Chapter Text
‘I do not like associating with Muggles,’ said Vinda Rosier. ‘Not even these ones.’
Gellert Grindelwald gazed at the men who he had given his prisoner to. The men in black, mixed with the men in brown. Die Schutzstaffel und die Sturmabteilung. Both had serious reputations already within the German state- the latter for horrible actions, the first seen as a sort of savior. Grindelwald knew that could change. People’s judgements were as fluid as water, shifting one way and then the next.
‘They are more like us than many of their kind, Vinda,’’ he said. ‘They seek salvation and independence, as we do. And we both know they serve perhaps the most dangerous man in all of Europe.’
‘He is not a wizard,’ Rosier remarked, her disdain evident. ‘Nor are any of them.’
Grindelwald understood. He, more than anyone else, understood her disgust. But this was nothing more than a means to an end, something temporary; a way to get rid of the Head Auror of the British Ministry of Magic that had been so much a thorn in his side. And a demoralizing blow to Albus and his little rebellion- one of Albus’ little pets was the Auror’s brother, so killing him would be a good way to strike back at their resistance.
‘He does not need to be,’ Grindelwald said simply. ‘His words hold magic enough. He will bring the coming war, I am sure of it. And for right now, I am content with the English saying: the enemy of your enemy is your friend. His men and his power are useful to us for now. In the end, we will fight in the coming war, but that is still years away now.’
Grindelwald watched the men in black and brown walk away with the prisoner he had given to them.
Yes, he thought, they are useful indeed.
*
Theseus Scamander had been doing his job when Grindelwald ambushed him. Sure, perhaps with a bit of vengeance, as Grindelwald had killed his fiancee Leta years before, but doing his job nonetheless; fighting and tracking the Dark wizard’s forces across Europe to help prevent more senseless blood and violence. Theseus had fought in the Great War, and he did not wish to see another, so for the most part he had pushed his personal feelings about Grindelwald to the side and done his job as neutrally as he possibly could; even though a year before Grindelwald had tortured him and locked him in a German prison, on top of torturing one of Theseus’ brother’s friends.
But then came Bavaria. Theseus had had to proceed in disguise- the political situation in the Weimar Republic was unstable at best, as it had been since the kaiser had abdicated in 1918, and Theseus wasn’t exactly the German Ministry of Magic’s favorite person after the incident with Grindelwald last year- but he had proceeded, as most of the Aurors these days were barely out of training, and Theseus was the one of the best at what he did. He had followed up on reports of Grindelwald’s followers hurting Muggles, so thankful that the Great War had given him a decent understanding of German.
But it had been a trap. Grindelwald himself had been waiting with his followers, just outside a small town where the Dark Wizard had killed a family of eleven who had been barely surviving with the current economic state of all of Germany, and he had struck like an adder. Theseus had put up a decent fight, but no man could fight in a one-versus-twenty for long, especially with a wizard of Grindelwald’s talents, and before he had known it he was wandless and tied up.
Then they had Apparated to Berlin, marched into an ominous looking building, and told a man there that they had ein Spion, a spy. Then the brown-shirts and the black-shirts had come, and right now they were dragging Theseus through a small and dimly-lit hallway.
Theseus had been in worse situations, but he felt exposed without his wand. Sure, he had used guns and the like in the Great War in order not to expose wizardkind to the Muggles he was serving with, but that was around fifteen years ago, and technology had greatly changed since then. Theseus had greatly changed since then. And even getting his hands on a weapon would involve somehow defeating five large and armed men with his hands tied behind his back.
The leader turned and barked a command at the two brown-shirts. They did not look happy, but complied, turning around and marching back in the way they had come. That left the three black-shirts, who looked even more dangerous, with Theseus. Theseus sighed and came to the unfortunate conclusion that he would just have to sit through whatever interrogations the men would put him through, no matter how bad it got.
It wouldn’t be pleasant, he knew. No country liked spies. Especially now, when Germany's politics were extremely tense. He was in for a world of hurt. The black-shirts took a right turn and soon they were standing in a barely better lit, small concrete room, with a single steel chair in the center.
One of the men behind Theseus pushed him towards it and he almost fell, though he caught himself in time.
‘Bewege es,’ the man snapped. ( Move it.)
Theseus complied and soon was sitting in the extremely uncomfortable steel chair, the metal digging into his back and shoulders. The taller black-shirt wearing man, not the one who had pushed Theseus, stepped forward, and the other two stepped backward. The man had sleek gray hair, and Theseus noted an Iron Cross pinned to his uniform. The man was a vet, much like
‘Guten Abend, bevorzugen Sie Englisch oder Deutsch?’ The man asked. ( Good evening, do you prefer English or German?)
It’s considerate for my soon-to-be torturers to consider my language of choice, Thesus thought wryly.
‘Englisch, Herr Soldat, danke,’ Theseus said, in reasonable German. ( English, Sir Soldier, thank you.)
The man nodded. ‘What is your name?’ He asked in perfect, accented English.
‘Newton,’ Theseus answered, thinking of his brother and his girlfriend. ‘Newton Goldstein.’
‘You lie,’ the man said calmly. ‘Those are names you are familiar with, perhaps those of family members, but are not your own. What is your true name? If you tell us, we will not hurt you.’
