"Drop by again sometime," Graves repeated to the document lizard that was ramming itself against his wand hand. His desk had gradually become a paper circus since the departure of his guest, with animated paperwork vying for his attention in increasingly aggressive displays. Vicious paper cuts, however, were not enough to distract him from his... distraction. "Drop by again sometime. Ugh." He sounded like a giggle water advertisement. He hoped he at least had not looked as... asinine as those laughing newspaper images.

"I'd like that." Newt Scamander had not sounded derisive. "Very much." He'd appeared sincerely pleased, smiling shyly across the desk. A soft flush had highlighted freckles and brought out a verdant glow in his eyes during a rare moment of eye contact.

An unaccustomed warmth belatedly answered that. 'I really meant that, too.' Not that the director of Aurors was given to polite insincerities but...

He repressed a sigh as he turned his hand on the desk. The most insistent of the paperwork climbed on and he lifted it up and regarded it as it twisted around in a confused circle on his palm. 'You and me both.' And yet... it was not an unwelcome bewilderment.

'Anything but,' Graves mused as the paper lizard flared its text-covered ruff, reminding him of the magizoologist's effusions over the creatures he studied. The man shone with pure, radiant joy one moment, then eclipsed himself in his soft, rumpled hair and dexterous hands the next.

"Call me Percival," he'd said, intoxicated by Mokha coffee and whatever charm or jinx Scamander's presence had cast. When had he ever said that before? "Phew." The document on his hand was blown back to his desk by the uncontained suspiration.

"Ah." The unfortunate paper beast was then crushed by the sudden slap of the wizard's hands on his desk as he recalled the last thing he'd said.

"Harding," he dictated, wand out and setting the spectacle on his desk to rights. "Research request." His quill scratched a missive to a junior librarian as he got back to work with more impatience than enthusiasm. "Everything we have on magic locks: care and repair."

---

That hesitant knock, when it finally came, was both too soon and not soon enough. Too soon because both spare time to practice and, apparently, everything the MACUSA library had on magical locks were limited.

And not soon enough because... well, the suddenly vibrant rhythm of his pulse answered that.

"Come in," he called as, with a single motion of his wand, he slowly opened the door and cleared away the volume on magical locksmithing (plus an additional volume Harding had "helpfully" added to make up for scarcity). "I've been expecting you. Newt," he added, recalling the other man's belated return invitation to call him by name.

"You have?" Newt queried while gently kicking the door shut behind him. He looked as appealingly disheveled as ever, loose hair falling across his face, one hand clutching his precious, infamous case and the other holding closed the oddly bulging lapels of his coat. "Oh, right." The slightly manic smile he'd worn when entering the room softened. "I'm afraid this isn't purely a social call. Percival."

When had his own name become a charm? Graves mused, briefly motionless in the green beam of his visitor's gaze. "What-- is that?" His question changed when he saw yellow fur suddenly sprout at the magizoologist's neck.

"That is what I came to see you about," the younger wizard explained, setting his case on the desk and using both hands to pull out a cream colored hairball and cradle it between them. "The last Appaloosa Puffskein!"

"Why..." That question lost to the excitement Newt radiated. "Where did you find it?"

"In a Muggle schoolyard, hm?" he punctuated his reply with an encouraging hum to the creature. "They all seemed so happy, I hated to take her away, but..." He trailed off momentarily as the puffskein trilled and snuggled in his hands. "Well, they won't miss her after being Obliviated."

'This isn't my department.' 'Did you Obliviate every No-maj involved?' 'Have you filed a report?'

There were so many things the Auror should say or ask, but none of them seemed very pressing. Not when Newt was smiling adoringly at the creature as his thumbs caressed the sides of its face. Not when he held it up and then turned that smile on his human companion. "Joyce, this is Percival."

Pop! Graves was literally snapped back to attention by that unpredictable case. "Sit," he said abruptly. "Have a seat," he immediately amended. "We can figure out what to do with that puffskein--"

"Joyce."

"--While I finally take care of this."

"You will be caref--" the other man started before shaking his head. "Please," he said instead, simply, sitting down.

'Here goes...' The Auror pulled open a drawer and took out a small screwdriver. "Let's see what we've got," he said aloud, sliding the case closer and turning the lock toward him. He didn't look at his guest -- he wasn't going to have the attention to spare. The trickier part of magical locksmithing, it seemed, was using the wand in one's non-dominant hand while mundanely manipulating the physical mechanism. He could listen, though... probably. "About Joyce?" he prompted as he silently cast a diagnostic charm.

