The ring was the thing. A thing of beauty, if Graves trusted his eyes, and a joy forever, if only Newt Scamander would share the trust and make him even more of an honest wizard than Percival Graves' forty years of single-minded disciplined warranted. f
The ring came from Albrik and Son's, who had set up shop in Old Wizarding Amsterdam when Percival was a (rare) gleam in his father's eye and the Gold Rush had kept all goblins on their pointed toes. Gold it was, brighter than the evergoing party of neon lights above Fifth Avenue, engraved in and out with protective spells that Percival had devised himself, because he wanted the ring to speak not only his love, a new thing itself, and a source of breathtaking happiness, but his newfound duty to keep Newt safe, well and cherished at all times.
"Just let me..." Tina creased her brow, touching her wand to his chest. "You are not proposing with a black tie, sir. Not on my watch."
"I'm not superstitious." The ring is the thing. The ring is the... He started at the rap on his door; willed his neck to relax as it opened and Queenie Goldstein popped her blond head in.
"Mrs Piquery's compliment, sir, and please to say if the bridgroom is coming here alone or with, ah, family. Security -"
"I am Security," Graves snapped, trying to squint down at his tie which, apparently, had been Transfigured into a red carnation, "and he's still a bachelor." The ring is...
"Ooooh, but not for long!" Queenie beamed fondly on him. " 'Specially now you've ditched the the handfasting, honey. Mr Graves, that is. Our Newt is a swell kid, but he's not the one to stay put for three hours, not if it's feeding hour for the moggies or thundering hour for the birdies, or -"
"That will be all, Miss Goldstein." Graves stood up, aware that his thoughts were drifting to late hours, so late they ran into very early hours, when Newt had been content to stay put in his arms and bed. He saw her eyes round and added quickly, "Just wish me luck."
And then, his fireplace lit up and Seraphina's head appeared, sternly benevolent between her framing love curls. "Percival. I am told congratulations are in order."
"Not yet," Graves said, tamping down the itch to slip a finger under his phantom tie. He wasn't used to so many people showing a vested interest in his happiness, still a far cry from the last twenty years. He had championed Newt Scamander upon the young man's return to New York with a fresh-minted book and a fresh batch of protégés; had taken him in, after an unfortunate encounter between Tina's lodger and a junior erumpent; found unexpected comfort in Newt's late-night talks about the creatures, their beauty, vim and peacefulness, at a time when the human species seemed so devoid of them; had changed his mind when Newt had kissed him at dawn, on a good-morning spur, the two of them watching the sun high in the sky and Graves's De Dion-Bouton (MACUSA's compensation for three weeks of unpaid wages). And because he had kissed back, and Newt had bloomed under the kiss, vibrating with joy and confidence as he zig-zagged his way through agents and publishers, Newt's friends had taken him in and made him part of their inner circle.
It was as if all of last year's insanity had been turned into gold, and as he patted his waistcoat pocket absently, he found himself smiling.
Then he did some more patting, and stopped smiling.
"...Percival?" Seraphina was angling her head in the grate. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, Mr Graves!" Queenie had already caught up with his quick-change mood. "Did you check your other pockets?"
Percival had flung his cape aside and was peeling his waistcoat off, not caring if two passing secretaries had paused at the door, with a slow-mo, appreciative gaze. He searched the outer and inner pockets, groped the lining, checked his trousers for good measure and then, with a frantic gulp unbefitting of America's chief Auror, grabbed the waistcoat again and shook it upside down.
Nothing. But the gesture did ring a...
Just then, Queen uttered a distressed little cry. "Newt! He's walking up the hall!"
"Decoy him! Don't let him in! Tell him I'm sick - abroad - in the field!" Graves had caught his hair in both hands and was tugging on it as if hoping to Leviosa himself by sheer muscle force. "Tina! Liaise with Theft and Pilfering. I need every wizarding op on board. We're issuing a level-5 wanted notice. "
There was a cough from the chimney.
"Pending your approval," Graves said mechanically. "Madam President, we have a situation."
"Security breach?"
"Worse. Much worse."
