#The Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny

[terriblelifechoices]

More comment fic, because why not.

For walkingout, who has the best headcanons.  (For the record, I also totally imagine that the littlest Graves is a miniature Credence, just like the oldest is mini Percival.  Lyo and Dag both take after their Papa.  Pukwudgie solidarity is terrifying.)

I love all these little tidbits.  I’m looking forward to you doing more of the younger kids sometime.  Lyo and Dag especially- trying to imagine growing up the baby of this bunch!  Would Dag be spoilt more because Credence and Percival know they won’t have anymore?  Will he be in awe of his siblings or embarrassed or will he feel the weight of all his siblings achievements?  Also, with both the youngest being Pukwudgies does that mean they are both more like Credence (since he’d have probably been Pukwudgie)?  I’m imagining a miniature Credence in Dagonet, the same way Galahad a mini Percival (not completely but enough).

Ilvermorny Masachusetts, October 1954

“No,” Dag said.  He didn’t say it very loudly, but he also didn’t need to.  Dag was the littlest -- the baby, last born and best protected, because he had the rest of them to look out for him whether he wanted them to or not.  Lucan couldn’t have ignored Dag anymore than he could have ignored gravity.  Less, even.  Magic could thwart gravity.  Nothing could thwart Dag.  Especially not when Dag was feeling stubborn.

Lucan exchanged a look with his twin.

“What do you mean,” Lucan began.

“No?” Gareth finished for him, voice low and quiet.

Dag tilted his little pointy chin up, defiant.  “I mean, no,” he said again.  “Whatever you’re planning, I don’t want you to do it.”

“Someone hurt you,” Gareth pointed out.  He was still being quiet too, but with Gareth it was the quiet before the storm -- a promise of rain and thunder to come.

Dag rolled the eye that wasn’t swollen shut.  “I got hit in the face because I was being stupid,” he said.  “You did worse the last time we sparred.”

“That’s different,” Lucan said, because it was.  They were Graves’.  They all knew how to fight, with magic or without it.  Sparring was how they learned.  It wasn’t like Gareth had randomly decided to punch Dag in the face for no reason.  “Also, what do you mean, you were being stupid?”

“Er,” said Dag, the very picture of twelve year old mortification.  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Lucan exchanged another look with Gareth.

Gareth sighed.  “Sometimes,” he told Dag, “I really wish you weren’t the baby.”

“Not a baby,” Dag said automatically.

“Because if you weren’t, we could just dangle you upside down until you ‘fessed up,” Lucan explained.

“Preferably off of something high,” mused Gareth.

“The balcony in the foyer, maybe,” Lucan suggested.

“But that would upset Lyo.”

“Well, yeah,” said Dag.  “But that’s not ‘cause I’m the littlest.  It’s Pukwudgie solidarity.”

Lucan and Gareth considered that.  Every Ilvermorny House looked out for its own, but Pukwudgies tended to take things a step farther.  Uncle Newt described them as rather clannish, and also a bit like Hufflepuffs -- whatever those were.

“Fair enough,” Lucan said easily.  “We can just go dangle whoever punched you instead.”

“No!  No dangling, no punching, no hexing, and no jinxing,” said Dag.  “No hurting people on my behalf, okay?  I don’t want you to.”

“Why not?” Gareth demanded.

“Because it’s not right!” said Dag.  “You’re bigger and stronger.  If you beat up on people who are littler than you, then you’re no better than they are -- you’d just be bullies.”

Lucan was totally willing to beat up a twelve year old, if that twelve year old had blacked Dag’s eye.  Gareth probably was too.

Still.  It was one thing to scrap with their younger siblings.  Lyo and Dag could more than hold their own.  But the average twelve year old probably couldn’t, and Dag was right.  They were bigger and stronger, to say nothing of better trained.

Lucan sighed.  “Just this once,” he said.  “But if it happens again, I don’t care how bad it looks, okay?”

“You’re our baby brother,” Gareth finished.  “It’s our job to protect you.”

Dag beamed at them.  “Don’t worry,” he said.  “I have a plan.”

[terriblelifechoices]

peter & ollie is an amazing combo i can get behind 'til the end of time i think

Me too, anon.  They’re a lot of fun to write.

Here’s a little bit more, just for you. =)

Ilvermorny Massachusetts, December 1943

Olwen hated Arithmancy.  Arithmancy clearly hated her back, if her less than stellar grades were any indicator.  She understood the theory just fine.  It was the numbers themselves that were the problem.  They got all jumbled in her head; it was like they moved, and they were never in the right place when she tried to do her homework.

Introduction to Numerology was no help.  She could usually make heads or tails of it if she read every line half a dozen times over, but it would take forever.  Fortunately, Olwen had other resources.

She pulled Peter’s notes out of her pack, laying them out alongside the confusing bits of Introduction to Numerology and the crossed out and slightly crumpled mess that was her homework.  Peter’s notes were better than a textbook.  They were clear and concise and they made sense – even the bits with the footnotes, where Peter had obviously gotten distracted on some research tangent, because he wouldn’t be Peter if he wasn’t distracted by some research tangent.  Better still, the numbers stayed exactly where they were supposed to, which Olwen was convinced was a minor miracle.

She was almost finished with her homework when Peter landed with a thump in the chair next to hers.

“Damn it, Ollie, stop stealing my notes.”

Olwen batted his hand away before he could steal them back.  “I’m not done with my homework yet.”

“Me neither,” said Peter, sounding grumpy about it.  “Because someone stole my notes.”

“You don’t need them,” Olwen pointed out.

“Need has nothing to do with it.  They’re my notes.”

“I know,” Olwen said.  “Your notes make sense.”

Peter looked at her notes.  “Paracelsus preserve us,” he murmured.  “Ollie.”

“I know,” Olwen said, exasperated.  “That’s why I stole yours!”  She had no problems taking good notes for any of her other classes.  Dad had drilled the importance of keeping good records into all of them, because you never knew when it would mean the difference between solving a case or letting a suspect walk free.  Arithmancy was the only subject where her note taking went a bit …  sideways.

She had to admit, her notes looked even more disastrous placed side by side with Peter’s.  Hers might as well have been written in Sanskrit.  Sanskrit might have made more sense, honestly.

Peter covered his face with one hand.  “Ollie…”

“I’m almost done,” Olwen promised.  “You can have your notes back after that.”

Peter sighed.  “I’d tell you to keep them, but it would only encourage you to keep stealing them in the future.”

