Since he now had nothing better to do, Percival decided to walk home rather than apparate. His next-door-neighbour Dorothea Peakes was conversing with a friend on the sidewalk by her townhouse, but she said a hurried farewell and disappeared inside well before he reached her. The friend, a well-dressed witch who he didn’t recognise, gave him a curious look as she passed him. Mrs Peakes was unlikely to have disclosed the reasons for her discomfort with him, at least, so her friend was probably just reacting to the way the she had practically run at the sight of him. Percival couldn’t really blame her, though; if they weren’t neighbours, Grindlewald would never have bothered her.
He had always been blessed (or cursed) with a good memory, which meant that he could recall with exacting detail how she had knocked on his door in the small hours of the morning in her dressing gown, saying her youngest daughter was missing and could he help. He had turned away to grab his coat and shoes, and she had hit him with a Full-Body Bind. The first time he heard Gellert Grindlewald’s voice, he had been lying face down on the rug in his own front hall, rigid as a board, wand clasped uselessly in one frozen hand.
She’d been under Imperius, of course, and Grindlewald had Obliviated her afterwards quite neatly. It had taken a specialist from the Covert Vigilance and Obliviation Bureau to restore the memory, and the process had probably been quite unpleasant; it was no wonder the poor woman couldn’t stand to look at him.
He closed his front door quietly, set the briefcase down beside it as he usually did, hung up his coat, and then just... stalled.
Normally he would have made dinner, then sat down with a stack of files to look through while he ate, but...
He slid slowly to the ground, folded his arms on his knees and rested his head on them. It was very quiet. He used to enjoy the restful silence, like that of his office, allowing him to work without distractions. It was the reason he had installed the silencing charms here as well. Now... (Shout all you want, Mister Graves. You know they can’t hear you...) Now it felt as though the silence was seeping into him, chilling his bones, deadening his ears, until he might as well go back to being a portrait of himself, helpless and pathetic and stuffed into his own sock drawer.
He wasn’t sure how long spent huddled against the door, but by the time he felt capable of moving again it was too dark to make out the pattern on that damnable rug. He felt stiff and chilled, so he ran the bath as hot as he could stand it and then lay in it, staring up at the ceiling. There were spots of mould in the corner; the vent must be clogged again. Clearly Grindelwald hadn’t been keeping up with the household chores; too busy grooming traumatized children and plotting a war to worry about whether his stolen house was rotting around his ears.
The bathwater slowly cooled from scalding-hot to blood-warm, until he could barely feel it, just the slide of liquid against his skin as he breathed. He closed his eyes, and remembered the terrifying lack of sensation that had accompanied being transfigured into a photograph, still capable of movement but not really feeling anything.
All the files said it had been months. It had seemed like years.
That first night Grindelwald had been absolutely vicious, casting Cruciatus with violent snaps of his wrist while he hissed insults and threats and promises of all manner of horrors for the whole of America, wearing Percival down until he lost his grip on his Occlumency shields and then ripping his mind wide open and taking what he liked from it. After that, though, he had transfigured Percival and then left him in the drawer. Percival had shouted and raged for hours, days, muffled behind a silencing charm, and then gradually given up. All a picture could do was look and speak, and he had been deprived even of that.
He might almost have been grateful for the few times Grindelwald dragged him back out into his real shape, except that it had meant being dosed with Veritaserum and having his mind picked over like a particularly-disappointing carcass for bits of information Grindelwald had missed the first time. Then more chunks of his hair cut off for the Polyjuice potion, and the absent wand-flick that sent him back into his prison, eight-by-ten inches of grey paper pinned between glass and wood.
He’d been so grateful when the search team had found him. Goldstein had been leading them, her demotion and narrowly-escaped execution leaving her one of the few Aurors not under suspicion. When he’d been transfigured back for the last time, he’d lifted his head and seen her worried face and felt such a surge of hope and relief that he could have hugged her if his limbs had been at all cooperative. Listening to her earnest recounting of the improbable events of the previous few days had been remarkably steadying as the healers checked him over and pronounced him dehydrated but otherwise fine.
Then the questions had started. Why was he fine? Why wasn’t he injured? How had Grindelwald captured him? Why hadn’t he fought harder? What information had Grindelwald taken from his mind? Had Grindelwald told him what his plans were? Did he know anything about Grindelwald’s followers? Did he know anything useful at all?
And no-one said: Why didn’t anybody notice that you were gone?
