meeting be taking place here, in Salem. He reached a pale gray mansion set far from the road that backed up to the beach and strode up the driveway without slowing.
The brass knocker on the mansion’s door was wrought into the face of a hissing cat, but the door swung open before the Occulator could raise his hand to grasp it. A short, elderly woman with sunken, yellow eyes, and brimming with nervous excitement stood before him. “Come in,” she said, beckoning urgently. “You weren’t followed?” She was peering out the door to the distant road.
“Of course not,” said the Occulator as he stepped over the threshold. The foyer and grand staircase were old-fashioned, mahogany and inlaid with ornate carvings. Somehow the light of the glowing orange sun that was setting directly into the mansion’s west-facing windows did not penetrate the gloomy hall. The place smelled of low tide, and portraits of decrepit-looking witches and wizards, each sitting with a black cat perched in their lap, lined the walls. The subjects of the portraits, both human and feline, watched him judiciously but said nothing.
“Everyone is here,” the elderly witch said. “You came from New York?”
The Occulator replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ah, yes, so did Mr. Lightfoot and young master Alkire.” She led the Occulator down the hall and showed him through a door into a shadowy dining room that contained several instruments and dark objects so old they might have been in use in the days of the infamous Witch Trials.
“Here we are, Mr. …?”
“Moore,” the Occulator said, “Ivus Moore,” more to the elderly witch than the small group of men sitting waiting for him around the dining room table.
“But that’s not your real name, is it?” came a cold and snobbish voice from the table.
The Occulator smiled in the direction of the man who had spoken. “No, Mr. Coyne, it’s not.” There were mutterings as the Occulator walked slowly to the table in the center of the room. He had intended the use of the man’s name, when no one in the room knew his own, to upset the group and the balance of power within it. An unseen cat hissed from the shadows.
The elderly witch indicated he should sit. “Thank you, Mrs. Washburn,” he said, before taking one of the two open chairs. For almost a minute no one spoke and the Occulator gazed at each of the other five people sitting around the table in turn. The youngest of the group, Hadrian Alkire, barely seventeen, avoided eye contact, but when the Occulator turned his attention to Sebastian Coyne, the man lost his patience.
“Well, what is it, kid? Why have you called us here? Who are you? What do you want?”
The Occulator allowed himself another brief smile and inclined his head to Coyne. “As you just heard, my name is Ivus Moore—”
“No it’s not,” shot Erstlan Lightfoot from the far end of the table. “Spare us! Get to the point.” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
The Occulator sighed. “I happen to know what you five here, and your families and close friends have started calling yourselves.”
The energy in the room shifted. Hadrian Alkire fidgeted uncomfortably, and the Occulator was sure there were at least three wands pointed at him under the table. “I know your dispositions. I know where your allegiances lie… You want to prove yourselves—”
The Occulator was interrupted again. “How do you know about the Blood Guard?” This time the voice belonged to Lester Trone. Coyne shot him a dirty look and Trone said bashfully “Sorry, carry on.”
Wanting to capitalize on the opportunity to sow seeds of discord among the members of the group, the Occulator said “Yes, as Mr. Trone just blurted out,” he paused for effect, “I know about the Blood Guard. It doesn’t matter how I know, but I contacted Mrs. Washburn because I think I can help you.”
“And how is that?” Mrs. Washburn asked eagerly.
“I have information you can use,” the Occulator answered. He decided it would be best not to delay any further. “The recent activities of your big brothers in Britain have initiated an exodus… Refugees are coming here, to America.”
There were angry mutterings around the table. Mrs. Washburn said, “Refugees? They’re fugitives!” and Trone spat “Scum”.
The Occulator must have finally piqued Coyne’s interest, because the polished and proper elder sorcerer leaned forward and asked earnestly, “And you know where they’re hiding?”
“Yes. I have the locations of two safehouses, both in New York, each with over a dozen refugees sheltering there while MACUSA figures out what to do with them. Do you want the addresses?”
Mrs. Washburn said “Yes” at once, but Coyne held up a hand.
“Why?” he asked. “What’s in it for you? Where do your ‘allegiances’ lie?”
“To him, obviously,” the Occulator said. “And to pure blood. There’s nothing in it for me other than the privilege of service to the true and noble magical race.” This was a lie, he did not care about blood status much, at least not in an ideological sense- he was a new-maj himself- but he knew these fanatics would lap up the rhetoric.