“True,” agreed Olwen.  “But only because I probably won’t pass Arithmancy without them.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” she admitted.  It was embarrassing.  Galahad hadn’t had any trouble with Arithmancy.  Neither did Sammy or Peter.  And the worst part was, she was trying.  She worked harder at Arithmancy than any of her other classes, and nothing she did made the slightest bit of difference.

Peter gave her shoulder what was probably meant to be a comforting pat.  His hand landed directly on the bruise she’d gotten teaching Quincy Adams better manners earlier that morning, and Olwen couldn’t stifle the sharp breath she took in response.

Peter drew his hand away.

“Ollie?”

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“That didn’t sound like nothing,” Peter pointed out.  He drew his wand.  “Diagnoskein.”

“Peter!” Olwen protested, because casting spells on someone without their permission was rude.

“Who hurt you?” Peter demanded, hazel eyes going bright with rage.

Olwen bared her teeth.  “I said it’s nothing.”

“There are handprints underneath your shirt.  That’s not nothing.”

“What’s under my shirt is none of your business, Peter Collins.”

“Damn it, Ollie –”

“Don’t,” she snapped.  “Don’t you dare try and treat me like I’m a delicate fucking flower just because I’ve got breasts now.”  Honesty compelled her to add, “sort of,” since – as Adams had pointed out just before she’d punched him – hers barely qualified for the term.  The fact that they still managed to make people stupid just added insult to injury.  It was like growing breasts made everyone forget that there was a person attached to them.

“When have I ever treated you like you’re a delicate fucking flower?” Peter demanded.  “You’re tougher than I am!  And you’re better with a wand.”

“Faster, maybe,” Olwen said, grudgingly mollified by the reminder.  Peter never treated her like a delicate fucking flower just because she was a girl.  It was probably a little unfair of her to accuse him of doing so.  “Your wandwork is better.”

Peter ignored that.  “I don’t care that you got hurt because you’re a girl and I think you’re helpless.  That’s sexist and dumb.  I care that you got hurt because you’re my friend.”  He lifted one shoulder in a defiant half-shrug.  “I don’t have many of those, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Olwen had.  Galahad and Sammy both worried about it, because that was what older siblings did.  Olwen had told them not to bother, but neither of them had listened.

It wasn’t that people didn’t like Peter, or even that he was particularly unfriendly.  Peter was easy-going and kind; it was impossible not to like him.

It was just that Peter seemed to think that other people were a lot of work, and he preferred not to have to deal with them unless he had to.  Olwen suspected that the only reason Peter didn’t think that she was too much work was that they’d been friends literally from the time they were in the cradle.

“Adams needed to learn some manners,” she said, by way of explanation.

“Of course he did,” Peter said.  Peter liked Quincy Adams about as much as Olwen did – which was to say: not at all.  “I hope you kicked his ass.”

“Just enough to get my point across,” Olwen promised.  Anything else would make her as much of a bully as Adams was.

“Alright then,” said Peter.

Olwen finished the last of her Arithmancy homework in the comfortable silence that followed.  She slid Peter’s notes back to him.  He looked briefly puzzled, as if he’d forgotten why he’d come to find her in the first place.

“Oh, right,” he said.  “You know, you could just ask me for help, instead of just stealing my notes.”

Olwen tucked her homework into Introduction to Numerology, where it would be safe until class tomorrow.  “I didn’t want to bother you.  Plus, it’s good practice.”

“For what?  Your budding career as a pickpocket?”

“Hah!” said Olwen.  “Not for me.  For you.  You need to be more aware of your surroundings.”

“Ugh. You sound just like Uncle Percival,” Peter complained.

“Well, you do.”  Peter was too easy to sneak up on.  The little ones knew better than to make mischief, for fear of Olwen’s wrath – or worse, Sammy’s disappointed face – but the rest of Ilvermorny wasn’t as well-behaved as her younger siblings.

“I’ll tell you what,” Peter said.  “I’ll help you with Arithmancy if you stop stealing my notes.  And if you stop getting into so many fights.”

“Wampus,” Olwen reminded him.  Fighting was what they did.  And, anyway, it wasn’t her fault other people were stupid, ill-mannered assholes who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.

“If you try to not get into so many fights” Peter amended.

“I’ll practice dueling with you, too,” Olwen offered.

“You are literally the only person in the world who thinks that’s an incentive,” Peter said.  “It doesn’t matter how much I practice.  I’ll never be as fast as you.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll be faster than everyone else.”

Peter considered that.  “Deal,” he said, and offered her his hand.

“Deal,” Olwen said.

[terriblelifechoices]

Chapter 17 of the Possible ‘verse Timestamps, Ilvermorny Massachusetts, November 1944 is up on AO3.

This one is a direct follow up to Chapter 16, featuring the continued adventures of Gawain vs. his potions instructor.  In which Galahad plots a (minor) military-style campaign, Jauncey would really like that drink, and Gawain’s entire potions class blows quite a lot of things up.

[terriblelifechoices]

So, I couldn’t stop thinking about what @st00pz said about poor Jauncey and his autobiography regarding Ilvermorny: The Graves Years.  I suspect that would read more as an unintentional comedy, so maybe he decides to write a how-to guide for educators instead.

Specifically: how to deal with exceptional students who require very careful handling, because that thing about how if you give someone an inch they take a mile?  Yeah, that’s the Graves brood in a nutshell.  Like 90% of his examples are probably about Graves-specific.  

Educators from other schools (because of course there are other wizarding schools in America, what the hell, Rowling) probably look at those examples and go: “There’s no way that actually happened.”

To which Ilvermorny’s beleaguered instructors go: “AHAHAHAHA.  Sit down and let me tell you a story about the man we call Ilvermorny’s Bane and all his damn kids.”

TL;DR, more comment fic happened.  This is a follow up to this comment fic about Gawain vs. his potions instructor.

Galahad should probably not be allowed to plan things.  He tends to go zero to ‘full scale military assault,’ which will probably serve him well as an Auror/Director of Magical Security, but is sort of exhausting in a seventeen year old.

“And now I have detention,” Gawain concluded.

Galahad pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the inevitable headache.  It didn’t help.

This was not how Galahad wanted to spend his evening.  He had, maybe, three hours of free time all week to spend with his girlfriend.  He did not want to spend them attempting to beat common sense into Gawain’s head, mostly because he was pretty sure that was a lost cause.