"Well, after reading last year's report on shutting down the breeding program--"

"You read the report?" That earned him an almost-frown. And his distracted casting earned him a rapid flapping of the suitcase lock. "Sorry," he apologized to them both, pushing the lock closed. "Go on."

Newt wove an improbable tale that started with a suspicion of overlooked puffskein nests, through a visit to a gossipy herbologist with an obsession with mooncalf manure, and finished with a trail of chalk sidewalk scribbles. Graves tried to keep his attention mostly on the task at hand, but that was equally tricky. The other man's social awkwardness was gone, eclipsed by enthusiasm for his topic. At some point in the narrative, the puffskein had been moved to a shoulder (where it happily nuzzled neck and cheek) to free those expressive hands to animate the story.

"So, is it in very bad shape?" Newt abruptly asked.

"Hm? Oh." The lengthy investigation had apparently, for good or ill, not been attributed to lack of skill. "Not too bad. Just poorly maintained." And fortunately within the Auror's scope of capabilities. Still, he was perhaps being a little showy when he removed his coat, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled his sleeves to get to work.

"That's... good to hear." An odd hitch punctuated the reply as Graves went to work. He held the tiny screwdriver in the corner of his mouth as he magically cleaned and lubricated the mechanism. He pulled it out to use a combination of magic and handiwork to tighten up the latch. He finally tucked it over an ear and finished off murmuring a reinforcement of the charm on the lock.

"Well," he said wiping his forehead (and somehow inadvertently rubbing in some grease) as he shifted his attention back to his guest. "That ought to... do it." Newt was staring at him, lips slightly parted. 'What?' There suddenly wasn't quite enough air to voice the question.

"Per--" Crash!! A cascade of books and papers interrupted. At some point, Joyce had, somehow unnoticed, jumped from Newt's shoulder to stalk a juicy spider. Her pounce had knocked down everything on the far end of the desk. "Here, let me," the magizoologist offered apologetically as he crouched down to clean up the mess.

"That's all-- Wait!" Graves realized his library books were in that jumble.

"'On the Care and Maintenance of Magick Locks?'" Too late, of course. He knelt on the floor and reached for the nearest paper. His hand was stopped, however. "Percival." He looked up from the floor to meet warm green eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," was all the response he could manage.

"But..." A twinkle entered that gaze and a smile quirked the corner of Newt's mouth. "You do realize that this book is not about locksmithing?"

'You are fired, Harding.' Graves quickly snatched the offending extra volume out of the other man's grip. "Yes, yes. I know!" He froze again. "But how do you know?"

"Quite the topic amongst 6th and 7th year students at Hogwarts." The younger wizard had the good grace to hide his expression behind the puffskein he rescued from the paperwork. The creature's humming, though, could not mask the stifled laughter.

"I--" He was saved from response by a brisk knock, immediately followed by the entrance of one of his Aurors. "Goldstein." He hastily rose. "What?"

"I might ask you the same thing, sir." Porpentina looked from Graves to Newt to the chaos on the floor and back again. Her eyes narrowed on the book in his hands and she took a protective step toward the still laughing magizoologist. "What is that?"

"It's a sign," he said, straightening fully and throwing the book down on his desk. It was followed by the screwdriver. "That MACUSA needs to do much more thorough vetting of both the contents and the staff of its library." He pulled down his sleeves. "Now what made you barge into my office, Ms. Goldstein?" He asked, buttoning his cuffs.

"President Picquery wants to see you. Sir," she belatedly added as she helped Newt to his feet. "What is that?" she whispered to him.

"This is Joyce," the rising wizard answered happily, handing the creature to his friend.

"She's an Appaloosa Puffskein," Graves added. "Picquery in her office?"

Goldstein continued to look perplexedly between the two men, Joyce humming happily against her collarbone. "Yes..." she finally answered, then blurted, "Sir, you realize that book isn't about--"

"I know!" He snapped, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. "Out," he told the other two. "Goldstein with me." Back to business.

"What about the puffskein?" The junior Auror asked, handing it back.

"Mr. Scamander will be coming back later to discuss Joyce."

"See you later, Percival," Newt responded, grinning subtly and waving what passed for hands on a puffskein at him.

Graves barely heard Tina's bewildered "Percival?" behind him. He was far too preoccupied with keeping an inane smile from overtaking his features.