“…and THEN they realised that it wasn’t really me?” Newt has never excelled at identifying the nuances of human emotion in others, but he thinks it’s safe to say that the man is not happy. He looks like a garuda whose mating dance has been unambiguously rejected, all slumped shoulders and punctured pride.
“Ah, well – no,” Newt says, fiddling with his cufflink. “Actually that’s when they turned their wands on you. Him. It all happened rather quickly.
Graves shakes his head. “You’re telling me that MACUSA was just fine with me ordering Goldstein executed, and a foreign magizoologist along with her? No due process?” His voice cracks as Graves sloshes the last of the Snapdragon Brandy into his glass; Newt watches the swirls of pinks and violets and dark purples dance through the liquid like a rainbow of tiny, incongruously joyous obscure.
“Yes,” he says, helpfully.
Graves takes another swallow of the brandy. “And nobody noticed that I – he – ‘I’ – was apparently GROOMING this poor repressed child like some kind of predator? And attempting to expose the wizarding world to the No-Majs, and cause mass panic and rioting and Merlin knows what else? Although frankly how he found the time to do that, with the amount of paperwork they want you to fill in these days, and in triplicate too – I mean, I’m normally at work from seven to seven Monday to Friday….but, seriously? Nobody noticed?”
“No,” agrees Newt, taking a cautious sip of brandy from his own small glass. It crackles on his tongue like angry sherbert in a burst of hot-sweet-sour: not bad, once you get used to it.
“It didn’t cross anyone’s mind as unlikely that I would have my friend’s little brother summarily executed?” When Newt’s confusion registers on his face, Graves gestures vaguely with the glass and adds: “Picquery’s well aware that I’ve known Theseus for years. Ask him about the conference in Prague, and that evening with the golems.” Newt is startled into making eye contact, and he finds that Graves’s mouth has quirked into a smile again. “You exceed expectations, incidentally, Mr Scamander.”
There is a thoughtful silence, which Newt rather enjoys. Then Graves bursts out: “Merlin’s knobbly staff, though, Goldstein’s like a little terrier, isn’t she? Never gives up, that kid. Damn fine auror, just like her old man…what the hell was Picquery THINKING, demoting her?”
"Um...I believe I mentioned that she assaulted Mrs Barebone?"
"You said the crazy thaumophobic No-Maj was beating her kid," says Graves, shrugging. "Her kid who, it turns out, was a wizard all along. Goldstein's got good instincts – she was protecting a defenceless underaged wizard, and she obviously didn't use lethal force. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to do what's right."
Newt perks up. "Yes! Yes, exactly!" He darts a relieved glance at Graves's face. This is a much more sensible attitude than he had been expecting; of course he knows that the other man was Grindlewald all along, but it is still difficult, on a gut level, not to think of this as the man who condemned him to death.
"He should never have fallen through the cracks like that," Graves says, staring grimly into the distance. Newt follows his gaze uncertainly, but all he sees is his niffler scurrying along with a bright teaspoon clutched in its paws.
"Yes, well - the case is rather old," he says, a touch defensively. He really must do something to discourage Herbert from escaping in search of shiny things; the trouble with these old travelling cases is that the lock charms do get glitchy after a while.
"I've been saying for years that we need a more efficient way of identifying and bringing in the Sports," Graves continues.
Newt replays that sentence in his head several times, along with its predecessor, and concludes, irritably, that there may be figurative language at play.
"I don't understand," he says, the brandy blunting his tongue.
Graves glances back at him. "Wizards born to No-Majs. Too many of them never get identified. Fall into the wrong hands."
"Oh - mudbloods. Well - yes. Our Ministry has an automated system that reacts to unregistered fluctuations in atmospheric magic levels and alerts Hogwarts whenever a mudblood starts to come into their powers - can't you...?"
Graves fixes him with a pointed look. "Mr Scamander, have you got any idea just how many No-Majs there are in North America? Or how large the territory is?"
"...lots? Big?"
"Lots," says Graves emphatically. "BIG." He sighs. "But still - there's got to be a way to do better."
"...it probably wouldn't have made a difference in this case," Newt says after a moment. "Not if she'd been filling his head with all this 'witches are evil' nonsense since he was little." He thinks back to Nour, small and terrible and terrified under the baking sun, surrounded by dead villagers, and feels a moment of absolute fury. He'd been too late to save her. Too late to save Credence.
But not too late to save Frank, he reminds himself. Frank, at least, is flying free once more.