Sam, well versed in Graves sibling dynamics, just made an amused noise and kept her attention firmly on her book.  Sam thought most of the Graves sibling interactions were hilarious, as long as they kept her out of their drama.

This was Professor Jauncey’s revenge for the dueling club.  Galahad was sure of it.  And, okay, fine, Galahad could have been a little more subtle about taking over the dueling club, but Professor Branagh was an idiot who barely knew which direction to point his wand in.  Teaching people the proper forms and etiquette was all very well and good, but Dad always said that survival was more important than your manners.

Galahad agreed with Dad.  Jauncey probably did too, although he was not above making Galahad’s siblings Galahad’s problem.  Galahad couldn’t really blame the headmaster.  He was the oldest and therefore responsible for the rest of the little monsters.  If he could’ve foisted responsibility of them onto someone else ....

Well, he still wouldn’t have done it, because they were his siblings, but he’d have been pretty tempted.

“I’m not intervening with Papa on your behalf,” Galahad said.  Dad like to pretend he was a total hardass -- and he could be, with his Aurors - but of the two of them, Papa was the disciplinarian at home.

Gawain looked at him like he was stupid.  “I don’t want you to intervene with Papa,” he protested.  “I want you to help me make Jauncey see that Thompson is dangerous.”

Galahad folded his arms across his chest and frowned.  “Dangerous how?” he asked.  Thompson wasn’t a disgusting pig, like Saunders.  He was a bit of a dick, yeah, but he’d never struck Galahad as being much of a threat to anything other than people’s free time.  Thompson was a bit too fond of giving people detention.

Gawain’s you must be stupid look went frustrated with a side of incredulity.  “He wanted us to test our Pepper-Up potions on each other,” he said.

“So?” Galahad asked.  He remembered that unit from second year.  Olwen had done it, too.  It was part of the curriculum.  It was just the way things had always been done.

“So we’re students,” Gawain said, throwing his hands up in the air for dramatic emphasis.  “Libby Frasier’s in my class, and she’s melted more cauldrons than anyone.  Her potions never come out right!  If she’d drunk her Pepper-Up -- or if someone else had -- they’d probably be in the infirmary being treated for -- I don’t even know.  Accidental poisoning, probably.  Our potions are supposed to be, y’know, experiments.”

“He’s got a point,” Sammy murmured, not looking up from her book.

Gawain beamed at her.  The little brat knew full well that if he got Sammy on his side, Galahad would fold like a house of cards.

“How d’you reckon?” Galahad asked.

“Libby Frasier’s been in the infirmary for potions burns six times already this year, and it’s only October.  That’s almost once a week or so.  The poor thing’s a danger to herself and everyone around her,” Sam told him.  Sam -- whose childhood knack for healing charms had blossomed into the sort of talent that hadn’t been seen since the Bluebird -- worked as a student assistant in the infirmary.  Having a girlfriend who worked in the infirmary was very helpful when it came to dealing with his siblings; Galahad always had the inside scoop on whatever dumbass stunts they’d actually pulled versus what they wanted him to think they’d been doing.  (The Bluebird maintained that was a uniquely Graves trait.  Galahad suspected it was just what happened when most of your extended family was made up of Aurors, who were almost pathologically incapable to admitting to being injured, much less how badly said injuries hurt.)

“No one wants to be her partner in potions,” Gawain piped up.  “And Thompson’s not helping her much, either.”

People who were reckless with the lives entrusted to their care didn’t deserve that trust.  Dad had taught him that.  So had his siblings.  Looking after his brothers and sisters wasn’t quite the same thing as being the Director of Magical Security, but Galahad would have done anything to keep the little monsters from harm, just like Dad would have for his Aurors.

Sam’s mom maintained that Dad was the best Director of Magical Security MACUSA had seen in ages, because he knew that the lives of his Aurors weren’t coins to be spent cheaply.  People trusted Dad because they knew he wouldn’t put them in harm’s way unless he thought they would come home again.  (Or unless he absolutely had to, but that was a lesson Galahad suspected Dad hadn’t wanted him to learn just yet.)

“Alright, brat,” Galahad said.  “I’m listening.”

Gawain relaxed.  He was still young enough to believe that Galahad could fix anything.

“The thing is,” Gawain said, “Rosamund’s right.  It’s dangerous having students test their potions on each other.”  He scowled when Galahad raised an eyebrow at the mention of his crush, but Galahad figured a bit of brotherly ribbing was his due, seeing as every single person in his family had been completely insufferable while he was trying to work up the nerve to ask Sam out.  “It’s like Uncle Robert says, when he’s doing the lab safety speech.”

Galahad held up a hand.  Gawain had already given the lab safety speech once today.  And magic knew he’d already heard it enough; potions was pretty much the only safe after-dinner conversation during the holidays.  (Mostly because politics got dangerous with Dad and Aunt Seraphina in the room, wizards didn’t put much stock in religion, and who was having kids was … well.  Pretty much always Dad and Papa and therefore not all that interesting.)

“Student potions are especially problematic,” Sammy murmured.   “The dosages aren’t held to the standardized scale, and if you give a kid the wrong dosage for their body weight … There’s a reason potions are supposed to be prescribed by a qualified healer.”

“Or a potions master,” Galahad pointed out.  “Which Thompson is, or he’d never have been hired here.”  He considered that.  “That might actually be worth looking into.”  He made a mental note to follow up on that with George, Dad’s current protege.  George owed him a favor, after that thing with the murderous tomatoes last summer.

Sam sniffed.  “I doubt he’s run them for every single student.  I don’t know that anyone has, at least not past Isolt Sayre.  The Pepper-Up unit is taught as a hands on one because that’s the way it’s always been.”

Gawain set his jaw stubbornly.  “Just because that’s the way something’s always been done doesn’t mean that it’s right,” he said.

People liked to make a big deal about Galahad being Dad’s heir.  Or his clone, or Director Graves in miniature.  Galahad didn’t mind the comparison, although sometimes it chafed a little.  He knew that he took after Dad.  He had Dad’s ridiculously overprotective personality and his talent for silent, wandless spellwork, with Papa’s reserves of magical ability to back his talents up.  Olwen was like Dad, too, even if she deliberately modeled her behavior after the aunties.

Gawain, though.  Gawain was like Papa.  Out of all of them, he was the only one so far who had inherited Papa’s sensitivity to magic.

And, apparently, Papa’s habit for revolution.

