Graves took the file in surprise; it felt warm to the touch, the ink still sharp and fresh—like it had rolled off the printer thirty seconds ago.
At the top, in crisp standard font: "Autopsy Report". Below that, the basics: external exam, injuries, internal findings, toxicology, and supplemental notes.
"Male, 42 years old, identity confirmed…"
"Height: 179 cm, weight: 70 kg…"
Graves flipped through the report, his bloodshot eyes blinking hard. He couldn't help asking, "Why's it still in English?"
"System auto-translated it. How else was I supposed to find the print button?"
Melvin pulled on disposable gloves from who-knows-where—white nitrile, snapping into place with a sharp pop. "Stop wasting time on dumb questions. Open him up. Check for spell damage."
"Cut open, sewn shut, now open again…"
Graves shook his head, lips moving silently as he traced a cross in the air with pinched fingers—praying for the dead man. Wizards didn't usually believe in God, but the victim was a Muggle. Respect where it's due.
He snapped on medical gloves—perfect fit, thin enough to feel everything. The body was slick, cold, lifeless. The morgue's chill made him shiver.
Melvin glanced over. "Don't worry about messing him up. We'll fix it with a Reparo later."
Graves' temple twitched. Magical trivia: some spells don't work on living things but do work on corpses. Reparo and Wingardium Leviosa—classic examples.
Once they pried open the chest and abdomen, the real challenge hit—not just mental, but physical. Dead organs, pale and rigid, stared back. Dried blood, clotted chunks, chemical stench mixed with decay. His stomach turned.
Good thing the Bubble-Head Charm blocked the smell. Melvin didn't have to suffer.
"Why are the spleen and liver ruptured?"
Graves stared at the organs—jagged tears, blood long crusted over, clots settled in.
"It says right here," Melvin said, poking with one hand, flipping pages with the other. "Died from blunt force trauma—internal bleeding. Beaten to death. Check his back and spine. Report mentions weird bruising—different color and shape from the rest."
"Aren't all bruises just… bruises?" Graves muttered.
They lifted the cold body slightly, turning it. There it was: an irregular oval bruise, black as ink, sinking deep under the skin. Looked like poison—but toxicology said clean.
Melvin narrowed his eyes. He felt it—faint magical residue.
The bruise was pitch-black, clearly dark magic. But not Avada Kedavra's cruelty, not the malice of Sectumsempra or Crucio. Not even Fiendfyre's raw destruction.
Just… magic. Crude, brutal. Like someone had gathered power and slammed it in—no finesse, no control.
A magical creature?
Melvin studied the mark. When he looked up, Graves was frozen, eyes distant, lost in memory.
"Mr. Graves? Mr. Graves?"
Melvin waved a hand in front of his face, snapping him back. "You remember something? A lead?"
Graves' bloodshot eyes flickered strangely. He pulled off his right glove, gently touching the bruise. "I've seen this before. Not in person—photos. This is the first time I've seen it… real."
"Similar dark magic cases?"
Melvin examined the bruise again. Young Riddle wasn't authoritative enough—this dark magic had been seen before, and even the Dark Lord didn't recognize it.
"I saw photos like this… in my father's study."
Graves spoke softly. "For fifty years, he investigated that case. The older he got, the more obsessed. Even after retirement, he wouldn't let it go. Traveled constantly, barely came home. Fought with my mother over it."
"Your father… Percival Graves?"
Melvin's mind clicked—puzzle pieces falling into place.
The name appeared in magazines, newspapers, history books—always tied to the incident fifty years ago. The worst magical exposure in centuries. Nearly destroyed New York. Exposed the Magical Congress to Muggles.
Graves removed his left glove and nodded.
Percival Graves was a prodigy of the Graves family. At 11, during Ilvermorny's Sorting, he was claimed by three house statues—Thunderbird, Pukwudgie, and Horned Serpent. Prefect, Head Boy, dueling champion—never lost. By fifth year, he could take on seventh-years. After graduation, became an Auror, fearless against dark wizards. At 20, he held off seven rogue dark wizards alone until MACUSA backup arrived.
He could've been President. Instead, he stayed on the front lines, Director of Magical Security, supporting young Seraphina Picquery's rise. The Graves family's power and wealth soared.
Then, in 1926, an Obscurial surfaced in New York. Blurry photos by a Ghost Gazette reporter sparked global attention. Percival, as Security Director, investigated—while keeping wizarding New York safe.
But no one expected the wizard drawn by the Obscurial wasn't just a curious tourist or journalist.
It was the leader of the Wizard Purists—
Gellert Grindelwald.
One night, walking home alone, Percival was ambushed. Against the world's most infamous dark wizard, he didn't stand a chance. Wand taken, interrogated under magic, all his research spilled.
