the inventor ➝ fantastic beasts

TWO - THE TALKS

"Good morning, Erin." 

Without moving, I glance up at the perky woman with the severe bun tied on top of her head. The supervisor. I barely remember her name.

"Morning," I reply, and fix my gaze back on the wall.

I am sat on the small metal bed in the corner of my cell, one leg draped off the side, the other laid out flat. My hands are crossed in my lap. I'm slouching, knowing that no one will care. Except the supervisor. But then, I barely regard her as a person. She's just so flat.

"It's time for your session," she tells me, in that irritating, careful, gentle voice, as if she's frightened I'll snap if she raises her voice over one decibel. 

With a sigh, I flick my box braids over my shoulder, and they come to rest on my back, brushing my hips, as I stand up. I brush down my white, loose pants and black vest, and walk out of the cell door that the supervisor holds open for me. The tiles are cold against my bare feet. 

The moment I step outside the cell, two men in MACUSA uniform immediately flank me. One places his hand on my back, and I turn my head to him slowly, raising my shoulder coyly. He glances down at me warily, and I clamp my teeth at him, scrunching my nose. He gulps a little, and turns his head forwards again. The other doesn't touch me, but I can see his wand inside his jacket pocket. They probably have strict orders to immobilise me if I step out of line. Lucky for them, I'm feeling agreeable today.

The supervisor finishes bolting the cell door, and she walks daintily in front of me, motioning for the boys and myself to follow. Her high heels click on the tiles as we start moving swiftly. I keep pace with them easily as they lead me through the rest of the cells. 

There's only a few people in today, all of which will most likely be gone tomorrow. A particularly pretty woman with gelled blonde hair catches my eye, and when I walk past her I wink at her discreetly. She blushes, and looks down at her lap. I can't tell if she was flattered, awkward, or just prejudiced. 

Clicking my tongue, I look forwards again. I can feel one of the boys at my side staring, but I ignore them. 

We weave our way through the many tables and cases, all of which are surrounded by people. All of them chattering, shouting across the long room, and levitating files across the room into different shelves in the cases with their wands. Every so often, an owl comes plummeting down the stair cases, drops an object onto a table, then flies back out again.

We enter the lift, and it clatters down two floors. Then, the journey begins through the maze of corridors - past the room where the Veil is, past a decked out forensics lab, and towards the interrogation rooms where I have my therapy. I can't stand the word "therapy". 

Luckily, neither does Graves. On the odd occasion where he takes me for a session, he refers to them as "talks". We get along well.

Finally, we reach the black iron door. The boys turn and stand either side of it, their hands folded in front of them. The supervisor opens the door for me, and I march through without giving her a second glance.

I sigh in relief as I see Graves sat in the chair, his hands folded on the table.

"Thank Merlin," I mutter, and slump down in the opposite chair. The supervisor stands to attention next to the door. Graves smirks a little.

"Afternoon, Erin." His voice is a gravelly drawl.

"Graves," I reply, nodding in his direction and running a hand through my braids. 

He's wearing a dark waistcoat with a white collar, a white button down shirt, and a black tie. His greying hair is gelled back smartly, and he leans forward onto the sturdy grey table. He lets out an audible puff of air through his nose, and cocks his head.