Mrs. Washburn nodded her approval.
“So you want us to raid the safehouses?” Lightfoot asked.
“No, he wants us to do his dirty work,” Coyne said shrewdly, “and he wants to keep his involvement secret.”
“Dirty work, Mr. Coyne? No, noble work… The kind of work your new organization has been craving since its founding. A real show of loyalty.” The Occulator smirked tauntingly. “What have you done for your big brothers so far? Sent gift baskets? A letter writing campaign? Let them know you’re rooting them on from across the ocean?”
No one answered, so the Occulator asked in a disdainful tone “…Do they even know you exist?”
Coyne glowered at the Occulator but the others’ faces looked embarrassed.
“I’m in,” said Alkire, speaking for the first time. Mrs. Washburn, Trone, and Lightfoot all voiced their assent too.
The Occulator indulged them all with a smile, and then returned his attention to Coyne. “And of course I want to keep my involvement secret. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Coyne?”
The sorcerer blustered, “Of course, but—”
“Ideally no one gets caught,” the Occulator interjected, “but if someone does, you won’t be able to expose me. Obviously I have access to information you don’t. My supply of information, and our work can continue as long as my identity isn’t compromised. And eventually, if someone does have to take the fall…”
“I see…” Coyne said thoughtfully. “But how do we know we can trust you? How can we be sure you’re not an auror, setting a trap? You clearly work for MACUSA.”
“It’s really not about trust,” the Occulator said, “it’s about how badly you want to show your devotion.”
Coyne had no response to this. He appeared to be lost in thought.
“We want to,” Trone uttered solemnly. “Let us prove ourselves.”
“Here are the addresses.” The Occulator stood and handed a piece of parchment to a still quieted Coyne. “If you succeed further action will become more difficult, but I’ll keep sending intel.”
No one said anything so the Occulator made to leave the room. Before he exited, he turned back to the small, silent group and said, “Do whatever you want with them, but personally, I hope you wipe them out.” He gave them a bland thumbs-up. “Good luck.”
Almost eighteen years after that sinister Salem evening, another betrayal was taking shape…
No one in the bustling terminal seemed to notice the small pop that announced the apparating wizard. The young auror had decided not to bother with the fake documents his boss had provided him to get through Security and opted to apparate into the airport beyond the security checkpoint instead. It was a bit of a risk, sure, but Mason Moray had known the simple no-majs would not register his appearance.
He leaned casually against a wall to wait and carefully watched the steady stream of bleary-eyed and disgruntled looking passengers making their way through the International Arrivals terminal. It was his first visit to JFK International Airport, or any airport for that matter, but he did not find it much different than his other experiences with no-maj mass transit- overcrowded, noisy, competitive, and dirty. It was always the same, especially in New York, thousands of no-majs hurrying along with their heads down, attempting to make up for the time their slow and inefficient modes of transportation cost them. Although, as he took a moment to look out at the gray morning through the window on the far end of the terminal and watch a plane take off in the distance, he did have to concede it was impressive that no-majs had figured out how to fly without magic.
Mason Moray checked his watch. His target should have landed by now. He became aware of how sweaty his palm was clutched around the wand in his pocket. He briefly released his grip and pulled out his hand to wipe on the leg of his jeans. This was his first real assignment, one he should not have received in the view of some of his seniors, but eager to prove himself, eager for some action and recognition, he had persuaded his boss that he was up to the job. The Head of the Auror Department was not a very trusting man, but he recognized that the strength of his department had dwindled over the many years of peace and stability wizarding America was currently enjoying, and that maybe it was better to send someone with energy and ambition after all. This meant the kid, Mason.
Mason’s instructions were very clear. He was to apprehend the target in the terminal by using an Anti-Apparition Charm, confiscate her wand, and send her back to Britain by portkey without even attempting to interrogate her. The portkey would take her directly to the Ministry of Magic. Mason had argued against this plan.
“Why approach her immediately upon arrival?” he had asked his boss. “Why not tail her and see what she’s up to? Find out why she’s here? She could lead us to other dark wizards!”
Mason’s boss had been a bit cagey with his reasons for denying Mason’s alternative course of action and had ultimately given him a load of bull about diplomacy, saying that this was the British Ministry’s case and that they would cooperate with their counterparts’ requests. The old veteran reminded Mason that they only had the opportunity to prevent the target from slipping into the country thanks to a Ministry tip that she might try to sneak into the U.S. via no-maj air travel.
