Prologue / Come hell or high water

PARIS, FRANCE 1927

˗ˏˋ ───── The clock read six-o-eight when the first of many murders occurred. Maeve Yaxley stood silently outside the home, watching with an unblinking gaze from the streets below. The faintest flicker of green light flashed through the window, barely illuminating the pavement beside her before disappearing.

There were hardly any screams— at least, none that were heard from the street. Within minutes, two black coffins were carried out and loaded into the waiting carriage drawn by thestrals. When the house was finally cleared of its previous inhabitants, Grindelwald's closest followers began to file in, stepping over the threshold and quickly vanishing from public view.

"This will be only suitable after a thorough cleansing." Grindelwald's voice was cool, detached, as he paced the room. His boots left faint tracks in the carpet, and with each step, he released an exaggerated sigh. "Filthy," he muttered, lip curling as though the very air had offended him. His pacing halted when he turned sharply towards a tall, dark-skinned man standing quietly in the corner. Maeve watched, eyeing the newcomer but could neither place or remember him.

"I want you to go to the circus now. Deliver my note to Credence. Begin his journey." He bowed slightly, movements measured, before swiftly leaving the room. He looked young— much too young to be here, Maeve thought.

"When we've won, zey'll flee ceeties by ze millions..." the silky voice of Vinda Rosier spoke. She leaned elegantly against the mantel, her sharp features being half illuminated by the fireplace. Maeve couldn't help but let out small scoff, annoyed. Vinda was one to savor destruction—there was little humanity left in her. Unlike the french woman, by contrast, Maeve preferred efficiency. There was no joy in destruction, only necessity.

"We don't say such things out loud," Grindelwald cut in smoothly, chastising her yet his tone said anything but.

Vindas lips twitched into a smirk. "We want only freedom," she said, her voice honeyed. "Ze freedom to rid ourzelves of those who do not match ze standard," she added, tilting her chin upward.

"Yes, to allow our kind to live freely." Maeve's attempt to correct the woman's words fell to deaf ears in the room. Vinda glanced over, washing over the figure that had raised their voice to her.

"Freely..." Grindelwald repeated, his voice faint. "We're not merciless afterall."

Maeve said nothing more, instead flicking her attention to the ugliest wallpaper she'd ever seen. Inside, however, she was feeling anything but. It wasn't loyalty that kept her in his service, not really. Maeve had survived her childhood by learning that aligning herself with power meant survival. Grindelwald was simply the strongest force at the moment, the one closest to victory. To stand against him would be suicide, and Maeve Yaxley was determined to make it through alive.

Still, her lips tightened as she watched him, his pale eyes gleaming with something far too close to cruelty. She wasn't happy to be here, but happiness wasn't what she wanted. It was the protection he offered that she needed. It was enough, for now.

The cry of a child pierced through the walls at that very moment, drawing attention away from Grindelwalds speech. The sound reverberated once more through the homes narrow hallway before his acolytes set off to the origin of the sound. A door located right near the front entrance the hall creaked open slowly, a loud silence settling on the group. Maeve entered last, her wand slipping from the fold in her coat. A boy, surely no older than five, sat cross-legged on the carpet as the main attraction. In his tiny hand, he clutched a small wooden toy—a horse perhaps—as though it would have protected from these unknown strangers. His cheeks were flushed, and his soft breathing filled the space.

Grindelwald watched him with a detached look that Maeve couldn't quite understand, crouching slightly to observe the child. "Beautiful, isn't he?" he murmured. There was no warmth or love in his voice, only calculation. After a moment, he straightened and turned away, leaving quickly with the others in tow.

Maeve lingered. She gripped her wand tightly, knuckles turning white against the dark, pointy wood. She approached the little boy cautiously, her footsteps muffled against the carpet. He looked at her simply before asking, "Who are you?" so gently, it was barely noticeable he spoke.

She swallowed hard, staring down at the child. For a moment, nothing was said. He was someone's son, she thought, a beautiful and beloved son. "It doesn't matter who I am," she said finally, her voice low to keep him calm. "You won't remember me."

He didn't seem to hear or simply discarded her coded words. With his other hand, he grabbed a tiny wooden spoon and a matching tea cup, attempting to hand them over. "Do you want to play?"

"I can't." she whispered, just barely shaking her head. His tilted in confusion, lips parting in response. Her hand trembled ever so slightly one could confuse it with her breathing. She raised her wand, leveling it with the boys gaze "I'm here to make sure you don't live through this."

The realization didn't exactly dawn on him, but something did by how Maeve saw it in his eyes, how he looked at her, at her wand. The faint glimmer of understanding. She could see it him now, knowing what she was—a witch, just as his mother had been. He would grow up to be like her. He likely would've gone to Beauxbatons in a couple years time. There, he'd learn his favorite spell was, meet a girl who he would grow to like, make a few friends or not but most of all— enjoy what was. It just so happened that a future like that one wouldn't be possible, not for him.

'You can't hesitate!' The memory of Isadoras voice echoed in her ears, as if the girl was standing right there beside her. A small murmur of the spell, and the flash of green filled the room. Within a blink, the boy had fallen with a soft thud. The room was quiet again. Where he had gone, she didn't know, but one could imagine death offered more kindness to a child like him than this world could've. In another life he got better than what was, in this one, the chance had come to pass.

Maeve stood for a moment longer, her wand still raised and breathing in deeply to get any air to her lungs. The child's small form lay still, his toy abandoned beside him. She turned on her heal and left, closing the door softly behind her. The air in the hall felt heavier now, in a way it was suffocating. She leaned against the wall, her hand slipping from the knob.

She did him a favor.

Maeve believed her words, truly she did. There would be no guilt in her soul for Maeve Yaxley was not a guilty woman. Never would she allow herself to be. But, she hadn't even learnt his name. With that final thought, she left.

(AUTHORS NOTE!)

This a shitty chapter lowkey, but we ain't gonna talk about that! This was just to begin with but mainly meant to help understand who Maeve is a little better before getting into the actual story. I'm not sure exactly how i much i wanna write or where i want this fic to go I'm kinda just figuring it out chapter at a time for now. Other than that, thank u for reading!