Worst of all—he watched Grindelwald pluck a hair from his head, drink Polyjuice Potion, and become him.
The rest was documented in International Confederation of Wizards reports.
Grindelwald, as Percival, walked freely through the Woolworth Building. Apparated across New York. Quickly pinpointed the Obscurial's activity—and the group hiding them: the New Salem Philanthropic Society.
"Second Salem wasn't mixed with Scourers yet. The leader, Mary, was a Barebone descendant. Her ancestor toyed with a witch's heart—learned about magic from her.
"Mary was just a Muggle, but she spread anti-wizard propaganda—handing out flyers, harassing locals. But since she'd adopted kids, people thought she was just fundraising for the orphanage. They tolerated her."
Graves paused. "The Obscurial host—Credence Barebone—was one of her adopted kids."
Grindelwald, as Percival, observed for weeks. Couldn't confirm the true host. But the Wizard Purist leader was a master manipulator. He lied to Credence, used him to hunt the real Obscurial.
A chain of coincidences and chaos followed. Grindelwald's lies were exposed. Credence, overwhelmed by rage and despair, unleashed the true Obscurus.
Uncontrollable power tore through the city—nearly destroyed half of New York. Exposed magic to Muggles.
With Newt Scamander's help, President Picquery and Aurors subdued Credence. Enraged, Grindelwald attacked. His disguise was shattered. Arrested on the spot.
Muggle memories wiped with Swooping Evil venom. Case closed.
But for the real Director of Magical Security, Percival Graves—his life was just beginning.
The Obscurus wrecked half the city. Buildings and streets could be repaired. But some gravely injured Muggles couldn't be saved. For the worst magical exposure in centuries, someone had to take the fall—even with Grindelwald in custody.
Congress needed a scapegoat.
Several congressmen blamed Percival.
"They said it was my father's negligence—let Grindelwald infiltrate MACUSA, caused the disaster. Credence's breakdown, the Obscurus, the exposure… all the Graves family's fault."
Graves slumped against the cold drawer, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. "Other congressmen didn't buy it, but the Graves name was stained forever. We never recovered."
New Salem really was the Graves family's curse.
"Stop spacing out," Melvin said, clapping his shoulder like comforting a Hogwarts student. "Let's go to the crime scene. Find them. Two years from now, at the International Confederation of Wizards conference, your report will say: Graves saved Paris."
"Graves… saved Paris!"
Graves looked up, eyes blazing.
…
Clang… clang…
The subway rumbled through the station.
"Philippe II station, Philippe II station…"
Graves stood before the metro map, muttering, eyes aching worse than ever. The fire in his chest fizzled. If I don't find this route, I'm tattooing the map on my knee.
"How long you planning to stare at that?"
He turned—Melvin, of course, smiling faintly, holding two metro tickets.
"You sure these go to Philippe II?"
"Positive. Line 2. I asked."
"You don't speak French."
"The attendant spoke English."
"…"
Graves went silent.
Minutes later, they boarded. The train rattled toward Philippe II station—20th arrondissement. The crime scene: Père Lachaise Cemetery.
"An Obscurial is a special kind of magical creature," Graves said, leaning against the window as lights blurred past. "That's what Newt Scamander wrote.
"When young wizards haven't learned to control their power—and suffer unbearable trauma, pain, despair—they reject magic. Unconsciously suppress it. Over time, that magic twists into a dark force, parasitizing and consuming the host."
Soul is the source of magic. Emotion connects to the soul. Melvin had learned that from the Horned Serpent.
Magic shifts with the caster's emotions. Joy summons a Patronus. Dark desire pulls you into black magic. Unforgivables need hate. And hatred of magic itself—that's an emotion too. It warps magic in unknown ways.
Hogwarts and Ilvermorny libraries had records. Melvin had read them. But cases were rare. The mechanics of Obscurus transformation? Still a mystery. Descriptions were just summaries.
Obscurials usually lack solid form—black particulate mist or oily fluid, weightless, floating. Sometimes a crimson core. Sometimes the host's blurred face—pale, pupilless eyes.
When active, it unleashes devastating energy. Not like magic or any known force. Uncontrollable. Unobservable. Even without contact, it shatters wood, stone, steel.
Power scales with the host's latent magic and bottled-up trauma. The stronger the wizard, the worse the suppression—the more powerful the Obscurus.
"…Second Salem are just Muggles who can't do magic. Scourers have dark wizards, but their kids don't get proper schooling. Single-line teaching can't produce fighters who can take on Ilvermorny-trained Aurors.
"So how do they plan to beat real wizards?"
Melvin paused, then said calmly: "They're banking on an Obscurial."
Graves gripped his wand inside his sleeve, eyes red, face twisted with rage.