Prompt Post #1

[fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme]

 ROUND 1

FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER

Important links:
You can check for fill updates at our tumblr page
You can upload your stories on AO3 anonymously here
You can alert us that you've filled a prompt here
You can talk about anything here

Comments

FILL: "Nothing Shall Be Impossible" Part 14a/? - Grindelwald + Graves/Credence Breeding Program

[(Anonymous)]

Grindelwald got bored with Graves’ shirtlessness after three days, and tossed a fresh shirt at Graves while he prowled outside their cell with restless, frenetic energy.

Graves cocked an eyebrow at him as he buttoned the shirt up. He was content to wait Grindelwald out. He’d done it before, and he liked how much it annoyed the dark wizard.

“Mr. Grindelwald?” Credence asked tentatively. “Could I see my sister? Please?”

Graves put himself between Credence and Grindelwald when Grindelwald narrowed his eyes. He didn’t think Grindelwald would try and hurt the person carrying his so-called future general, but Grindelwald had an alarming tendency not to see people as people. He wasn’t willing to risk it.

“You’ll be safer here, where I can keep an eye on you,” Grindelwald said, dismissive.

“I know, sir,” Credence persisted. “And thank you, sir. But Modesty’s only eight, and she’s not safe.”

Grindelwald tilted his head and eyed Credence with a cold, reptilian stare. “She’s eight, you said.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your younger sister. Not the shrill one.”

“Yes, sir.” Credence said, starting to look hopeful.

Grindelwald stared at Credence. Graves didn’t like the look in his eerie, mismatched eyes. It didn’t bode well for anyone. Why was Grindelwald focusing on Credence’s No-Maj little sister?

He realized why a second later. It was possible Modesty Barebone wasn’t a No-Maj. Credence wasn’t. Credence was a rarity, though. He’d managed to keep his abilities hidden, practically dormant until Grindelwald had thrust himself into Credence’s life. That he’d managed to do so at all was a testament to Credence’s strength.

Graves didn’t want to think about what a frightened, terrified magical child would do, if the choice was a beating or magic. There hadn’t been an Obscurial in America in close to fifty years now, but he suspected living with Credence’s Ma was a guaranteed recipe for one.

“No,” Grindelwald said finally. “You don’t need to see her. She’s none of your concern, now. She’s just a Muggle, whereas you, my boy, carry the future safety of the wizarding world within you. My general will keep my son safe, and my son will rebuild the world.”

“Please,” Credence said, voice breaking. “She’s my sister.”

Grindelwald ignored him and focused on Graves. “Picquery has been nosing around Major Investigations again.”

“Ah,” said Graves.

That explained the frenetic energy, at least. Grindelwald didn’t like Seraphina. Graves wasn’t sure if it was because Seraphina was a woman, seeing as Grindelwald had little enough use for them, or if Grindelwald didn’t like Seraphina because she was strong enough to challenge him. If Seraphina had decided to involve herself in one of Major Investigations cases, she was bound to notice that Graves wasn’t himself sooner or later. They had too much shared history between them for her not to.

In the first awful days of his captivity, Graves had hoped for rescue. He’d hoped that Seraphina or one of his team would notice that he wasn’t responding to their in-jokes the way he usually did; that the man wearing his face lacked the proper context for everything they’d been through. He’d held off on telling Grindelwald anything that might’ve convinced them otherwise, until his mind had almost broken beneath the weight of the Cruciatus Curse.

He’d tossed out the first few details reluctantly, because being rescued would do him no good if all his team found was a burnt-out husk fit for nothing save life in a quiet sanitarium. And then he’d realized that his silence had done no good. If Hughes or Collins or Summersea had noticed that he wasn’t himself, then Grindelwald would’ve killed them and thought nothing of it. He’d have staged their deaths so that they would be victims of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, and used it to drum up fear and panic and it would have been nothing but the truth.

Graves didn’t hope for rescue anymore. The only rescue he was likely to get was the one he made for himself and Credence. All he could do now was hope whatever he told Grindelwald kept the few people he cared about safe.

Still, the basic forms had to be observed.

“You could try solving a few cases,” he suggested, so bland the sarcasm was unmistakeable. “I generally find that gets Picquery off my back rather quickly.”

“I could also bring her here,” countered Grindelwald. “The Picquery bloodline is a powerful one, isn’t it? I could put you to stud on her as well as Credence, and get two generals from the Graves bloodline, if you’d prefer.”

“If you were really going to do that, you’d have done it long ago,” Graves drawled, taking care to sound bored with the very idea of it. It was true, to a certain extent. If Grindelwald could have captured Seraphina, he’d have done it already, but Seraphina was too much in the public eye to go missing without a doppelganger waiting in the wings to replace her, and Grindelwald couldn’t be in two places at once.

Grindelwald made a face. “True, unfortunately. I could kill her, though. That would be poetic, wouldn’t it? President Picquery, felled by her old friend and trusted right hand.”

Graves shrugged. “If you want to burn my identity, be my guest,” he said, like the very notion of Grindelwald hurting Seraphina didn’t make him want to claw his way out of captivity with his bare hands.

Grindelwald didn’t want to kill Seraphina anymore than Graves wanted Grindelwald to hurt her. Seraphina’s assassination would destabilize wizarding America. For now, Grindelwald’s plans depended on the status quo.

“No,” Grindelwald said. “Not yet.”

Well, that was new and terrifying.

Shit.

