He’d started with the obvious things, the ones he knew Grindelwald had touched because he’d seen him do it: the kitchen table and chairs, the bed, the wardrobe, all the clothes, the chest of drawers. Definitely the drawers. It took a while to be satisfied that each item was completely inert; his grasp on his magic wasn’t as perfect as he’d like and he still tired easily.
The mediwitch who’d checked him over had said that being Transfigured for long periods of time could have some lingering effects on that sort of thing, and listed off possible symptoms. He had nodded, and thanked her, and ignored her carefully worded suggestion that he might perhaps be in shock. Grindelwald had barely touched him; there was nothing wrong with him that a little sleep wouldn’t cure. So he let himself sleep in, since he had nowhere to be, and when he got tired, he took naps.
The couch in the living room wasn’t too bad to sleep on, since the bed was gone. A blanket might have been nice, but it seemed like far too much effort to go out and buy one. It would only be a few more days, and besides, if he left the house he would have to make himself presentable, and he no longer had a shaving kit. Or a mirror.
(Smile for me, Mister Graves, Grindelwald had murmured, flicking his stolen wand, I know you don’t do it often, but I need to get it right. He didn’t know which was worse, seeing Grindelwald’s smirk on his doppelganger’s face or his own smile, perfectly copied. )
The mirror had needed to go. Everything in the bathroom, too. That rug in the hallway. While he was deconstructing the rug into a pile of shredded fibres, he decided he should get rid of all the carpets, really, because Grindelwald had walked on them.
And then he thought about it, about the fact that Grindelwald had been living in his house for months, and there was no way of knowing what he had touched. None of it could be trusted. Everything went a little vague for a while, but when he became aware of his surroundings again he’d finished disintegrating the rug, and everything else in the entryway, too. That was a good start, so he kept going.
There weren’t a lot of personal touches in his house, since he basically only came home to sleep and change clothes. There were two pictures on the mantelpiece over the fire, one of himself and his parents before they passed away, and another of his parents’ wedding, with assorted cousins and second-cousins to whom he hadn’t spoken in years. He destroyed those with particular care, after checking them twice to see if there were any obvious curses; Grindelwald might have banked upon his being too sentimental to get rid of them, but if so he had vastly underestimated Percival’s determination.
(I have to say, I was expecting the head of MACUSA’s security to be a little more difficult to crack, Mister Graves. And you have such a fearsome reputation, too. I wonder, did you get the job based solely on your name, or are the rest of your underlings just that pathetic?)
He hadn’t bothered unpacking the rest when he moved in, so they were still in a box in the attic. When he checked, they were still layered with dust over their preservation charms, and he spent hours pacing back and forth in the cramped space as he tried to decide if Grindelwald would have bothered to open them up, booby-trap them, and then put the dust back. There was nothing particularly valuable in there, just old papers and photographs from his school years and Auror training, some things of his parents’ that he’d kept, and Grindelwald had had no reason to go through them; he’d made it clear that his choice of Percival had been expedience rather than some personal grudge. But. He could have.
In the end Percival left them, telling himself he could always come back to them, but it felt like failure and he was a little nauseous.
The feeling stayed with him as he worked his way through the house room by room, until finally he was left standing in his study with a quill and ink, a roll of parchment, and a coil of rope. He settled cross-legged on the floor and considered the blank paper. There wasn’t much to say, really. He had made his will years ago, when he first started in the field.
He dipped the pen, and frowned at his unsteady hand. To Whom it May Concern, he wrote carefully, and then started at a knock on his front door. Ink spattered the paper, and he cursed and put the pen back in the inkwell as the knocking continued. He lurched to his feet and had to brace a hand against the wall as the room swam for a moment, then he padded out, shutting the study door behind him just in case.
He peered through the spyhole in the front door, and then carefully began lowering the wards to open it. He recognised the man standing on his doorstep easily enough – he was distinctive, and Percival had seen the files.
Newt Scamander blinked at him when he opened the door. “Disconcerting,” he said thoughtfully.
Percival raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Scamander ducked his head slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, I’d heard about you from Theseus, you see, but this is the first time I’ve actually met you, though I did meet somebody else wearing your face. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
All the sightings placed Grindelwald in Europe, Percival reminded himself. Seraphina didn’t think anyone was going to come after him. And if they did, why would they come disguised as Newt Scamander? Who was studying him now with great interest.