"I don't understand people," he blurts out, thinking of Nour, of Frank, of Credence; thinking of the agony that tore through him as Graves - no, no, Grindlewald - had poured the full force of his fury into the Cruciatus curse. Too loud, his voice is too loud and the words are too glib - they don't carry the weight of his bafflement and pain in the face of human callousness, human cruelty. Words are another kind of magic, and one Newt has never really mastered. "I prefer creatures," he says, softly, and beneath the bright fold of his collar he feels Pickett snuggling up against him. "They're more - honest. You know where you are with creatures."
"You might be on to something, at that," says Graves, after a pause, and his voice is kinder than Newt was expecting. When Newt darts a quick glance at his face, the man's mouth is curving at the corners and creases bracket his eyes. Newt isn’t at all sure how to read his expression. He's no Jacob, but perhaps Newt could like this Percival Graves after all. "I had an albino puffskein when I was a kid,” Graves is saying. His cheeks are flushing a little, which is probably the brandy. “Runt of the litter, and they said there was no point raising him. Said he wouldn’t live more than a month or two. But he lived to twelve years old.” Newt is impressed in spite of himself: twelve is a very respectable age for a puffskein. “Laziest creature you ever met, but I loved that little guy. He died while I was away at school.” After a moment he adds, “I’ve always wanted a dog, but it doesn’t seem fair, with the hours I work. But I bet that son of a No-Maj wouldn’t have gotten the drop on me if I had a dog.”
“Or else he’d have hurt the dog,” Newt points out, because working with the dragon corps meant he doesn’t have any illusions about Gellert Grindlewald’s kindness to animals.
Graves’s face falls. “Or he’d have hurt the dog. Right.”
The pyjamas and the bare feet tell their own story; Newt is suddenly acutely grateful for his furry, scaly, prickly family as he imagines Percival Graves alone in his empty apartment, ambushed by a dark wizard as he padded wearily off to brush his teeth after another twelve-hour day, and nobody there to protect him, or to notice he was missing.
“Do you want to meet them?” Newt says, abruptly. “My creatures?” Grindlewald had scoured the menagerie and stolen his obscurus, but this man with the same face and form has never seen them; perhaps he’d appreciate them.
“You know, I think I do,” says Graves, and when Newt glances up at him again, he’s smiling properly. “After all, there’s no rush to get back, is there? The paperwork has been doing itself, from the sounds of it, and I’ve not taken a day off work for five years. Mr Scamander, I would love to meet the denizens of your zoo.”
FILL 2/2 Re: Gen or Real!Percival/Newt, There's a Graves in my Suitcase
“…and THEN they realised that it wasn’t really me?” Newt has never excelled at identifying the nuances of human emotion in others, but he thinks it’s safe to say that the man is not happy. He looks like a garuda whose mating dance has been unambiguously rejected, all slumped shoulders and punctured pride.
“Ah, well – no,” Newt says, fiddling with his cufflink. “Actually that’s when they turned their wands on you. Him. It all happened rather quickly.
Graves shakes his head. “You’re telling me that MACUSA was just fine with me ordering Goldstein executed, and a foreign magizoologist along with her? No due process?” His voice cracks as Graves sloshes the last of the Snapdragon Brandy into his glass; Newt watches the swirls of pinks and violets and dark purples dance through the liquid like a rainbow of tiny, incongruously joyous obscure.
“Yes,” he says, helpfully.
Graves takes another swallow of the brandy. “And nobody noticed that I – he – ‘I’ – was apparently GROOMING this poor repressed child like some kind of predator? And attempting to expose the wizarding world to the No-Majs, and cause mass panic and rioting and Merlin knows what else? Although frankly how he found the time to do that, with the amount of paperwork they want you to fill in these days, and in triplicate too – I mean, I’m normally at work from seven to seven Monday to Friday….but, seriously? Nobody noticed?”
“No,” agrees Newt, taking a cautious sip of brandy from his own small glass. It crackles on his tongue like angry sherbert in a burst of hot-sweet-sour: not bad, once you get used to it.
“It didn’t cross anyone’s mind as unlikely that I would have my friend’s little brother summarily executed?” When Newt’s confusion registers on his face, Graves gestures vaguely with the glass and adds: “Picquery’s well aware that I’ve known Theseus for years. Ask him about the conference in Prague, and that evening with the golems.” Newt is startled into making eye contact, and he finds that Graves’s mouth has quirked into a smile again. “You exceed expectations, incidentally, Mr Scamander.”
There is a thoughtful silence, which Newt rather enjoys. Then Graves bursts out: “Merlin’s knobbly staff, though, Goldstein’s like a little terrier, isn’t she? Never gives up, that kid. Damn fine auror, just like her old man…what the hell was Picquery THINKING, demoting her?”
"Um...I believe I mentioned that she assaulted Mrs Barebone?"