“We can do better,” Gawain told him.  “Professor Thompson should be tutoring Libby privately, so she learns the same as the rest of us.  Or if he doesn’t want to do that, he should at least make one of the older kids do it.  And the rest of us ought to be taught how to be safe in a lab.  Even if we don’t go on to be researchers or potions masters or anything like that, it’s a good skill.  It’ll teach us to be clean, and aware of our surroundings, and to think about things methodically rather than just dumping shit in pots and hoping for the best.”

“Language, brat.  There’s a lady present.”

“You’ve said worse,” Gawain argued.

That was true, but Galahad’s point remained.  He caught his younger brother up in a headlock and rumpled his hair while Gawain squawked indignantly.

“Sorry, Sam,” Gawain muttered.  He shoved Galahad’s arm off and said, “Will you help me?”

“You’re my brother.  Of course I will.”

Gawain beamed at him.

“So, first thing’s first,” Galahad said.  “Sam’s going to get us some numbers.”

“Oh, am I,” Sam murmured, in a tone that promised he’d regret trying to give her orders later.  Sam Collins took orders from no one.

“Sam, darling, my sun, my moon, my stars, light of my life, would you please take pity on us poor idiot Graves boys?” Galahad asked.

Sam sighed.  “Fine,” she said.  “But only because I’ve got a soft spot for you idiots.  Someone’s got to look after you.  Merlin knows you won’t do it yourselves.”

“Can you look into how many cases there are of … Hm.  Student medical complaints after self-administered potions?” Galahad asked.  “Going back a couple years?”

“You’re lucky that you’re good looking,” Sam said tartly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Galahad promised, all innuendo and dark intent.

“Gally,” Gawain whined.  “Ew.”

“Shut it, brat, I’m helping,” Galahad said.  “Next thing to do is get your classmates on board.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be hard,” Gawain mused.  “Thompson’s a dick.”

Yeah, neither did Galahad, honestly.

“After that, we get someone who’s really good at potions to tutor you guys.  Maybe with some private lessons for Libby.”  Galahad flicked through his mental roster of the students in his year and the one below it.  Toussaignt would make the poor Frasier kid cry.  Hartman was his first choice, but Hartman hated him.

“There’s no one better than Andrea Hartman,” Sam pointed out.

“Hartman hates my guts,” Galahad reminded her.

“No, Hartman hates Olwen’s guts.  You, she hates by extension, but not quite as much.”

“How is that going to help?” Galahad asked.

“If you make Olwen make nice with Hartman, Hartman will agree to help you.”

Galahad laughed.  No one made Olwen do anything.  She’d followed where Galahad led, but she did it kind of like Dad did with Aunt Seraphina.  By choice rather than blind obedience, and will the knowledge that if Galahad proved unworthy, she’d take over in his stead.

Sam waited patiently.

“Shit.  Seriously?  You don’t want me to do something a little easier?  Like, I don’t know, pulling a star out of the sky for you to wear?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gally,” Sam said tartly.  “A star would be much too big.”

“Sam,” Galahad whined, because he’d outgrown that ridiculous baby name over a decade ago and really disliked the reminder.

“Galahad,” she retorted.

“Oh, fine,” Galahad said.  “The things I do for family, I swear.”

“How is getting good at potions going to make Jauncey see that Thompson’s dangerous?” Galahad asked.  “If we’re good at potions even though he’s a dick, it just makes him look good.”

“Oh, that’s not what Hartman’s going to be teaching you,” Galahad said, watching the plan unfold in his head.  “I mean, yeah, I do want you guys to learn lab safety because you’re right about the things it teaches you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on.  Can you repeat that?”  Gawain ducked back, laughing, as Galahad took a swipe at him.  “What do you want Hartman to teach us?”

“Let me see if Hartman’s on board, first,” Galahad said.  “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

*

Andrea Hartman was something of a potions prodigy.  Galahad knew for a fact that she was being scouted by the Fisher Institute and the Niehaus-Cormier group.  No one who wasn’t top of their class got to work for the Fisher Institute.  (See Exhibit A: Aunt Dindrane and Uncle Robert.)

He hadn’t expected her to have such a knack for teaching, though.  He’d sat in on the lessons - mostly to make sure that Ollie did not snap and murder Hartman, since Hartman had only agreed to help out if Ollie would play her assistant - and Hartman was actually really good at what she did.  She was thorough and methodical, which worked well with the students who were good at following directions, but just enough of an out-of-the-box thinker to be able to relate to the students who didn’t quite see the world in an orderly line.  She’d probably do really well at the Fisher Institute.

“Alright, minions,” Hartman said brightly.  “Today: the reward for all your hard work.”

Forty-odd second years looked up at her in semi-worshipful anticipation.  Or, in Libby Frasier’s case, actual worship.

“Today,” Hartman said, leaning forward conspiratorially.  “I am going to teach you to safely blow shit up and make a huge fucking mess of the potions classroom.”

“You are the best big brother in the history of ever,” Gawain told him.

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on.  Can you repeat that?” teased Galahad.

Gawain shoved him in the side.

“Make me proud, brat.”

*

Jauncey stared at Professor Thompson.  The man looked as though he’d tripped sideways into a surrealist painting, possibly while said painting was still wet.  He appeared to be wearing nothing but his underclothes, although that was hardly noticeable beneath the layer of orange slime he was wearing.  And that was mostly covered by the strange purple foam.

The purple foam smelled strongly of asafoetida and other, less pleasant things.

“I want that little brat expelled,” Thompson yelled.  “This is all his doing!  Do you know how many cauldron’s have exploded this semester?”

“Yes,” Jauncey said, because the director of finance had already raked both of them over the coals for that.  The phrase “does it look like I am made of cauldrons” had come up.  “Forty-seven.  A new school record.”

“Forty-seven!” howled Thompson.  “They’ll be coming out of my paycheck, next.”

“I think Fontaine was joking about that,” Jauncey soothed.  He really hoped Fontaine was joking about that, because if Fontaine wasn’t, his paycheck was likely to be sacrificed next.

“And if the cauldrons aren’t exploding -”

“Or melting,” Jauncey put in, because that had happened at least a dozen times too.

“- or melting, then the potions themselves are just -” Thompson made a vague gesture indicating a geyser of some sort.  Or possibly fireworks.  “Except what they turn in is perfect.”

That was honestly the biggest mystery.  Jauncey had a few theories about how and why that was happening, and it mostly centered around Andrea Hartman’s brand new unholy alliance with Olwen Graves.

“Expelled!” Thompson said.

Jauncey sighed and summoned one of the Ilvermorny elves.  “Peridot, would you please bring Galahad to my office?” he asked.

