OP, I am so sorry if this isn't what you wanted. I sat down to write filth, in true kink-meme fashion, and then plot happened. Apparently Graves/Sarcasm is my surprise OTP.




There were two sets of footsteps at the top of the stairs leading down to Graves’ basement prison. He’d come to know the first set very well; they were the heavy, confident footfalls of a man who expected the world to yield before him. That was Grindelwald. Graves had no idea who the second set of feet belonged to. If he hadn’t been listening for anything out of the ordinary, he probably wouldn’t have heard them at all. The second set of footsteps was much lighter, a series of quick, nervous movements contained in a very small area. A woman, maybe, or a man with a slender build. Not an accomplice, because Grindelwald didn’t have accomplices, but likely not one of his fanatics, either. Fanatics tended to move with purpose, and the quiet patter above him suggested that whoever the feet belonged to didn’t know why they were here at all.

That made two of them.

Graves waited. He’d gotten good at waiting, lately. At swallowing down the rage he felt at the thought of Grindelwald spreading his poison on U.S. soil while wearing Graves’ own fucking face and channeling it as best he could into the small bursts of wandless magic that were all he could manage behind Grindelwald’s anti-magic wards. He was determined to wear them down, if it was the last thing he ever did.

He wondered if Grindelwald’s nervous companion was a politician. Someone influential in the Congress, perhaps, or someone who wanted to be. Politicians weren’t generally the sort of people who enjoyed getting their hands dirty, which would at least explain the nervousness.

If Grindelwald’s companion turned out to be one of the president’s political enemies, Graves was really going to enjoy building a case against them as soon as he was free, just so he could watch Seraphina rip them to shreds. Seraphina Picquery had come up through MACUSA the same way he had. Graves knew for a fact that she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.

Graves didn’t know what he’d do if Grindelwald’s companion turned out to be one of his Aurors. Some things didn’t bear thinking on. He’d find out who Grindelwald had brought with him soon enough.

Maybe it would be better, he thought, if he didn’t recognize the other person at all.

Except, of course, he did.

It was the Barebone boy – the scrawny, frightened No-Maj Goldstein had gotten herself demoted over.

Graves stared at him, watching the boy shrink in on himself, as if frightened by Graves’ scrutiny.

Everything went back to the Barebone boy, in the end. If Goldstein hadn’t tried to save him – if she hadn’t let her righteous crusader’s heart sabotage her career – then Graves wouldn’t have been forced to demote her. And if he hadn’t been forced to demote her, then he never would have found himself drinking alone in his office, brooding over what a fucking waste it was to exile Goldstein to the wand permit office when she should have been taking Major Investigations by storm. He’d had his eye on her. Norton, his last protege, was off terrifying potions smugglers in the wilds of San Francisco, and Goldstein had been all but lined up to take Norton’s place.

Goldstein should have been fired outright. She’d provoked a potential breach of Rappaport’s law, to say nothing of what she’d cost the department in dragots for Obliviator overtime. The wand permit office had been the best he could do to salvage her career. At least she was still part of MACUSA, and if she was careful, she could still make something of herself there. And maybe, in four or five years, he could bring her back to Investigations. What was four or five years, over the course of the average wizarding lifespan? (Now, he was just grateful that the wand permit office put her out of Grindelwald’s line of sight. Goldstein, at least, was safe, even if no one else on his team was. He’d need good Auror’s to clean up Grindelwald’s mess, once all of this was over.)

Graves told himself that if he hadn’t had two glasses of Roanoke Vanishing Rye Whiskey too many, then Grindelwald wouldn’t have found him so easy to subdue. He would have been quicker to draw his wand, would have avoided the slashing hex that had damn near taken his left leg off just below his knee. He would have put up a better fight.

It was probably bullshit, but if he hadn’t been drunk, he would have at least duelled Grindelwald to the death – laid down his life for the safety of his people, the way a Graves was supposed to.

“Mr. Graves?” the Barebone boy asked, sounding frightened and uncertain. He looked from Graves to Grindelwald, who was still wearing Graves’ face, the bastard.