“I’m not an imposter, but if it would make you more comfortable to check, be my guest,” he said, without a trace of sarcasm. He spread his hands slightly, showing that they were empty, and then waited.
Percival hesitated a moment, but there was a general charm over his entire house to divert No-Maj attention, and the man had offered, so he cast a swift Revelio and felt himself relax as the face in front of him remained freckled and earnest.
“Sorry,” Percival muttered, as he stepped back to let the other man in.
“Oh, no, I quite understand, given the circumstances,” Scamander replied, pausing in the entryway. He seemed momentarily stymied by the lack of a coat stand, but set down his case and began taking it off anyway.
Percival looked at the case. “Is that, ah-“
Scamander blinked down at the innocuous brown leather thing. “Oh, not to worry, I have a permit. Permits, actually. Quite legal, as long as everybody stays inside it. And I have new locks, which have proven thoroughly Niffler-proof, so it’ll be fine. Is that alright?” He hadn’t quite met Percival’s eyes, but that was possibly nothing personal; he remembered Scamander, Theseus Scamander, complaining more than once about his awkward little brother’s loose grasp of social conventions.
After a moment, Percival shrugged. “If you say it’s fine, I’m sure it is. Not my job to worry about that anymore.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies,” Scamander said quietly, folding his coat neatly and setting it on top of the case. “That is sort of why I’m here, actually. I-“ he paused, and then flushed rather charmingly. “I’m sorry, I do occasionally have manners. I’m Newt Scamander. Which you probably knew, given the, ah,” he gestured at the case, “but, well. Nice to finally meet you.”
He extended a hand and smiled, and Percival smiled back reflexively, the expression feeling strange on his face, as he shook the proffered hand. “Percival Graves, which I am sure you also knew. And I must admit I’ve heard a fair bit about you from your brother, so we’re even on that score.”
“Oh, dear,” Scamander muttered, flushing darker. “He tends to exaggerate things, I’m afraid, so I hope you haven’t paid too much attention to anything he’s said.”
“Given what Miss Goldstein told me, I think he might have been understating matters in your case, Mister Scamander,” Percival told him wryly.
“The whole situation escalated quite rapidly,” Scamander muttered, ducking his head again, “and call me Newt, please.”
“If you’ll return the favour,” Percival agreed, and then realised that they were still standing next to the front door. “Sorry, come on in. Would you like-“ he paused, thinking. He’d thrown out the tea, because Grindelwald had drunk it. He preferred coffee anyway.
(Grindelwald had made him a cup of coffee once, just the way he liked it, and then watched him drink it with fixed attention. It’s the little things you have to watch, he’d said, smiling Percival’s smile back at him as he sat paralysed in the other chair, because people might not realise how well they know somebody, but if the gestures and mannerisms are wrong, they start to feel uneasy without knowing why, and if you do something out of character they are immediately suspicious. Once you get the small details right, you can get away with all the rest quite easily. )
He’d thrown out the coffee, too.
“Percival?” said a soft voice, and Percival blinked.
“Ah, sorry. I- A glass of water, perhaps? I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting guests.”
“Clean water is nothing to sniff at,” Newt said mildly, his mouth tugging up into an uncertain smile. “It’s quite the luxury in some places.”
Percival tried to smile back, but his face felt stiff and cold, so he turned and headed into the house. He led Newt past the now-empty living room and to the kitchen, and then paused. The glasses were well and truly gone, and he could hardly expect a guest to drink from the tap the way he’d been doing.
Newt, behind him, was looking around thoughtfully. “Tina said you were going on holiday. I wasn’t sure if you had already left, but I thought I could leave a note, maybe see if your neighbours knew where you’d gone. Are you planning to move, instead?”
“...something like that,” Graves agreed.
“Most people take the furniture with them, don’t they?” It was an innocent enough question, but Percival tensed anyway.
“Grindelwald touched it.” He knew his tone was too flat, tried to smile to alleviate the effect, but Newt was gazing past him at the pile of powder that had been the table before Percival reduced it to its component molecules.