“Not Galahad!” Thompson shouted.  “Gawain.”

Jauncey resisted to slam his head against his desk.  “On second thought, Peridot, just bring me a bottle of whiskey.  The sort Cook favors will be lovely.”

Peridot had been an Ilvermorny elf for longer than Jauncey had been alive.  “Will sir prefer the whiskey Cook drinks, or the whiskey Cook puts in the food?”

“Are they different?”

Peridot shrugged.

“Then I trust your judgment.  Bring me whatever is the least likely to make Cook come shout at me, please.”

“Sir,” Thompson protested, aggrieved.

“No,” Jauncey told him.  “I am not debating this with you now.”  Merlin’s balls.  He thought Gawain had gotten this out of his system.

Evidently not.

“I will discuss this with you once you no longer look like a walking advertisement for the importance of lab safety,” Jauncey informed Thompson.  “Merlin’s beard, man, why haven’t you showered it off?”

“I did,” Thompson said through gritted teeth.  “The reaction melted my clothes and resulted in this.”  He indicated the purple foam.

Memory nagged at Jauncey.  He’d seen that particular potions reaction before, but where?

Oh, hell.  Arthur Graves-Flores.

“Right,” said Jauncey.  “Then I suggest you head to the infirmary, and see if Healer Cole can do anything for you.  I will discuss this with you tomorrow, Thompson.”

“If you won’t do something about that boy -” Thompson said warningly.

Jauncey smiled blandly.  The students of Ilvermorny were under his care.  He was not the duelist he had been in his youth, but he was still equal to the task of defending them.

Thompson shut his mouth.

“I will deal with Gawain,” Jauncey promised.  And Galahad, and Olwen, and Andrea Hartman.  And probably Sammy Collins, too, for all that the Graves’ siblings were adamant about leaving her out of their mischief.

“See that you do,” Thompson snarled, and stomped out.

Jauncey put his head down on his desk.  When he looked up again, William the Pukwudgie was staring grouchily down at him.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Jauncey told him.  “Or do you want to give an old man a heart attack?”

William’s judgmental silence got a bit judgier.

“I know you’re older than I am,” Jauncey said.  “At least, as far as the stories go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” William snapped.  “I don’t look a day over one hundred.”

“You know, remarks like that really don’t help,” Jauncey told him.  Even he didn’t know if William was the original William who had known Isolt Sayre.

Peridot reappeared with a bottle of whiskey for Jauncey and a bottle of berrywine for William.

“Thank you, Peridot,” Jauncey said.

William grunted something that might have been thank you.

“What do you think I should do?” Jauncey asked.

“With Thompson?  Or with the Graves brats?”

“You like the Graves brats.”

William shrugged.  “So do you.  They’re entertaining, and they’re good about not making extra work for us.”  By us he meant the pukwudgies and the house elves.

Jauncey hadn’t missed the way the pukwudgies on staff watched the Graves children after the Thunderbird Incident.  The pukwudgies complained about having to look after wizards - who were too naive and helpless to look after themselves, according to William - but he’d never heard them complain about Galahad and Olwen and Gawain.  He suspected he wouldn’t hear them complain about the rest of the Graves brood, either.

“Fine.  What do you think I should do about Thompson, then?” Jauncey asked.

William mimed shooting an arrow.  “Target practice?” he suggested.  “Or you could let them explain,” he added, seconds before there was a knock on the door.

Jauncey sighed and put the whiskey bottle in his desk.  “Come in, Galahad,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Galahad said politely, stepping into Jauncey’s office.

He really did look just like his father, Jauncey thought.  There was a bit of Credence Graves in the tilt of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw, though.  Olwen stood at his right hand, and Sammy Collins at his left.  Andrea Hartman stood next to Olwen.  Three weeks ago, Jauncey was fairly certain Andrea wouldn’t have even deigned to breathe the same air as Olwen, but he’d been teaching for long enough to know that teenage friendships were fickle and terrifying.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you,” Galahad said, still with that exquisite politeness.  He’d learned that from his Papa.  Percival Graves did not have much use for manners, but Credence could bring a man to his knees with just a few well-placed words.

“By all means,” Jauncey said, conjuring up chairs for the lot of them.  “Take a seat.”

[terriblelifechoices]

Hi! Just letting you know that I've been having a rough month and reading+re-reading your fics (and comment fics! love the ones about the Graves kiddies/families and Graves' team in the cell lmao) has been a great stress reliever for me :) I really want to leave longer comments on your chapters but I think I'll only be able to do that when stuff gets better lol. For the time being, thank you for the lovely writings!

Hey, I’m really sorry you’re having a rough month.  I’m glad reading the fic and comment fics helps relieve a little stress, though.  Please don’t worry about comments!  I hope things get better for you soon.

And just in case it helps, I thought maybe you’d enjoy more comment fic just for you.  ;)

… This might actually need to be its own series of comment fic.  The Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny

Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, October 1944

“Do you know,” Professor Jauncey mused, “I am starting to think I should just create a Graves-specific form letter to send to your parents.”  He sounded more wistful than anything else, as though the streamlined precision of a form letter would protect him from further Graves sibling antics.

Gawain was not sure why the headmaster thought a form letter would protect him, but he sympathized with the impulse.

Gawain loved his older siblings, but he was not blind to their faults.  Individually, Galahad and Olwen could be a lot to handle.  Together, they were terrifying.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, and meant it.  He had no idea how to make Galahad and Olwen stop being Galahad and Olwen, and he was pretty sure the headmaster didn’t either.  Gawain knew better than to try, but the headmaster didn’t seem to have figured that out yet.

Jauncey sighed.  “I really think you mean that,” he said.

“Well,” Gawain said.  “I’m not sorry about disrupting Professor Thompson’s class.”

The headmaster sighed again.  “Of course you’re not.  What are you sorry about, then?”

“Galahad and Olwen.”

Jauncey’s puzzled look went a bit strained around the edges.  A lot of people had that reaction to Galahad and Olwen, especially once they met them.  “What do Galahad and Olwen have to do with your disrupting Professor Thompson’s class?”

“Nothing sir,” said Gawain.  “I’m just sorry they’ve …” He made a vague hand gesture designed to convey Galahad and Olwen’s essential Galahad-and-Olwen-ness.  “Y’know.  Set a precedent for how the Graves family behaves.”

