They took shifts watching over Newt through the night. Twice they had to take him back to the tundra habitat to cool him down, with all his creatures watching with subdued worry; the first time Graves saw the Nundu he very nearly had a heart attack, only to find that the monstrously deadly beast was deflated and depressed, pawing at the rock it was laying on as it watched them move Newt back to the bedroom after a while in the snow.
Honestly, of course Newt Scamander would carry around a near domesticated Nundu, of all things.
Graves was the one on shift when the fever finally started to ebb and Newt came to again, though with equal success to the first time he awakened. It took both Graves and Tina to keep the delirious magizoologist in bed, since the redhead seemed convinced in his delirium that the Jarveys had a Chizpurfle infestation that needed attending to right away.
He only calmed once Graves insisted that he would comb every single Jarvey, just in case. And that he would ignore the streams of profanity that the ferret-like creatures constantly spewed. Evidently that was all they knew how to say.
The second time he woke up, he was actually somewhat coherent. It took him a few long moments to focus and realize who was sitting beside him, and then a few moments longer to seemingly move past the panic, but then the man relaxed a bit.
“Graves…?” he managed, his voice shaky and raw. Graves nodded.
“I’m here helping the Goldsteins,” he explained, grateful that Newt hadn’t mistaken him for Grindelwald again. Newt frowned and tried to lift his head, but quickly dropped it back to the pillow with a wince.
“What h-happened?”
“You were stung by a manticore, Mr. Scamander.”
“…and I’m alive?”
Graves chuckled. “Seemingly so,” he said, reaching out to press his hand to Newt’s forehead. The sick wizard seemed too out of it to object. “Still running a fever, though.”
Quite suddenly, Newt’s eyes widened and he tried to sit up. Graves pushed him back down firmly and gave him a stern look. “You’re in no mood to be moving around, Mr. Scamander,” he scolded, though the words seemed to have little effect.
“The manticore,” Newt managed, sounding distraught. “Is he okay? I was trying to treat his wounds…”
Graves pulled his hand back and took in a slow, steadying breath. “The creature didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
And he actually was sorry. It hurt more than he thought it would, seeing the anguished look on Newt’s face when the words sank in. The redhead swallowed hard, his expression going painfully blank. “I see,” he said, the two words sounding like more of a struggle than any moving he’d done so far.
Graves wanted to offer him some comfort, some consolation- like telling him the creature didn’t suffer long, but that would be a lie. The creature had been in immense pain for hours- but so had Newt, it seemed. It turned out, though, that the comfort didn’t need to come from him- Pickett the Bowtruckle emerged from where it had been sleeping nearly in Newt’s hair, and Newt seemed to relax when the creature pressed its limbs to his bare shoulder, inches above the scar where the puncture wound once was.
“They’d had it t-tied up in a cage since it was an infant,” Newt said, staring anywhere but at Graves. “They would force it to produce venom, and then sell the venom on the black market. When it inevitably started to run d-dry, they would beat it.”
“We’ll find them,” Graves insisted, trying not to think about the manticore, lying on the ground and gasping in its last breaths. “We’ll bring them to justice, Mr. Scamander. You have my word.”
“Newt,” the younger wizard said, his eyes flitting to meet Graves’ gaze for the barest of moments before he was looking away again. “You can call me Newt.”
Graves smirked. “Then I suppose it’s only fair that you call me Percival. After all, you’re not my employee,” he pointed out, which was the reason he usually scolded Tina for getting too ‘familiar’. Newt nodded once, barely, but his eyes were already falling shut again.
“My creatures…?”
“Fed and cared for,” Graves insisted. “Rest, Newt. Everything is fine.”
The words were unnecessary. By the time Graves finished speaking, Newt had drifted back into a feverish sleep. It took a moment for Graves to realize the redhead was shivering now, despite the fact that his skin still had a sheen of sweat on it.
“How is he?” Tina asked from the doorway, and Graves straightened up, trying to mask any concern on his face.
“Still haven’t gotten rid of this fever, but he was well enough to hold a conversation for a minute or so,” he said. “Looks like the fever is trying to break.”