"Grindel..."
"Not even close." Graves forced the air back into his lungs. "Little Midas."
Fill - The Ring is the Thing (1/2)
The ring came from Albrik and Son's, who had set up shop in Old Wizarding Amsterdam when Percival was a (rare) gleam in his father's eye and the Gold Rush had kept all
goblins on their pointed toes. Gold it was, brighter than the evergoing party of neon lights above Fifth Avenue, engraved in and out with protective spells that Percival had devised himself, because he wanted the ring to speak not only his love, a new thing itself, and a source of breathtaking happiness, but his newfound duty to keep Newt safe, well and cherished at all times.
"Just let me..." Tina creased her brow, touching her wand to his chest. "You are not proposing with a black tie, sir. Not on my watch."
"I'm not superstitious." The ring is the thing. The ring is the... He started at the rap on his door; willed his neck to relax as it opened and Queenie Goldstein popped her blond head in.
"Mrs Piquery's compliment, sir, and please to say if the bridgroom is coming here alone or with, ah, family. Security -"
"I am Security," Graves snapped, trying to squint down at his tie which, apparently, had been Transfigured into a red carnation, "and he's still a bachelor." The ring is...
"Ooooh, but not for long!" Queenie beamed fondly on him. " 'Specially now you've ditched the the handfasting, honey. Mr Graves, that is. Our Newt is a swell kid, but he's not the one to stay put for three hours, not if it's feeding hour for the moggies or thundering hour for the birdies, or -"
"That will be all, Miss Goldstein." Graves stood up, aware that his thoughts were drifting to late hours, so late they ran into very early hours, when Newt had been content to stay put in his arms and bed. He saw her eyes round and added quickly, "Just wish me luck."
And then, his fireplace lit up and Seraphina's head appeared, sternly benevolent between her framing love curls. "Percival. I am told congratulations are in order."
"Not yet," Graves said, tamping down the itch to slip a finger under his phantom tie. He wasn't used to so many people showing a vested interest in his happiness, still a far cry from the last twenty years. He had championed Newt Scamander upon the young man's return to New York with a fresh-minted book and a fresh batch of protégés; had taken him in, after an unfortunate encounter between Tina's lodger and a junior erumpent; found unexpected comfort in Newt's late-night talks about the creatures, their beauty, vim and peacefulness, at a time when the human species seemed so devoid of them; had changed his mind when Newt had kissed him at dawn, on a good-morning spur, the two of them watching the sun high in the sky and Graves's De Dion-Bouton (MACUSA's compensation for three weeks of unpaid wages). And because he had kissed back, and Newt had bloomed under the kiss, vibrating with joy and confidence as he zig-zagged his way through agents and publishers, Newt's friends had taken him in and made him part of their inner circle.
It was as if all of last year's insanity had been turned into gold, and as he patted his waistcoat pocket absently, he found himself smiling.
Then he did some more patting, and stopped smiling.
"...Percival?" Seraphina was angling her head in the grate. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, Mr Graves!" Queenie had already caught up with his quick-change mood. "Did you check your other pockets?"
Percival had flung his cape aside and was peeling his waistcoat off, not caring if two passing secretaries had paused at the door, with a slow-mo, appreciative gaze. He searched the outer and inner pockets, groped the lining, checked his trousers for good measure and then, with a frantic gulp unbefitting of America's chief Auror, grabbed the waistcoat again and shook it upside down.
Nothing. But the gesture did ring a...
Just then, Queen uttered a distressed little cry. "Newt! He's walking up the hall!"
"Decoy him! Don't let him in! Tell him I'm sick - abroad - in the field!" Graves had caught his hair in both hands and was tugging on it as if hoping to Leviosa himself by sheer muscle force. "Tina! Liaise with Theft and Pilfering. I need every wizarding op on board. We're issuing a level-5 wanted notice. "
There was a cough from the chimney.
"Pending your approval," Graves said mechanically. "Madam President, we have a situation."
"Security breach?"
"Worse. Much worse."
"Grindel..."
"Not even close." Graves forced the air back into his lungs. "Little Midas."