Against Theseus’ chest, the silver circles felt warm. They were his dog-tags, identification in case of death or capture. Theseus’ read Scamander, Captain- his regiment’s name was scratched out after a close call involving a bullet on the battlefield during the Great War- and then his serial number. Theseus had worn his every day since it had been issued, through rain and hail and through hell. If they searched him, they would find his identity anyways. Their line about not hurting him was total bullshit as well; Theseus had been through this before, on previous Auror missions, so he knew what to expect (and that was a lot of pain).
Damn, Theseus thought.
But he was determined to tell them as little as possible. They could get his dog-tags off of his goddamn corpse, but he wasn’t opening his mouth. If he did, he could cause yet another incident between Germany and Britain, as technically Theseus’ files said he worked for the government. And also, there was no way in hell he was doing anything that could betray his country.
‘Answer him!’ Roared the black-shirt who had pushed Theseus earlier, moving forward, and he punched Theseus in the mouth.
Theseus tasted blood in his mouth, and he spat it onto the boots of the nearest black-shirt.
‘And I wished to end this without heedless violence,’ the leading man sighed (which was also a complete lie, Theseus could see it in his eyes). He turned to his men. ‘Beginnen Sie. Herausfinden, was er weiß.’ ( Begin, find what he knows.)
The two other black-shrirts smiled and approached Theseus, while the other man stepped back. The men began raining blows upon Theseus, at first with their fists. The other man began asking questions.
‘Did you come here to assassinate the Bundeskanzler?’ The man demanded. ( The chancellor.)
Oh, right. Germany had just gotten a new chancellor, an Austrian-born man named Adolf. Honestly, the last few days Theseus had been incredibly busy, and he had forgotten about Germany’s elections. Now that Theseus thought about it, today was February fifth, only a few days after Adolf was elected chancellor, so the timing was playing against him.
‘No,’ Theseus answered honestly.
The man didn’t believe him. ‘Lies! Who sent you?’
‘Nobody!’ Theseus said. ‘I didn’t come here to kill your chancellor!’
But the beating continued.
‘Who sent you? Your Prime Minister? Your king?’ The man demanded. ‘Perhaps even the Jews?’
‘Er sieht wirklich jüdisch aus,’ agreed one of the other men, who took a pause from beating Theseus, much to his relief (though the comment confused him; how exactly did he- or anyone, really- look Jewish? That didn’t make any sense to him, and came off as a bit questionable). ( He really looks Jewish.)
His entire body felt like one giant bruise, and there was still blood in his mouth, so a moment’s respite was practically Heaven. Worse was to come, though, Theseus was sure of it. This was just a warm up.
‘Get the whips,’ the man in front of Theseus decided. ‘He won’t talk without it.’
Now, that sent a bit of a shiver down Theseus’ spine, but he’d had worse. He’d been shot three times in combat during the Great War, broke dozens of bones in his six-year Quidditch career at Hogwarts, been bitten or stung or clawed by Newt’s various pets, and been tortured at least seven times as an Auror. He could handle this, he was sure. It would just be very, very not fun or comfortable.
The other two men soon returned, armed with medieval-looking long black whips that had bits of metal embedded in it to do maximum damage. Theseus looked at it briefly, and looked away.
Pain is temporary, he reminded himself. Think of Newt. Think of the others. You have to survive this. Fight. Fight for Leta.
‘Strip him, too,’ ordered the leading black-shirt.
Theseus turned bright red, panic flaring in him. They’d find his dog-tags, find who he was. (And yes, he was very much uncomfortable with the idea of his captors getting their hands on his naked skin, but that was very much a secondary concern.)
The leading black-shirt saw his reaction and narrowed his eyes. ‘Hiding something?’
'Ich schlafe nicht gerne mit Männern,’ Theseus retorted. (I don’t like sleeping with men.)
‘Das macht die SA, nicht wir,’ the leading black-shirt replied. (The SA does that, not us.)
Another black-shirt leered at Theseus. ‘Du siehst aus wie eine englische Hure, though. So pretty. I am sure many men have wanted you.’ (You look like an English wh*re.)
Theseus flinched. His heart raced in his chest. Pain and violence and death didn’t scare him anymore after the years had passed, but that…that unnerved him.
‘Friedrich,’ the leader snapped. ‘Nein.’ (No.)
The black-shirt who had leered at Theseus rolled his eyes.
‘Sorry about that,’ the leader apologized. ‘He is young and fresh from the Sturmabteilung. He does not know better yet.’
Theseus just stared at him and didn’t respond.
‘Beginnen Sie,’ the leader said after a moment. (Begin.)
The two other black-shirts advanced and managed to wrangle Theseus into a position where they could pull off his jacket, followed by his shirt and undershirt. Thankfully, they didn’t touch anything below the waist before they pushed Theseus back into his seat, his shoulders aching from the force and his restraint. Against his bare chest, his dog-tags glittered in the low light, revealing themselves to his captors.
Please at least don’t find any files about me, Theseus thought.
The lead black-shirt peered down and then grabbed one of them, ripping it off of Theseus’ neck to read it.
‘Ah, Herr Scamander,’ the man said with some satisfaction. ‘We are going to have so much fun breaking you.’
Fuck, thought Theseus. His captors were a bunch of damn sadists.
‘Good damn luck,’ Theseus said, tilting his chin and glaring up defiantly. ‘The trenches didn’t, and they had four years. I doubt you’ll be able to do so in a handful of days.’
‘We will see about that,’ the leader promised.
Kiss my arse, Theseus thought. You’ll get nothing from me until I am dead.