“It’s alright, Credence,” Grindelwald said, in what he probably thought was a soothing voice. Graves hoped like hell he wasn’t using it on the junior Aurors. They’d probably run screaming for the hills. “I know this must be confusing for you, my boy.”

“You know what would make it less confusing? If you weren’t wearing my body like a badly fitting suit,” said Graves.

The smile Grindelwald gave him was poisonously sweet. “Your subordinates seem convinced. What does that say about you, I wonder?”

Nothing good, thought Graves. He knew better than to admit it, though.
“Mostly that I need to work on their observational skills,” he said blandly. “I’ve almost got a complete training regimen worked out.”

“How amusing,” said Grindelwald. “You still think you can escape.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Graves countered. As long as he was breathing, he would keep fighting. He was a Graves. He could do no less.

“Do you really think I kept you alive because I needed Polyjuice ingredients?” Grindelwald asked. “Really, Percival. I could accomplish the same results with transfigurations. I’ve kept you alive for something far, far more useful.”

“I assumed torturing me for information played a factor in your decision to keep me alive,” Graves drawled. “Seeing as you couldn’t pass for MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security if you didn’t.”

“I have a better use for you, Percival.”

Graves wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t.

“And what is that?” he asked.

Grindelwald’s poisonous smile got a little bit wider. “For the same reason I’ve brought young Credence here,” he said. “I’ve Seen your child.”
Graves had heard that Grindelwald was a Seer. Grindelwald himself certainly seemed to believe it. Graves had yet to see any proof of Grindelwald’s claims, although he had to admit that the man’s ability to evade capture was as uncanny as it was irritating.

“My what,” Graves said flatly.

“Your child,” Grindelwald repeated.

That statement made no more sense the second time around than it had the first.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Graves asked.

Grindelwald sighed, as if he found Graves’ questions tedious. “I told you,” he said. “I’ve Seen your child. Together, the two of you will produce a wizard so powerful that the armies of the world will tremble before him. He will be the first and most honored among my generals, and together we will usher in a new era of peace and prosperity for wizard-kind.”

“You know,” Graves said, conversational. “When I asked you if you were out of your goddamn mind, the short answer would have been to just say yes.”

“I’ve Seen it,” Grindelwald insisted. He didn’t like it when Graves belittled his so-called prophecies.

“Of course you have,” muttered Graves. “How, exactly, do you expect a No-Maj to produce this mythical child of yours? The last time I checked, the androgenesis spells require both parents to have magical ability.” He pretended to consider the matter. “What’s that charming No-Maj expression? Is the stork going to bring it?”

“Credence isn’t a Muggle,” Grindelwald said, sounding vaguely affronted.

That would be the thing he objected to, Graves though. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I thought he was a squib, but he’s not,” Grindelwald continued. “He has enormous reserves of magical ability, and absolutely no way to use them. He’s too damaged to serve me as a proper wizard.”

The boy flinched at that, like Grindelwald had struck him. Grindelwald didn’t notice.

“I was going to discard him, but I had a vision. It seems young Credence will be of some use to me after all. Both of you will.”

“Lucky me,” Graves muttered.

Major Investigations had started building a profile of Grindelwald six months ago, when Grindelwald stopped rampaging across Europe and turned his attention towards the Americas instead. They were cops; criminal profiling was a useful habit. Graves had refined Grindelwald’s profile over the course of his captivity. Grindelwald had never struck him as being particularly insane. It was one of the things that made him so terrifying. He was a bigoted, genocidal terrorist, yes, but he wasn’t crazy. Everything he said made sense, up until you realized he was talking about slaughtering and subjugating hundreds of thousands of people.

Now, Graves wondered if he hadn’t been wrong in his assessment of Grindelwald’s sanity. Grindelwald certainly sounded crazy. Breeding people like a pair of prize crups just because you thought their offspring might be useful was insane. Of course, given the European wizarding community’s ridiculous obsession with blood purity, breeding people like livestock probably made sense. Arranged marriages were still common for European wizards, as far as he knew. That was basically the same thing with a prettier name, wasn’t it?