“You didn’t wish to sell it?” he asked.
“Grindelwald touched it,” Percival repeated, more sharply. “It was... compromised. I destroyed it.”
Newt did look at him then, a brief moment of eye contact and then a thoughtful once-over. Percival abruptly recalled that that he hadn’t shaved since he’d gotten rid of the mirror. That was none of Newt’s business, though, and he’d spelled his clothes clean and taken a bath that morning, so he was hardly a complete eyesore. Plenty of people didn’t shave if they weren’t planning to leave the house.
Newt kept looking at him, though, and Percival abruptly wanted him gone, wanted to be quiet and unobserved again while he finished up.
He opened his mouth to ask why Newt was here, so he could give him whatever he wanted and get him to leave, but Newt took a step closer to him, just one, and said mildly, “Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps? I have tea.” He stepped closer again, not quite meeting Percival’s eyes, keeping his body at a slight angle to Percival’s own. “And biscuits, too, I picked up some shortbread while I was staying with Theseus. He wanted me to ask you a question, but there’s no rush, and a nice cup of tea makes everything feel much more civilised.”
Percival recognised the body language, the sort Aurors used for de-escalating a situation when facing someone panicking and possibly armed, but couldn’t think what the man was doing. He actually checked his hands, just to be sure, but his wand was still neatly up his sleeve and his hands were empty.
Newt stopped, not quite close enough to crowd Percival, and then tipped his head to the side and frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you not like tea? I know some Americans don’t, but I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee. How terribly thoughtless of me, that-“ and he looked so flustered that Percival interrupted with, “No, no, tea is fine,” without thinking, and Newt relaxed.
“Oh, good, thank you,” he said, smiling more earnestly now, and pulled out his wand, turning back towards the door to make a smooth flicking motion. Percival blinked once, raising an eyebrow as the brown case slid into the room, settled on its side and opened, tipping the blue coat onto the floor.
Newt gave him another little smile, and brushed his knuckles against Percival’s shoulder lightly. He moved away, picking up his coat and dusting furniture-particles off it, folding it over his arm. “Do come in,” he said over his shoulder. “Mind the stairs,” and then he stepped into the case.
Percival watched him disappear, and then sighed, surrendering to inevitability, and followed.
Fill, part 3: Graves/Newt - Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Hurt/Comfort
The mediwitch who’d checked him over had said that being Transfigured for long periods of time could have some lingering effects on that sort of thing, and listed off possible symptoms. He had nodded, and thanked her, and ignored her carefully worded suggestion that he might perhaps be in shock. Grindelwald had barely touched him; there was nothing wrong with him that a little sleep wouldn’t cure. So he let himself sleep in, since he had nowhere to be, and when he got tired, he took naps.
The couch in the living room wasn’t too bad to sleep on, since the bed was gone. A blanket might have been nice, but it seemed like far too much effort to go out and buy one. It would only be a few more days, and besides, if he left the house he would have to make himself presentable, and he no longer had a shaving kit. Or a mirror.
(Smile for me, Mister Graves, Grindelwald had murmured, flicking his stolen wand, I know you don’t do it often, but I need to get it right. He didn’t know which was worse, seeing Grindelwald’s smirk on his doppelganger’s face or his own smile, perfectly copied. )
The mirror had needed to go. Everything in the bathroom, too. That rug in the hallway. While he was deconstructing the rug into a pile of shredded fibres, he decided he should get rid of all the carpets, really, because Grindelwald had walked on them.
And then he thought about it, about the fact that Grindelwald had been living in his house for months, and there was no way of knowing what he had touched. None of it could be trusted. Everything went a little vague for a while, but when he became aware of his surroundings again he’d finished disintegrating the rug, and everything else in the entryway, too. That was a good start, so he kept going.
There weren’t a lot of personal touches in his house, since he basically only came home to sleep and change clothes. There were two pictures on the mantelpiece over the fire, one of himself and his parents before they passed away, and another of his parents’ wedding, with assorted cousins and second-cousins to whom he hadn’t spoken in years. He destroyed those with particular care, after checking them twice to see if there were any obvious curses; Grindelwald might have banked upon his being too sentimental to get rid of them, but if so he had vastly underestimated Percival’s determination.