Mason was disappointed that his first assignment was destined to be such a dud after all his months of training, and he also resented his boss’s inability to see the bigger picture. Being an auror these days did not offer a lot of job security. Seventeen years of peace after the defeat of the most evil wizard of all time had MACUSA thinking that dark wizard catchers might be a relic of the past, and only Magical Law Enforcement was truly needed. The department already had nine fewer aurors than it did back in its hay day. A fresh crop of dark wizards to investigate would be good for business.
Then there were the suspicions about the target herself. Her supposed association with the unsolved murders of several former Death Eaters intrigued and fascinated Mason. Privately he felt that this was something that they should all be congratulating the target for if she really had been involved. The more Mason thought about it, the less sure he was that he was going to follow orders, at least not immediately. It would be a whole lot more interesting if he asked a few questions before sending the target packing. He might even get a few leads and be able to work a case of his own.
With a jolt, the young auror pushed himself away from the wall. There she was! Had the rumors about his target not intimidated him he might have laughed. She had disguised herself well.
Exiting the jetway was a short, fat, blonde, American tourist wearing a neck pillow and a pink sweatshirt with “London” written across the chest, hearts in place of the “O’s”, and she carried a large stuffed toy bear dressed as a Buckingham Palace guard under her arm. Still, a witch or wizard in such a distinctly no-maj place was easy for the trained eye to spot: wandering, curious eyes one moment, an expression of haughty superiority the next, and the awkward uncertainty about what they were supposed to be doing to blend in. A Polyjuice Potion user also tended to appear uncomfortable in their skin when you watched closely, constant little fidgets and re-adjustments.
Mason watched the squat woman look around for a minute and take in her surroundings. Her eyes fell on something far to Mason’s right, and Mason saw her eyes narrow. Mason followed her eyeline and saw to his immediate discontent, one of his fellow aurors… So, the old man had not trusted Mason to handle the job himself, he’d sent backup. Worse, the senior auror had been made, making Mason’s assignment all the more dangerous. The idiot was wearing a long, black trench coat over a crisp suit with purple pinstripes, standing out very plainly among the casually dressed no-majs in summer clothing.
Mason prepared to cast the Apparition Hold but hesitated as the squat blonde woman disappeared into the mass of travel-worn no-majs. He had to scramble, knock into people, and crane his neck to find her again. She was moving through the crowds with unlikely deftness, and it was all Mason could do just to keep up with her as she wound her way deeper into the airport, let alone take aim at her. At least he had not been made yet, but just in case he transfigured his t-shirt into a hooded black sweatshirt and conjured a ballcap to wear low over his face. Any no-majs who happened to notice the change would convince themselves he had been wearing them all along.
A large no-maj family obscured the witch from view for a moment as they crossed in front of the entrance to a wing of the airport that was closed for renovation. By the time they passed, the witch was gone. Mason cursed under his breath and ducked under the ribbon of yellow tape that marked the construction zone. If his target had not already disapparated, she had gone this way.
Seriously irked, Mason crept forward slowly, wand out. If the witch escaped, he would blame his colleague for blowing the operation and blame his boss for sending the inept auror. He lamented the squandered opportunity. He would be back to the mundanity of studying old case files at his desk by lunchtime. Unless the witch did escape. It would not be his fault, and then they would have to track her down… Who knew what kind of damage she could cause in the interim? Maybe this situation was turning out for the best.
The terminal appeared to be completely deserted. It was dusty and poorly lit, most of the seats had been torn out from the gates Mason walked past, and the ceiling was ripped open, exposing ducts and wires. Light fixtures dangled from thin cords above him, and ladders and tools littered the long hall. Halfway down the terminal, the stuffed bear the witch had been carrying lay discarded on the floor. Keeping his eyes up and alert, he knelt down and prodded it apprehensively with his wand, but nothing happened.
It was all so odd. Why had the witch come this way? Why had she left a trail? Why hadn’t she disapparated as soon as she noticed the presence of aurors? And most of all, why was she attempting to sneak into the U.S. as a no-maj? It frustrated Mason that no one else in his department seemed to be remotely interested in finding the answer to that last question.