“Why me?” he asked. “Why not breed him yourself? You could raise an army of genocidal little fanatics, each vying for a bit of daddy’s attention. Surely you want to pass your bloodline on.”

“My bloodline,” said Grindelwald, “will be mixed with that of the second most powerful wizard in the world. Your son will serve mine. He will be my son’s loyal hound, to sleep at his feet and keep him from harm.”

Mercy fucking Lewis. Grindelwald had someone picked out as a broodmare already. Graves had no idea who Grindelwald thought the second most powerful wizard in the world was – the first was obviously Grindelwald himself; Grindelwald’s ego would tolerate nothing less – but he hoped Grindelwald never caught up with the poor bastard. Listening to Grindelwald’s poison was bad enough. Being forced to endure Grindelwald’s amorous attentions … Well. That was the sort of thing that would break any man.

It wouldn’t come to that, though. Graves wouldn’t let it. He was going to escape, and he was going to make sure that Grindelwald paid for his crimes. It was a lot harder for dead men to hurt the living. Not impossible, but harder. They certainly couldn’t sire children on them, which Graves was more than willing to count as a victory.

“I thought my imaginary child was going to be your general,” Graves mocked. “Now they’re supposed to serve your imaginary child?”

“Every king needs an heir.”

“I hear having a kingdom helps, too.”

Grindelwald frowned at him. “Are you trying to provoke me, Percival?”

“It’s never been hard to, before,” Graves pointed out. In the first days of his captivity, simply breathing had been enough to provoke Grindelwald. Graves suspected that Grindelwald had just wanted to hurt him. He was a bully, and that was what bullies did.

Graves had been tortured before, with the Cruciatus and other, more inventive spells. He would probably be tortured again at some point before his career was over. Torture was something of an occupational hazard, when you spent most of your time chasing dark wizards. Graves wasn’t especially bothered by the prospect. If he tied himself up in knots worrying about what might happen, he’d never actually get anything done.

Plus, annoying Grindelwald was one of the few pleasures to be found in captivity.

“You are alive because you are useful to me, Percival,” said Grindelwald. “You are not invaluable. Have a care you remember that.”

“I have no intention of being useful to you,” Graves retorted. “Torture me if you like. I’m no rapist, and the Barebone boy is a child.”

“I don’t need to torture you,” Grindelwald said, with an idle flick of his wand. “Crucio.”

The Barebone boy went to his knees. He bit through his lip, trying not to make a sound, but it did him no good in the end. He held out for longer than Graves had seen senior Aurors do, but he still convulsed and screamed, the same way everyone did in the face of relentless, unceasing pain.

“Stop it,” Graves demanded.

He shouldn’t have cared about the Barebone boy. The Barebone boy was a No-Maj - no one special. No one would even miss him, if he was gone. It shouldn’t have mattered, if Grindelwald broke his mind and his spirit with the Cruciatus. He was no one.

Graves slammed into the invisible wall of his cell. It stung where his bare skin connected to it. Graves dug his fingers in and pulled, shoving what raw magic he could muster at it in an effort to tear it apart.

“Damn you, I said stop hurting him!” If he stood by – if he let Grindelwald hurt the boy and did nothing to stop it, then that made him no better than one of Grindelwald’s fanatics. What did it matter, if the boy was No-Maj or not? He was still a <>person, regardless of his magical ability.

Grindelwald lifted the curse with a flick of his wand.

“He’s just a boy,” Graves said, ashamed of the way his voice cracked as he begged. “He doesn’t deserve any of this. Let the boy go, please.”

“Choose, Percival,” Grindelwald said, implacable. “Pleasure or pain. His fate is up to you.”

Graves didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone quite so much as he hated Grindelwald in that moment. He didn’t want to fuck the Barebone boy, but he couldn’t stand idly by and watch Grindelwald torture him to death, either. Not if there was something he could do to stop it.

He should tell Grindelwald to go to hell. Logically, rationally, it was the only choice to make. If he let Grindelwald get to him in this, he would open the floodgates and it would never stop.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do what you want. Just stop hurting him.”