The Virus Took on Many Shapes (Quentin)

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Any debates over self-governance had no power here. Being on an entirely different continent, Clarence Corntassel was just another foreigner. Even the notion that he was in any way “foreign” was foreign to him. The times that he had been on territory that was not traditionally his own people’s—or given to them in place of what was theirs, as was the case with Oklahoma—notwithstanding, he had never found himself in an environment where he was well and truly foreign in every sense. He had no connection to this land, not that there was any greenery to be found inside of the Ministry of Magic.
 
Walking in the direction of the elevator to go to the Department of International Magical Cooperation for what remaining paperwork he still needed to fill out in order to teach at Hogwarts for the year, Clarence was reminded of MACUSA. It was a different building on entirely different land, yet he supposed that bureaucracy never changed, no matter where in the world it was. At least the Ministry of Magic didn’t appear to use wand permits, he thought.

“Graves.”

The name was one that Clarence knew well, one that had been known to him for generations. He recognized the man who had been addressed by name, in particular. The man was an Auror with MACUSA—Quentin Graves, if Clarence recalled correctly—and he paused. Early as was usual of him, he could spare a few minutes to ask what he, as a MACUSA Auror, was doing in London.

@quentin

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Quentin had expected his work load to be quite hefty when he first started at the British Ministry but he had had no idea it would be this much work. On top of the typical day-to-day Auror tasks he had to perform, he was also having to oversee the permits and paperwork of the Ilvermorny transfer professors. But Q didn't mind. In his opinion, the more closely he got to work with people within Hogwarts, the more secure he felt in his younger sister being there.

Today he had a meeting with a 'Corntassel, Clarence', teacher of Native American magic. The name sounded extremely familiar to Quentin, and he was certain that he would remember why once they got to speaking. Quentin glanced at his watch on his let wrist just as the time struck for his meeting with Mr. Corntassel. He stepped out of his shared office (which luckily was empty for the time being,) and was met with the older gentleman who had already been outside. "Mr. Corntassel, I presume?"

@clarence

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It took an elevator ride and a few additional directions later for Clarence to arrive at the office he needed. There was more than one placard to suggest who worked inside, and—sure enough—one of those names was that of Quentin Graves. The man himself made his appearance not long thereafter.

“Mr. Corntassel, I presume?”

Aside from his having taught at Ilvermorny for fifty years, Clarence Corntassel was in no way unfamiliar with most of MACUSA’s officials. Years spent trying to get the authorities to properly investigate his sister’s disappearance and murder meant that not only did he know them, but he also happened to be on… rocky terms with most. Their inaction, from his perspective, was a frustration; on their side, it was always something: One office would shuffle him over to another, claiming that Dotty’s case would fall under someone or another’s jurisdiction, only for them to give him an entirely different answer. That his sister had died in 1972 was of little concern to him. The more things continued to drag on, the more that Clarence was convinced that someone at MACUSA knew more than they were letting on about the closed case file.

“Mr. Graves,” Clarence acknowledged the much younger gentleman politely, although the slight smile upon his lips did not reach his eyes. “What a pleasant surprise,” he added. Dealing with MACUSA again—thousands of miles away—was about as far from a pleasant prospect as Clarence could imagine, not that he had much say in the matter.

@quentin