Jauncey looked down his nose at Gawain.  He had rather a lot of nose to look down, so it was a pretty impressive look.  “A precedent that you seem determined to follow,” he observed.

Gawain felt that was unfair, and said so.  “I am not!  I’m not crazy,” he hastened to assure the headmaster.  Galahad and Olwen were determined to follow Dad and Gwen and a lot of the Aunties and Uncles into MACUSA.  Gawain was pretty sure MACUSA and the rest of wizarding America would be safer for it, but he also thought that anyone who wanted to be an Auror was just plain nuts.  Anyone who voluntarily got chased and hexed and sometimes tortured by Dark wizards had to be off their rocker.

“Mr. Graves,” Jauncey said, repressive.  “Fascinating as this discussion is, I am not going to debate the relative sanity of anyone in the Graves family with you.”

Gawain squinted at him.  He was pretty sure that the headmaster had just implied that they were all nuts, but he wasn’t one hundred percent certain.  He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

Probably not.  He was already in enough trouble.

“Right, sir,” he said.  “Sorry, sir.”

“Getting back to the matter at hand,” said Jauncey.  “Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what happened.”

Gawain resisted the urge to make a face.  Dad liked that trick.  So did Uncle John and Uncle Alex.  It was an Auror thing.  Asking people to tell you what happened in their own words put them at ease, and it also made them more likely to slip up and tell you more than they meant to.

Gawain had gotten wise to that trick when he was about seven.

“Professor Thompson was teaching us about healing potions,” Gawain said, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t thinking very carefully about what he was saying.  “Today we were covering Pepper-Up, ‘cause we’re coming up on cold season, and he wanted to be preemptive.  And then someone asked if he meant for us to test the potion on ourselves, and Professor Thompson said yes.  And she said, that’s dangerous, sir, and he said, I assure you, Miss - Um.”  Gawain gave the headmaster a slightly panicked look.  He did not want to get Rosamund Weiss in trouble too.  She hadn’t even done anything wrong, aside from point out that it was wrong to experiment on children.  “Anyway,” he forged on.  “He said, I assure you that if you brew the potion correctly, it’s not dangerous at all.

“Except, it kind of is,” Gawain said.  “Because we’re students and we’re still learning, and I think Libby Frasier’s melted more cauldron’s than anyone else in Ilvermorny history, so her potion probably wouldn’t be safe to drink at all.  And Uncle Robert says that you should never, ever test a potion that you’re not completely sure of.  Especially not outside of a controlled laboratory setting,” he added, because Papa had a bizarre love of potions and he and Uncle Robert could go on about them for hours.  “Uncle Robert has this whole speech about lab safety,” Gawain added.  “I’ve heard it kind of a lot.”

Jauncey looked resigned.  “Yes, I gathered.  You seem to have it memorized.”

“Er,” said Gawain.  “I didn’t really mean to give the lab safety speech,” he said.  “It just kind of … happened.”

That part was the first out and out lie he’d told all day.  Professor Thompson had turned an ugly look on Rosamund.  Gawain knew that look.  It was the look that said Rosamund would be the one to try Libby’s potion, regardless of how it turned out, and that he wouldn’t let her go to the infirmary afterwards, either.

Gawain hadn’t wanted Rosamund to be sick.  The Weiss’ and the Graves’ were allies.  Sort of.  He didn’t think Dad and Director Weiss got along very well personally, but they had each other’s backs professionally and that seemed to be good enough for them.  Grown-up’s were weird like that.

Also, Rosamund was really pretty.  Gawain got kind of stupid around her sometimes.  He couldn’t help it.

So he’d cleared his throat and said, “Actually, sir, Miss Weiss is absolutely correct.  The dangers of cross-contamination alone present an unreasonable risk.”

Professor Thompson had stared at him.  “Mr. Graves,” he’d said, in a tone that suggested that Gawain was twelve and therefore dumb.  “Do you even know what cross-contamination means?”

“Contaminating one substance with another,” Gawain had said promptly.  “It’s dangerous in a laboratory setting, or with food, if you have allergies.  In a laboratory setting - especially a teaching one, like this one - you’ve no idea whether or not who used your workstation last cleaned it as well as they should have, so there’s a risk that your potion might be contaminated with whatever they were working on.”

“No one likes a know it all, Mr. Graves,” Thompson had drawled.

“Sorry, sir,” Gawain had said, obviously not sorry at all.  “It’s just, shouldn’t we be taught the principles of lab safety?  It’s important.”

Libby had raised her hand.  “I’d kind of like to know the principles of lab safety,” she’d said.

“That’s because you’re dangerous,” Atticus Lee had said.

“Exactly,” Libby had said.  “If there’s a way for me not to be dangerous in class, I want to know what it is.”

That had made a lot of sense to the rest of the class, and Gawain figured that was as good a time as any to launch into Uncle Robert’s Lab Safety Is Important And Here’s Why speech.

“You gave a twenty minute lecture on lab safety,” Jauncey said, drawing Gawain back into the present.  “The other students took notes.”

Gawain rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.  “I might’ve been quoting Uncle Robert when I said there’d be a quiz.”

“And that just … happened,” said the headmaster.

“Yes?” Gawain ventured.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Jauncey.  “It’s Galahad and the dueling club all over again.”

“Hey,” protested Gawain.  “I’m not that bad.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Graves, but you and your brother have rather more in common than you think,” the headmaster said.

Rude, thought Gawain.  He kept his mouth shut, though.  Authority figures rarely wanted to know what you thought of their opinions.

“Please refrain from taking over your professor’s classes in the future,” Jauncey commanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Gawain.

“You will apologize to Professor Thompson,” the headmaster continued.

Since Jauncey didn’t say he had to be sincere, Gawain was willing to meet him halfway.

“Yes, sir,” Gawain said again.

“And you have two weeks of detention,” Jauncey finished.

“Yes, sir,” Gawain said.

Jauncey sighed.  “You can go back to class,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Gawain said.

“And Gawain?”

Gawain turned back at the door.  “Sir?”

“We do, actually, have your safety in mind.  I wish you’d trust that.”

If he really had their safety in mind, he’d have taken Gawain and Rosamund’s point and made sure that Professor Thompson didn’t make the students test improperly prepared potions on one another.

Gawain ducked his head, acknowledging the headmaster’s point.

He bet Galahad and Owen would have some ideas about how to deal with Professor Thompson, if the headmaster wouldn’t.

Terrifying wasn’t so bad, when it was on your side.  And there was nothing the Graves siblings couldn’t do, as long as they did it together.