( No family, no friends, just your work colleagues, and they barely know you, Grindelwald had hissed into his ear. You’re perfect. It’s as though you went out of your way to isolate yourself just for me.)
He’d had friends at school and during his training, or at least acquaintances, people he’d been friendly with. Once he started moving up the ranks, though, the camaraderie required for fieldwork dropped away and it was all inter-office politics and gossip. He was from an old family and everyone knew he was Going Places, so people made a point of being friendly, but he’d never had any patience for that sort of thing, so he rapidly developed a reputation for being cold-blooded and aloof. That suited him just fine: you could tell a lot about people from the way they reacted to him, once he was known to be unforgivingly law-abiding. His team respected him (and if they were a little nervous about it, well, it wasn’t good to be too familiar with your employees anyway) and his superiors trusted him, and he kept getting promoted until he only had the one superior left.
Becoming Director had been wonderful. He had reorganized the Department to iron out all the inefficiencies that had bothered him moving up the ranks, and their solve rates had soared. The hours were long, and he had to do far more politicking than he liked, but he discovered that his reputation stood him in good stead there: he was a no-nonsense man of his word, and that helped remarkably with inter-office and inter-continental relations.
Grindelwald had ruined all of that: his credibility was completely shot. He wouldn’t want to work for any law enforcement agency that would that would agree to employ such a massive security risk, especially since Grindelwald had somehow managed to slip free while being transferred. Seraphina could offer all the references she wanted, but his career was over. The trouble was, he’d never really been good at anything else.
He lifted one hand out of the bathwater and considered his wrinkled fingers. He should probably get out. See if there was anything left in the kitchen after the search squad went through looking for him. It seemed like such a lot of effort, though. Grindelwald had stolen his life and worn it like a cheap suit, discarded it once he no longer needed it, and now it seemed to be more hole than cloth. Without MACUSA, what was the point of Percival Graves? He was just a waste of space, really. No longer fit for purpose.
He’d have to do something about the house, though. The Aurors had checked for booby traps when they’d gone through, but he they might have missed something. Grindelwald had slept in his bed, worn his clothes, eaten with his crockery and silverware; the house was as much of a security risk as he was, really, and it would be unkind to leave all that to whichever of his relatives got left with his effects. So, he would have to clear the place out, probably destroy all the furniture. After that... Well. He was (had been) an Auror. There were hundreds of ways to kill yourself. All he had to do was pick one that wouldn’t be too much of a bother for whoever had to clean the place afterwards.
Fill, part 2: Graves/Newt - Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Hurt/Comfort
He had always been blessed (or cursed) with a good memory, which meant that he could recall with exacting detail how she had knocked on his door in the small hours of the morning in her dressing gown, saying her youngest daughter was missing and could he help. He had turned away to grab his coat and shoes, and she had hit him with a Full-Body Bind. The first time he heard Gellert Grindlewald’s voice, he had been lying face down on the rug in his own front hall, rigid as a board, wand clasped uselessly in one frozen hand.
She’d been under Imperius, of course, and Grindlewald had Obliviated her afterwards quite neatly. It had taken a specialist from the Covert Vigilance and Obliviation Bureau to restore the memory, and the process had probably been quite unpleasant; it was no wonder the poor woman couldn’t stand to look at him.
He closed his front door quietly, set the briefcase down beside it as he usually did, hung up his coat, and then just... stalled.
Normally he would have made dinner, then sat down with a stack of files to look through while he ate, but...
He slid slowly to the ground, folded his arms on his knees and rested his head on them. It was very quiet. He used to enjoy the restful silence, like that of his office, allowing him to work without distractions. It was the reason he had installed the silencing charms here as well. Now... (Shout all you want, Mister Graves. You know they can’t hear you...) Now it felt as though the silence was seeping into him, chilling his bones, deadening his ears, until he might as well go back to being a portrait of himself, helpless and pathetic and stuffed into his own sock drawer.
He wasn’t sure how long spent huddled against the door, but by the time he felt capable of moving again it was too dark to make out the pattern on that damnable rug. He felt stiff and chilled, so he ran the bath as hot as he could stand it and then lay in it, staring up at the ceiling. There were spots of mould in the corner; the vent must be clogged again. Clearly Grindelwald hadn’t been keeping up with the household chores; too busy grooming traumatized children and plotting a war to worry about whether his stolen house was rotting around his ears.