(I have to say, I was expecting the head of MACUSA’s security to be a little more difficult to crack, Mister Graves. And you have such a fearsome reputation, too. I wonder, did you get the job based solely on your name, or are the rest of your underlings just that pathetic?)
He hadn’t bothered unpacking the rest when he moved in, so they were still in a box in the attic. When he checked, they were still layered with dust over their preservation charms, and he spent hours pacing back and forth in the cramped space as he tried to decide if Grindelwald would have bothered to open them up, booby-trap them, and then put the dust back. There was nothing particularly valuable in there, just old papers and photographs from his school years and Auror training, some things of his parents’ that he’d kept, and Grindelwald had had no reason to go through them; he’d made it clear that his choice of Percival had been expedience rather than some personal grudge. But. He could have.
In the end Percival left them, telling himself he could always come back to them, but it felt like failure and he was a little nauseous.
The feeling stayed with him as he worked his way through the house room by room, until finally he was left standing in his study with a quill and ink, a roll of parchment, and a coil of rope. He settled cross-legged on the floor and considered the blank paper. There wasn’t much to say, really. He had made his will years ago, when he first started in the field.
He dipped the pen, and frowned at his unsteady hand. To Whom it May Concern, he wrote carefully, and then started at a knock on his front door. Ink spattered the paper, and he cursed and put the pen back in the inkwell as the knocking continued. He lurched to his feet and had to brace a hand against the wall as the room swam for a moment, then he padded out, shutting the study door behind him just in case.
He peered through the spyhole in the front door, and then carefully began lowering the wards to open it. He recognised the man standing on his doorstep easily enough – he was distinctive, and Percival had seen the files.
Newt Scamander blinked at him when he opened the door. “Disconcerting,” he said thoughtfully.
Percival raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Scamander ducked his head slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, I’d heard about you from Theseus, you see, but this is the first time I’ve actually met you, though I did meet somebody else wearing your face. I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
All the sightings placed Grindelwald in Europe, Percival reminded himself. Seraphina didn’t think anyone was going to come after him. And if they did, why would they come disguised as Newt Scamander? Who was studying him now with great interest.
“I’m not an imposter, but if it would make you more comfortable to check, be my guest,” he said, without a trace of sarcasm. He spread his hands slightly, showing that they were empty, and then waited.
Percival hesitated a moment, but there was a general charm over his entire house to divert No-Maj attention, and the man had offered, so he cast a swift Revelio and felt himself relax as the face in front of him remained freckled and earnest.
“Sorry,” Percival muttered, as he stepped back to let the other man in.
“Oh, no, I quite understand, given the circumstances,” Scamander replied, pausing in the entryway. He seemed momentarily stymied by the lack of a coat stand, but set down his case and began taking it off anyway.
Percival looked at the case. “Is that, ah-“
Scamander blinked down at the innocuous brown leather thing. “Oh, not to worry, I have a permit. Permits, actually. Quite legal, as long as everybody stays inside it. And I have new locks, which have proven thoroughly Niffler-proof, so it’ll be fine. Is that alright?” He hadn’t quite met Percival’s eyes, but that was possibly nothing personal; he remembered Scamander, Theseus Scamander, complaining more than once about his awkward little brother’s loose grasp of social conventions.
After a moment, Percival shrugged. “If you say it’s fine, I’m sure it is. Not my job to worry about that anymore.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies,” Scamander said quietly, folding his coat neatly and setting it on top of the case. “That is sort of why I’m here, actually. I-“ he paused, and then flushed rather charmingly. “I’m sorry, I do occasionally have manners. I’m Newt Scamander. Which you probably knew, given the, ah,” he gestured at the case, “but, well. Nice to finally meet you.”
He extended a hand and smiled, and Percival smiled back reflexively, the expression feeling strange on his face, as he shook the proffered hand. “Percival Graves, which I am sure you also knew. And I must admit I’ve heard a fair bit about you from your brother, so we’re even on that score.”
“Oh, dear,” Scamander muttered, flushing darker. “He tends to exaggerate things, I’m afraid, so I hope you haven’t paid too much attention to anything he’s said.”
“Given what Miss Goldstein told me, I think he might have been understating matters in your case, Mister Scamander,” Percival told him wryly.