[terriblelifechoices]

More comment fic!  This is from chapter 13, for the hilarious onsenorita.  Inspired by the comment, But every time the possibility of future kids comes up, I have this hilaaarious mental image of wizarding New York gazing on in amazement and terror as Credence keeps matter of factly adding a new baby every couple of years. Like Merlin's blessed balls, there is a difference between continuing the bloodline and FOUNDING A FUCKING DYNASTY. Someone nicknames Credence "Ilvermorny's Bane." More than one professor takes early retirement in despair at the never-ending parade of headstrong, magically precocious Graves'. God help Red and all of MACUSA - this is not a cornerstone anymore, it's a bloody INFESTATION.

I thought that was hilarious.  And then I kind of ran with it.  So, Ilvermorny vs. the Graves brood.

The original version can be read on AO3 here.

Evan Jauncey stared at Elaine Graves in flat despair.  She was, he’d always thought, the sensible one.  A proper Horned Serpent, just like he was -- more like her aunties than her parents or siblings.

He’d thought -- oh, it had been stupid, what he’d thought -- that Elaine was the lone voice of common sense amongst the chaos her siblings generated.

He’d forgotten that Seraphina Picquery had matched every reckless, too-powerful stunt Percival Graves had ever pulled at Ilvermorny neck and neck, and that Dindrane Graves-Flores was every bit as powerful as her brother, if infinitely better at hiding it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Elaine said.  To her credit, she actually seemed to mean it, which put her one up on her older brothers and sister.

As Jauncey was still out a Defense Professor and a dueling instructor, Elaine’s apologies did not count for as much as she might have hoped.

“Miss Graves,” Jauncey said, in his best I am the headmaster and you will listen to me tones, “are you sorry for dueling Professor Kipling to a standstill, or are you simply sorry I’ve called you into my office?”

Elaine considered that.  “More the latter than the former,” she said, with the honesty of children.  “But if Professor Kipling couldn’t handle me, he definitely can’t handle a true Dark Wizard, and he shouldn’t have been teaching anyway.”

“I believe you may have a few advantages where dueling is concerned, Miss Graves,” Jauncey pointed out.

Elaine fidgeted.  “I guess I do,” she conceded.

The entire Graves line had a knack for dueling.  Jauncey had gone from being impressed when Galahad did it -- wordless and wandless, just like his father -- to alarmed, because no first year student should be that fast with her wandwork and Olwen’s knack for dueling went beyond talent into something supernatural.  Not unreasonable, given her role models, but still alarming.  Jauncey was mostly just grateful she modeled her behavior on Tina Goldstein rather than Winifred Hughes.  By the time Gawain was old enough to join the dueling club, Jauncey had resigned himself to yet more angry letters from parents wondering just what, exactly, was being taught by Ilvermorny’s dueling club, as he was 100% positive that they were learning it from Galahad (and Olwen, and Gawain) rather than the previous dueling master, who quit roughly six months into Gawain’s second year.

Jauncey thought wistfully of Gawain, who idolized his curse-breaker cousin Lancelot and had so far only forced one professor into early retirement to Galahad and Olwen’s collective three.

Two of those retirements, Jauncey knew, were the direct result of the Thunderbird Incident.  He still hadn’t gotten the complete story out of anyone involved, and likely never would, but Galahad and Olwen had thrown down with the entirety of Thunderbird’s fifth year class defending Sammy Collins’ honor.  Jauncey hadn’t been sorry to lose Saunders, whom he’d inherited from his predecessor and was the sort of asshole who thought that teenage boys who pressed their suits on uninterested or unwilling teenage girls was just boys being boys rather than cause for concern.  There had been a sharp drop off in that sort of behavior after that, mostly because if Galahad caught wind of anyone trying it, he’d beat the shit out of them.  (If it was a girl, he left them to Olwen’s tender mercies.  Galahad didn’t like hitting girls.)

The fact that two of his students had taken it upon themselves to police that sort of behavior had been humbling.  Jauncey had put measures into place to make sure that everyone -- from the students to the staff -- knew that harassment of any kind was unacceptable.  (He was fairly certain that Gawain still beat the shit out of anyone who thought that no meant anything other than no.  He was less certain about Elaine.)

“Auntie Win could take the dueling master’s position,” Elaine ventured, clearly trying to be helpful.  “Dad says you should learn from the best, and there’s no one better than Auntie Win, except maybe Uncle Theseus.”

Jauncey imagined Winifred Hughes and a room full of small, impressionable children.  Unimaginable horror did not even begin to describe how he felt about that.

“Auror Hughes has a job,” he told Elaine.

“Oh,” said Elaine.  “Right.”  She drooped.  “How much trouble am I in, sir?”

“You have Saturday detention for the next two months,” Jauncey told her.  Elaine bit back whatever protest she was going to make and nodded.  “You will also complete an essay on the ethics of your actions.”

“My actions weren’t unethical!” Elaine protested.

“You humiliated a full-grown wizard in front of your peers.  If that was not unethical, then it was certainly unkind.”

Elaine flinched.  “I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know,” Jauncey told her kindly.  “Which is why you’ll also be writing a letter of apology to Professor Kipling.”

“Yes, sir,” Elaine said.  “Sorry, sir.”  Her eyes darted to the door.

“You’re dismissed,” he said.

Jauncey waited until he was certain she was gone before he put his face down on his desk and groaned.  Galahad had graduated three years ago, but he still had Olwen and Gawain and Elaine and the twins to deal with.  So far, Lucan and Gareth had behaved like perfectly normal first years, but they were Graves’, so it was only a matter of time, really.  And there were two more little ones after the twins.

Jauncey was starting to see the appeal of early retirement.

If anyone is interested, the Graves brood circa 1947 consists of:

Galahad, age 20 Olwen, age 17 Gawain, age 15 Elaine, age 13 The twins Gareth and Lucan, age 11 Lyonesse, age 8 Dagonet, age 5

Credence and Graves meant to stop having kids after Lyonesse.  Dagonet was an ‘oops, surprise!’ baby.  The fact that two wizards managed to have an ‘oops, surprise!’ baby is something that the women in Graves’ life have never, ever stopped giving him shit for.  Because really.  How do you cast the androgenesis spells unconsciously.  (Apparently if both parents are stupidly powerful, it can happen.)

[terriblelifechoices]

Chapter 16 of the Possible ‘verse Timestamps, Ilvermorny Massachusetts, October 1944 is up on AO3.