"You said the crazy thaumophobic No-Maj was beating her kid," says Graves, shrugging. "Her kid who, it turns out, was a wizard all along. Goldstein's got good instincts – she was protecting a defenceless underaged wizard, and she obviously didn't use lethal force. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to do what's right."
Newt perks up. "Yes! Yes, exactly!" He darts a relieved glance at Graves's face. This is a much more sensible attitude than he had been expecting; of course he knows that the other man was Grindlewald all along, but it is still difficult, on a gut level, not to think of this as the man who condemned him to death.
"He should never have fallen through the cracks like that," Graves says, staring grimly into the distance. Newt follows his gaze uncertainly, but all he sees is his niffler scurrying along with a bright teaspoon clutched in its paws.
"Yes, well - the case is rather old," he says, a touch defensively. He really must do something to discourage Herbert from escaping in search of shiny things; the trouble with these old travelling cases is that the lock charms do get glitchy after a while.
"I've been saying for years that we need a more efficient way of identifying and bringing in the Sports," Graves continues.
Newt replays that sentence in his head several times, along with its predecessor, and concludes, irritably, that there may be figurative language at play.
"I don't understand," he says, the brandy blunting his tongue.
Graves glances back at him. "Wizards born to No-Majs. Too many of them never get identified. Fall into the wrong hands."
"Oh - mudbloods. Well - yes. Our Ministry has an automated system that reacts to unregistered fluctuations in atmospheric magic levels and alerts Hogwarts whenever a mudblood starts to come into their powers - can't you...?"
Graves fixes him with a pointed look. "Mr Scamander, have you got any idea just how many No-Majs there are in North America? Or how large the territory is?"
"...lots? Big?"
"Lots," says Graves emphatically. "BIG." He sighs. "But still - there's got to be a way to do better."
"...it probably wouldn't have made a difference in this case," Newt says after a moment. "Not if she'd been filling his head with all this 'witches are evil' nonsense since he was little." He thinks back to Nour, small and terrible and terrified under the baking sun, surrounded by dead villagers, and feels a moment of absolute fury. He'd been too late to save her. Too late to save Credence.
But not too late to save Frank, he reminds himself. Frank, at least, is flying free once more.
"I don't understand people," he blurts out, thinking of Nour, of Frank, of Credence; thinking of the agony that tore through him as Graves - no, no, Grindlewald - had poured the full force of his fury into the Cruciatus curse. Too loud, his voice is too loud and the words are too glib - they don't carry the weight of his bafflement and pain in the face of human callousness, human cruelty. Words are another kind of magic, and one Newt has never really mastered. "I prefer creatures," he says, softly, and beneath the bright fold of his collar he feels Pickett snuggling up against him. "They're more - honest. You know where you are with creatures."
"You might be on to something, at that," says Graves, after a pause, and his voice is kinder than Newt was expecting. When Newt darts a quick glance at his face, the man's mouth is curving at the corners and creases bracket his eyes. Newt isn’t at all sure how to read his expression. He's no Jacob, but perhaps Newt could like this Percival Graves after all. "I had an albino puffskein when I was a kid,” Graves is saying. His cheeks are flushing a little, which is probably the brandy. “Runt of the litter, and they said there was no point raising him. Said he wouldn’t live more than a month or two. But he lived to twelve years old.” Newt is impressed in spite of himself: twelve is a very respectable age for a puffskein. “Laziest creature you ever met, but I loved that little guy. He died while I was away at school.” After a moment he adds, “I’ve always wanted a dog, but it doesn’t seem fair, with the hours I work. But I bet that son of a No-Maj wouldn’t have gotten the drop on me if I had a dog.”
“Or else he’d have hurt the dog,” Newt points out, because working with the dragon corps meant he doesn’t have any illusions about Gellert Grindlewald’s kindness to animals.
Graves’s face falls. “Or he’d have hurt the dog. Right.”
The pyjamas and the bare feet tell their own story; Newt is suddenly acutely grateful for his furry, scaly, prickly family as he imagines Percival Graves alone in his empty apartment, ambushed by a dark wizard as he padded wearily off to brush his teeth after another twelve-hour day, and nobody there to protect him, or to notice he was missing.
“Do you want to meet them?” Newt says, abruptly. “My creatures?” Grindlewald had scoured the menagerie and stolen his obscurus, but this man with the same face and form has never seen them; perhaps he’d appreciate them.
“You know, I think I do,” says Graves, and when Newt glances up at him again, he’s smiling properly. “After all, there’s no rush to get back, is there? The paperwork has been doing itself, from the sounds of it, and I’ve not taken a day off work for five years. Mr Scamander, I would love to meet the denizens of your zoo.”