“His creatures are getting restless,” Tina pointed out with a relieved smile. “The occamy hatchlings are barely putting up with me.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to make sure he recovers,” Graves said. “Though he’ll likely be too weak to do the heavy work for a while.”
Fill: Would You Stay 3a/?
Honestly, of course Newt Scamander would carry around a near domesticated Nundu, of all things.
Graves was the one on shift when the fever finally started to ebb and Newt came to again, though with equal success to the first time he awakened. It took both Graves and Tina to keep the delirious magizoologist in bed, since the redhead seemed convinced in his delirium that the Jarveys had a Chizpurfle infestation that needed attending to right away.
He only calmed once Graves insisted that he would comb every single Jarvey, just in case. And that he would ignore the streams of profanity that the ferret-like creatures constantly spewed. Evidently that was all they knew how to say.
The second time he woke up, he was actually somewhat coherent. It took him a few long moments to focus and realize who was sitting beside him, and then a few moments longer to seemingly move past the panic, but then the man relaxed a bit.
“Graves…?” he managed, his voice shaky and raw. Graves nodded.
“I’m here helping the Goldsteins,” he explained, grateful that Newt hadn’t mistaken him for Grindelwald again. Newt frowned and tried to lift his head, but quickly dropped it back to the pillow with a wince.
“What h-happened?”
“You were stung by a manticore, Mr. Scamander.”
“…and I’m alive?”
Graves chuckled. “Seemingly so,” he said, reaching out to press his hand to Newt’s forehead. The sick wizard seemed too out of it to object. “Still running a fever, though.”
Quite suddenly, Newt’s eyes widened and he tried to sit up. Graves pushed him back down firmly and gave him a stern look. “You’re in no mood to be moving around, Mr. Scamander,” he scolded, though the words seemed to have little effect.
“The manticore,” Newt managed, sounding distraught. “Is he okay? I was trying to treat his wounds…”
Graves pulled his hand back and took in a slow, steadying breath. “The creature didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
And he actually was sorry. It hurt more than he thought it would, seeing the anguished look on Newt’s face when the words sank in. The redhead swallowed hard, his expression going painfully blank. “I see,” he said, the two words sounding like more of a struggle than any moving he’d done so far.
Graves wanted to offer him some comfort, some consolation- like telling him the creature didn’t suffer long, but that would be a lie. The creature had been in immense pain for hours- but so had Newt, it seemed. It turned out, though, that the comfort didn’t need to come from him- Pickett the Bowtruckle emerged from where it had been sleeping nearly in Newt’s hair, and Newt seemed to relax when the creature pressed its limbs to his bare shoulder, inches above the scar where the puncture wound once was.
“They’d had it t-tied up in a cage since it was an infant,” Newt said, staring anywhere but at Graves. “They would force it to produce venom, and then sell the venom on the black market. When it inevitably started to run d-dry, they would beat it.”
“We’ll find them,” Graves insisted, trying not to think about the manticore, lying on the ground and gasping in its last breaths. “We’ll bring them to justice, Mr. Scamander. You have my word.”
“Newt,” the younger wizard said, his eyes flitting to meet Graves’ gaze for the barest of moments before he was looking away again. “You can call me Newt.”
Graves smirked. “Then I suppose it’s only fair that you call me Percival. After all, you’re not my employee,” he pointed out, which was the reason he usually scolded Tina for getting too ‘familiar’. Newt nodded once, barely, but his eyes were already falling shut again.
“My creatures…?”
“Fed and cared for,” Graves insisted. “Rest, Newt. Everything is fine.”
The words were unnecessary. By the time Graves finished speaking, Newt had drifted back into a feverish sleep. It took a moment for Graves to realize the redhead was shivering now, despite the fact that his skin still had a sheen of sweat on it.
“How is he?” Tina asked from the doorway, and Graves straightened up, trying to mask any concern on his face.
“Still haven’t gotten rid of this fever, but he was well enough to hold a conversation for a minute or so,” he said. “Looks like the fever is trying to break.”
“His creatures are getting restless,” Tina pointed out with a relieved smile. “The occamy hatchlings are barely putting up with me.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to make sure he recovers,” Graves said. “Though he’ll likely be too weak to do the heavy work for a while.”