Featuring the further adventures of the Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny.  Twelve year old boys are always going to be twelve year old boys, even when they’re Graves’.

Also, Gawain would like you to know for the record that he is the sane one.  He is, thus far, the only one of his siblings who has zero interest in joining MACUSA as an Auror and basically getting paid to let other people try to kill him.  No thank you sir, Gawain will have none of your crazy.

[terriblelifechoices]

So, it’s been awhile.  Does anyone have any idea where this month went?  Because I sure as hell don’t.

Anyway, have some comment fic.

For Ebbster, who wanted to know which parent Jauncey preferred dealing with when faced with the antics of the Graves Brood.  (The answer is definitely Graves.  Jauncey gets Graves, although he probably wishes he didn’t.  They’re both descendants of the Twelve.  Credence, on the other hand, is just plain terrifying.)

Originally posted on AO3 here.

Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, February 1951

“Sir,” Gareth said.

“We can explain everything,” Lucan added.

Jauncey looked down his nose at them.  “Can you,” he said, repressive.  The twins were more brick dust and dirt than boy, at this point.  A thick layer of gray dust covered them from head to toe.

They looked like statues.  At some point, Jauncey would find the irony of that amusing, but he suspected that day was at least two decades off.  Maybe three.

“Yes?” Lucan asked.

Gareth considered that.  “Probably?”

Jauncey very deliberately refused to look around the room, keeping the twins pinned in place with a look.  Two of Ilvermorny’s security statues had been reduced to gravel and dust -- he didn’t even want to think about how that had happened yet -- but not before they’d inflicted a considerable amount of damage to the lower dueling range.

“Do either of you require medical attention?” he asked.  Gareth had the beginnings of a spectacular black eye.  Half his face was bloody from a scratch along his hairline, leaving dark streaks through the grime on his face.  Lucan had one of Gareth’s arms slung around his shoulders.  Jauncey honestly couldn’t tell which of them was holding the other one up.  The way Lucan was holding his right arm worried him, though.  He suspected it was broken.

“No, sir,” Lucan said immediately.

“We’re fine, sir,” said Gareth.

Jauncey raised both his eyebrows at them.  “Really.”

“Er,” said Gareth.

“Well,” said Lucan.

“Maybe a little?” Gareth asked.

“Bandages would be nice,” said Lucan, with a look at Gareth’s head.

“And maybe a splint and some Skele-Gro,” said Gareth, gesturing towards Lucan’s arm.

Definitely broken, then.

“Right,” said Jauncey.  “Let’s get you both taken care of.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, trailing behind him like ducklings.

“Sir?” Lucan asked, when they’d nearly reached the infirmary. Jauncey looked down at him.   “Are you going to tell Galahad about this?”

Gareth winced.  “He’ll be insufferable,” he predicted.

“So many lectures.”

“And Sam will just give us the disappointed face.”

“I hate the disappointed face.”

“And Ollie won’t be any better,” Gareth added glumly.  “She hates it when we upset Galahad and Sam.”

“She’s going to kill us,” Lucan concluded.

“Boys,” Jauncey said patiently.  “You activated and destroyed two of Ilvermorny’s security statues and wrecked the lower dueling range.  Your older siblings are the least of your problems.  I am calling your parents.”

*

“I really thought dealing with the junior Aurors and their shenanigans had prepared me for having children,” Graves said, sounding equal parts baffled and resigned.  “I was very wrong about that, as it turns out.”

Jauncey rather liked Graves.  He always had, even when he’d only known the man by his reputation.  He liked Graves a lot better now, despite the frequent headaches his offspring provided.  Graves had excellent taste in liquor, and he was generous about sharing it.  That sort of thing went a long way in smoothing out parent-teacher conferences.

“Your junior Aurors come to you as adults,” Jauncey pointed out.

Graves snorted.  “No they fucking don’t,” he muttered.  “I swear they get younger every year.”

“They don’t,” Jauncey replied.  “You’re just getting older.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Graves said, entirely without heat.

“No, thank you,” Jauncey said, snagging the bottle and refilling his glass.  He was just drunk enough to find Gareth and Lucan’s misadventures with the security statues mildly aggravating, which was a pleasant change from his earlier hysteria.  “On the one hand, I suppose your boys ought to be commended for improving on your childhood misadventures.”  A thought occurred to him.  “You didn’t tell them how to activate the statues, did you?”

“Merlin and Morgana, no!  That part was all Seraphina, honestly.  She’s always had a gift for that sort of spellwork.  I was just there for back-up.”

Jauncey gave Graves the look he generally reserved for the Graves Brood and their misadventures, repressive and plainly disbelieving.  It proved just as effective on Graves as it did his children.

“Well,” Graves allowed.  “It might’ve been my idea to see how long we’d last in a duel against them.  We were working on casting in tandem, you see, and a practical exercise seemed necessary.”

Merlin save him from Graves’ and their ideas, Jauncey thought.

“You were eleven,” Jauncey reminded him, because he’d heard the full version of that particular misadventure from Silas Hunter.  “Why the hell didn’t you try dueling with an older student, first?”

“None of them would take us seriously,” Graves grumbled.  “After awhile, we figured we’d test ourselves against an expert.  It seemed like the best way to learn.”

“Right,” Jauncey said.  He was horrifically, hilariously grateful he was over a decade Graves’ senior and had never had to deal with the man as a precocious child.  He suspected Graves and Picquery had driven a lot of well-meaning and utterly overwhelmed prefects and professors to drink.  He couldn’t imagine trying to deal with Graves’ raw talent and power and sense of righteousness without a healthy dose of Credence Graves’ kindness and common sense to temper it.  Some things didn’t bear thinking on.

“I’m going to have to suspend them,” he said, circling back to the matter of the twins.

“I suspected as much.  In school or at home?”

“In school,” Jauncey said.  “They confined the damage to the lower dueling range, and no one else was hurt.  And, unlike the rest of your brood, the twins generally keep their mischief to themselves.”

“Thank magic for that,” Graves agreed.  “And at least this time you’re not out a professor.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Graves.  If I have to replace one more damn professor because of your children, I’m going to start billing you for them.”

“That’s probably fair,” Graves allowed.  “Credence might object, though.”

Jauncey winced.  If he were feeling suicidal, he might consider trying to take on Percival Graves, provided he had the funding for an army and had picked his moment to die very, very carefully.  He wouldn’t have tried to challenge Credence Graves for all the money and magic in the world.

“Shut up and pass me that bottle.”