The bathwater slowly cooled from scalding-hot to blood-warm, until he could barely feel it, just the slide of liquid against his skin as he breathed. He closed his eyes, and remembered the terrifying lack of sensation that had accompanied being transfigured into a photograph, still capable of movement but not really feeling anything.
All the files said it had been months. It had seemed like years.
That first night Grindelwald had been absolutely vicious, casting Cruciatus with violent snaps of his wrist while he hissed insults and threats and promises of all manner of horrors for the whole of America, wearing Percival down until he lost his grip on his Occlumency shields and then ripping his mind wide open and taking what he liked from it. After that, though, he had transfigured Percival and then left him in the drawer. Percival had shouted and raged for hours, days, muffled behind a silencing charm, and then gradually given up. All a picture could do was look and speak, and he had been deprived even of that.
He might almost have been grateful for the few times Grindelwald dragged him back out into his real shape, except that it had meant being dosed with Veritaserum and having his mind picked over like a particularly-disappointing carcass for bits of information Grindelwald had missed the first time. Then more chunks of his hair cut off for the Polyjuice potion, and the absent wand-flick that sent him back into his prison, eight-by-ten inches of grey paper pinned between glass and wood.
He’d been so grateful when the search team had found him. Goldstein had been leading them, her demotion and narrowly-escaped execution leaving her one of the few Aurors not under suspicion. When he’d been transfigured back for the last time, he’d lifted his head and seen her worried face and felt such a surge of hope and relief that he could have hugged her if his limbs had been at all cooperative. Listening to her earnest recounting of the improbable events of the previous few days had been remarkably steadying as the healers checked him over and pronounced him dehydrated but otherwise fine.
Then the questions had started. Why was he fine? Why wasn’t he injured? How had Grindelwald captured him? Why hadn’t he fought harder? What information had Grindelwald taken from his mind? Had Grindelwald told him what his plans were? Did he know anything about Grindelwald’s followers? Did he know anything useful at all?
And no-one said: Why didn’t anybody notice that you were gone?
( No family, no friends, just your work colleagues, and they barely know you, Grindelwald had hissed into his ear. You’re perfect. It’s as though you went out of your way to isolate yourself just for me.)
He’d had friends at school and during his training, or at least acquaintances, people he’d been friendly with. Once he started moving up the ranks, though, the camaraderie required for fieldwork dropped away and it was all inter-office politics and gossip. He was from an old family and everyone knew he was Going Places, so people made a point of being friendly, but he’d never had any patience for that sort of thing, so he rapidly developed a reputation for being cold-blooded and aloof. That suited him just fine: you could tell a lot about people from the way they reacted to him, once he was known to be unforgivingly law-abiding. His team respected him (and if they were a little nervous about it, well, it wasn’t good to be too familiar with your employees anyway) and his superiors trusted him, and he kept getting promoted until he only had the one superior left.
Becoming Director had been wonderful. He had reorganized the Department to iron out all the inefficiencies that had bothered him moving up the ranks, and their solve rates had soared. The hours were long, and he had to do far more politicking than he liked, but he discovered that his reputation stood him in good stead there: he was a no-nonsense man of his word, and that helped remarkably with inter-office and inter-continental relations.
Grindelwald had ruined all of that: his credibility was completely shot. He wouldn’t want to work for any law enforcement agency that would that would agree to employ such a massive security risk, especially since Grindelwald had somehow managed to slip free while being transferred. Seraphina could offer all the references she wanted, but his career was over. The trouble was, he’d never really been good at anything else.
He lifted one hand out of the bathwater and considered his wrinkled fingers. He should probably get out. See if there was anything left in the kitchen after the search squad went through looking for him. It seemed like such a lot of effort, though. Grindelwald had stolen his life and worn it like a cheap suit, discarded it once he no longer needed it, and now it seemed to be more hole than cloth. Without MACUSA, what was the point of Percival Graves? He was just a waste of space, really. No longer fit for purpose.
He’d have to do something about the house, though. The Aurors had checked for booby traps when they’d gone through, but he they might have missed something. Grindelwald had slept in his bed, worn his clothes, eaten with his crockery and silverware; the house was as much of a security risk as he was, really, and it would be unkind to leave all that to whichever of his relatives got left with his effects. So, he would have to clear the place out, probably destroy all the furniture. After that... Well. He was (had been) an Auror. There were hundreds of ways to kill yourself. All he had to do was pick one that wouldn’t be too much of a bother for whoever had to clean the place afterwards.