There were bathrooms on either side of the hall at the end of the terminal, both with wide openings instead of doors, and each with an alcove that partitioned the bathrooms themselves from view. Mason chose to search the Men’s room first. He inched nervously into the dark bathroom. He jumped and almost dropped his wand at his own shadowy reflection in the large mirror. Mason cursed himself and shook it off. It took all of thirty seconds to check the stalls and the changing room, and the Homenum Revelio charm confirmed his target was not hiding invisible in a corner.
Mason exited just in time to see the tails of his pinstriped colleague’s trench coat whipping around the corner of the Women’s room alcove. Mason did not stop to think, his mind was made up. He charged into the bathroom opposite the hall and turned the corner to find his colleague standing in a crouch, wand pointed toward a row of stalls with closed doors. The man, with dark hair and a widow’s peak, whipped around, aiming his wand at Mason before relaxing and mouthing “Oh, it’s you.” He put his finger to his lips and pointed to one of the stalls.
“Confundo!” Mason’s spell hit his fellow in the face. The auror stayed on his feet just long enough to give Mason a comically stupid look, and then Mason stunned him. The other auror crashed backward into a row of sinks and collapsed.
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
Mason spun around. Towering toward him was a third auror, his boss, and the Head of the department. The size of a grizzly bear, with hammy, powerful fists and a full head of white hair, the normally docile old man was enraged, terrifying. He advanced on Mason with his wand out, pointed at the young auror’s chest. For the first time, Mason saw the remnants of the man that had spent his youth ferociously hunting dark wizards and putting them in prison, or worse. A man who currently looked capable of doing “or worse” to his youngest subordinate.
“Mr. Callahan! What are you… It’s not- it’s not what…” Mason was spluttering, backing away into a corner as the old man bore down on him.
“It’s not what, boy?” John Callahan growled. “Not what it looks li—”
A low woman’s voice murmured something Mason could not distinguish. There was a flash of green light. John Callahan stopped in his tracks, eyes opened wide, and fell forward, landing with a floor-shaking crash. Mason stared open-mouthed at the lifeless body of the Head of MACUSA’s Auror Department. His gaze moved slowly upward to the woman standing over the body.
The Polyjuice Potion had worn off. A tall woman with buzzcut steel-gray hair, wide eyes, and a thin nose was looking him over, sizing him up. Her expression was not cruel or vicious, or in any way the expression of someone who had just committed murder. It was a bit vacant and vague. Her posture was loose, relaxed. She looked strange in the pink London sweatshirt, the sleeves of which were now several inches too short, revealing forearms covered in dark blue tattoos, script that ringed her arms in bands, giving the impression of tiger stripes.
Mason’s wand rose a fraction of an inch.
“I’m faster than you,” the witch said in a careless tone. Mason stopped the upward movement. He looked down at John Callahan’s body again, his mind spinning.
“How’d you know I was coming by airplane?” the witch asked.
Mason’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed an answer. “We… we got a tip from your ministry.”
The witch accepted this information indifferently and nodded toward the unconscious auror wearing the pinstripe suit. “Why’d you do him?”
Mason did not know how exactly to explain, he could not find the words, but the witch did not seem to really care. She moved on and flicked John Callahan’s shoe with her own. “Callahan as in John Callahan?”
The young auror nodded.
“Did you like him?” the witch asked.
“Uh,” Mason hesitated, “No, not really.” It was the truth. Mason had not wished the man dead, but he had not liked his boss, who Mason felt had always been unnecessarily hard on him. Callahan was a curmudgeon: stubborn, stuck in his ways, ambitionless, and untrusting. Mason also suspected Callahan had never really liked him much either.
“No harm done then,” the witch said absently. Mason did not see how this was accurate, but then it dawned on him. This was even better than he’d hoped for, better than letting her slip away. If he managed to arrest this woman… She’d just killed the Head of the Auror Department, the heroic John Callahan, in cold blood. It would make Mason’s career.
His wand whipped upward, and his mouth opened in a shout, but before he could finish the jinx the witch spun away, danced lightly over the body of John Callahan, and the next thing Mason knew, her wand point was pressed against his throat.
Her face in his, Mason saw the flash of energy fade, and the vacant, deadened eyes return. They stared into his own and he felt a cold chill creep into him. She was pushing her wand so hard against Mason’s jugular that he spluttered, but the witch’s voice was again careless, even bored as she said, “Take me to Ilvermorny.”