“The whole situation escalated quite rapidly,” Scamander muttered, ducking his head again, “and call me Newt, please.”
“If you’ll return the favour,” Percival agreed, and then realised that they were still standing next to the front door. “Sorry, come on in. Would you like-“ he paused, thinking. He’d thrown out the tea, because Grindelwald had drunk it. He preferred coffee anyway.
(Grindelwald had made him a cup of coffee once, just the way he liked it, and then watched him drink it with fixed attention. It’s the little things you have to watch, he’d said, smiling Percival’s smile back at him as he sat paralysed in the other chair, because people might not realise how well they know somebody, but if the gestures and mannerisms are wrong, they start to feel uneasy without knowing why, and if you do something out of character they are immediately suspicious. Once you get the small details right, you can get away with all the rest quite easily. )
He’d thrown out the coffee, too.
“Percival?” said a soft voice, and Percival blinked.
“Ah, sorry. I- A glass of water, perhaps? I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting guests.”
“Clean water is nothing to sniff at,” Newt said mildly, his mouth tugging up into an uncertain smile. “It’s quite the luxury in some places.”
Percival tried to smile back, but his face felt stiff and cold, so he turned and headed into the house. He led Newt past the now-empty living room and to the kitchen, and then paused. The glasses were well and truly gone, and he could hardly expect a guest to drink from the tap the way he’d been doing.
Newt, behind him, was looking around thoughtfully. “Tina said you were going on holiday. I wasn’t sure if you had already left, but I thought I could leave a note, maybe see if your neighbours knew where you’d gone. Are you planning to move, instead?”
“...something like that,” Graves agreed.
“Most people take the furniture with them, don’t they?” It was an innocent enough question, but Percival tensed anyway.
“Grindelwald touched it.” He knew his tone was too flat, tried to smile to alleviate the effect, but Newt was gazing past him at the pile of powder that had been the table before Percival reduced it to its component molecules.
“You didn’t wish to sell it?” he asked.
“Grindelwald touched it,” Percival repeated, more sharply. “It was... compromised. I destroyed it.”
Newt did look at him then, a brief moment of eye contact and then a thoughtful once-over. Percival abruptly recalled that that he hadn’t shaved since he’d gotten rid of the mirror. That was none of Newt’s business, though, and he’d spelled his clothes clean and taken a bath that morning, so he was hardly a complete eyesore. Plenty of people didn’t shave if they weren’t planning to leave the house.
Newt kept looking at him, though, and Percival abruptly wanted him gone, wanted to be quiet and unobserved again while he finished up.
He opened his mouth to ask why Newt was here, so he could give him whatever he wanted and get him to leave, but Newt took a step closer to him, just one, and said mildly, “Would you like a cup of tea, perhaps? I have tea.” He stepped closer again, not quite meeting Percival’s eyes, keeping his body at a slight angle to Percival’s own. “And biscuits, too, I picked up some shortbread while I was staying with Theseus. He wanted me to ask you a question, but there’s no rush, and a nice cup of tea makes everything feel much more civilised.”
Percival recognised the body language, the sort Aurors used for de-escalating a situation when facing someone panicking and possibly armed, but couldn’t think what the man was doing. He actually checked his hands, just to be sure, but his wand was still neatly up his sleeve and his hands were empty.
Newt stopped, not quite close enough to crowd Percival, and then tipped his head to the side and frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you not like tea? I know some Americans don’t, but I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee. How terribly thoughtless of me, that-“ and he looked so flustered that Percival interrupted with, “No, no, tea is fine,” without thinking, and Newt relaxed.
“Oh, good, thank you,” he said, smiling more earnestly now, and pulled out his wand, turning back towards the door to make a smooth flicking motion. Percival blinked once, raising an eyebrow as the brown case slid into the room, settled on its side and opened, tipping the blue coat onto the floor.
Newt gave him another little smile, and brushed his knuckles against Percival’s shoulder lightly. He moved away, picking up his coat and dusting furniture-particles off it, folding it over his arm. “Do come in,” he said over his shoulder. “Mind the stairs,” and then he stepped into the case.
Percival watched him disappear, and then sighed, surrendering to inevitability, and followed.