Graves folded his arms across his chest and went with his back-up plan. “Pick a fight with her,” he said. “A personal one, not a professional pissing match. She outranks me, and she only ever lets me win when it’s something she wanted me to do all along.”

“And how,” Grindelwald purred, practically radiating smug satisfaction, “would you propose I provoke a personal fight with Madam President?”

Graves wondered if Seraphina would ever forgive him for this. It was the only way he could keep her safe while he was still in a fucking cage, but to do so he’d have to betray her trust.

“Remind her that my house was the one with the cat, and she’s got no business poking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Tell her it’s like reliving the beginning of Fifth Year all over again. It’ll sting her pride enough to make her back off. If it doesn’t …” Graves forced himself to look Grindelwald in the eyes, because if he closed them or looked away Grindelwald would know exactly what this cost him. “Tell her, it’s worse than Fifth Year. Tell her it’s the Danvers case all over again. Then tell her, cura dat victoriam.”

Professor Galen had loved that saying. He’d also been an ass, and Graves’ least favorite instructor at Ilvermorny hands down. Why anyone let him near first years was beyond Graves’ understanding, since the man thought children were very small adults who simply needed to be brutalized into knowing when to speak up and when to keep silent. Professor Galen thought children should be silent at all times, except when answering questions to gauge the depth of their learning. His particular brand of wizarding history had bordered on the worst sort of isolationist paranoia. His rhetoric sounded an awful lot like Grindelwald’s, come to think of it. Except where Grindelwald thought they should rule over the No-Maj’s, Galen thought they needed to hide so deep they’d never be found in order to stay safe.

The literal translation was: “caution gives victory.” Graves could never have gotten as far as he had if he was cautious. Neither could Seraphina. That was what made the saying so perfect as a goad. It was a verbal slap the the face, an implication that one of them had overshot their reach and failed in their endeavors. Even now, nearly thirty years later, hearing Seraphina say cura dat victoriam, Percival pissed him off like he was still a schoolboy.

Bringing up the Danvers case would put Seraphina’s back up. Adding cura dat victoriam to the mix would make her go speechless with fury, because he’d never once given her any indication that he blamed her for the Danvers case as much as she blamed herself. Mostly because he didn’t, but Grindelwald didn’t need to know that.

“Cura dat victoriam,” Grindelwald repeated, thoughtful.

“No,” Graves said. “You have to say it right, or she’ll never believe you’re me. Cura dat victoriam, Seraphina,” he repeated, putting a faint mocking edge to the words. The tone was as much of a barb as the words. “She’ll be furious with you after that. She should leave you alone except on professional matters that can’t be delegated, at least until she gets over being angry at you for bringing up old history and starts being mad at you for not apologizing. That might take awhile.” Graves thought back to the last time they’d let a personal disagreement touch their professional lives. It had taken him close to six weeks to forgive Seraphina. Of course, he wasn’t the one with the tendency to carry a grudge. Seraphina, on the other hand …

Well, Seraphina would probably forgive him for this eventually. Graves wouldn’t blame her if she never trusted him again, though. He didn’t know what he’d do, if their positions were reversed.

“Excellent,” Grindelwald said. “Thank you, Percival, you’ve been very helpful.” He waved a hand, and a tray of sandwiches appeared alongside a pitcher of orange juice and a small plate of neatly sliced apples drizzled with just a hint of honey.

Apples with honey had been one of his favorites when he was a boy. Graves had never mentioned it to Grindelwald. He wondered how Grindelwald had found out. The only two people who knew him well enough to let it slip were Dindrane and Seraphina.

Fuck, he thought, taking care not to let his breathing slip into hyperventilating the way he wanted to. Fuck.

“Why the generosity?” he drawled. “I don’t usually get lunch.”

“Would you like me to take it back?” Grindelwald inquired.

“Only if it’s poisoned.”

“I wouldn’t do that to my future general,” Grindelwald said, sounding a bit disappointed that Graves hadn’t realized that on his own. “And as for you, I’ve something better in mind for you than poison.”

“I can hardly wait to find out what,” Graves said.

Grindelwald ignored that. “So rest assured that the food is safe. My general will need to grow up healthy and strong.”

“Of course,” Graves muttered. “Was there anything else I can do for you?”

“Know your place, Percival,” Grindelwald chided. “And mind your manners. You ought to say thank you for the food. As it is … Crucio.”

When Graves’ nerves stopped screaming in agony, Grindelwald was gone.

Credence knelt on the floor beside him, one hand on Graves’ shoulder, as if to steady him. The other came up to cup Graves’ face.

“Percival?” he asked, dark eyes worried.

“I’m fine,” Graves croaked, levering himself into a sitting position.

“What is that spell?” Credence asked. “The one that Mr. Grindelwald keeps using? Is that a combat spell, too?”

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Graves told him. “Commonly known as the Torture Curse. It causes pain.”

“I know that,” Credence said impatiently. “He’s used it on me too, remember?”

“All too well, unfortunately,” Graves sighed. “And to answer your other question …. It can be used as a combat spell. Debilitating pain tends to distract your opponents rather nicely. It’s considered a Dark spell, though, and unsanctioned use of it is penalized. In Europe, it’s considered one of the three Unforgiveables.”

“It’s evil,” Credence said. “No one should be able to hurt anyone else like that.”

Graves couldn’t help the smile that put on his face. Credence knew better than most what it was like to be hurt. A meaner person would leap at the chance to hurt their tormentors back, but Credence didn’t want to hurt anyone, or see them hurt. He was extraordinary.