Enforcer

‘     With the lack of grandchildren my dear mother welcomes any variety.     ’     Not many receive his unconditionally trust to willingly leave them with his suitcase unsupervised.  Make no mistake,  magical beasts are no pets,  but most loyal friends.  Newt lowers his gaze to avoid the inquisitive glance during the silence stretching between them,  resting a hand against the wide collar of his peacock-blue coloured coat.     ‘     Among others—     ’     He may not be advised to share his intention to pay Jacob, the muggle who’s been involved in the events of Grindelwald, a visit as well.

‘     Madame President showed an interest into Thunderbirds—  I hoped the positive involvement of the Thunderbird I released last year,  Frank,  may be the first step to ease some of MACUSA’s laws regarding magical beasts.  No more on-sight executions would be most welcomed already.  I also distantly remember that I might have promised you a copy of my book  ?  A delivery in person.     ’

Animals for grandchildren. He couldn’t help a small smile. “She’ll have a lot on her hands.” It fades just as quickly and as Newt looks away, latching onto the collar of his coat like it’ll shield him from the silence, Graves decides this man can be kind--awkward--but an unintentional hazard. People underestimate him.

“The president's on it as we speak,” he confirms, deep, finally setting his ledger down. “It should be done soon.” Picquery wasn’t heartless, but if anyone ever dared whisper she was getting soft for letting Newt go and writing laws to protect thunderbirds, they’d sleep with the threat of the jelly-legs jinx until hell froze over. Graves lifts his head just enough, letting Newt know it's okay to come forward.

Percival knew what to expect. Defiance only brought pain and pain was all that he was going to receive until Grindelwald got what he wanted. The pain wouldn’t end. Not until he gave in and he had no intention of doing that. So, he would take it. Percival leveled his gaze with the wand- his wand. He REMEMBERED that day his father had taken him to Jonkers’ wand shop, remembered going through boxes and boxes, trying wand after wand until he’d picked the impossibly long, slender ebony wand with the silver tip and everything had stopped dead. He’d felt his magic rushing THROUGH him and around him like he never had before, felt connected to himself in a way he couldn’t explain. And now, cut off from his magic, without his wand, he felt like the helpless child at the mercy of his father’s rage again.

It was agony. It felt as though his head was tearing itself to shreds from the inside out, noise and pain and Grindelwald’s probing at his mind blending together. Then the pain stopped and it took Percival a moment to realize that the SCREAMING was no longer in his head but tearing itself from his throat. His breaths came heavy, labored, mind still buzzing as it recovered from the attack, and he was sluggish as he looked to the man, to his own face.

The threat of the potion should have shaken him but the only concern that Percival had was how much more difficult it might be to keep the dark wizard out under the influence of it. But he wouldn’t WILLINGLY give the man any information. “What boy?” He looked to the ceiling again, waiting for the next wave of pain.

The scream was still in his ears. It echoed there, ringing, and something welled up in the core of his chest. It was a low and lapping satisfaction. 

“What boy?” Graves dared.

Grindelwald picked up the vial. He smiled. “How it must feel,” he whispered, “to be so naïve.”

He waved his hand and the magical restraints wound tighter, trying to shove Graves down against the cold, wooden floorboards until they creaked and moaned under the strain. He didn't want struggling. He couldn't have it. He went to seize the man’s mouth open and uncorked the bottle--uncorked liquid delirium--pouring the potion down into his throat until dripdrip he finally pulled back. 

It had been two days this time. Just about. It was difficult to keep track of time in the darkness but there wasn’t much else to do with his arms and legs bound, leaving unable to move. He’d tried pushing at the magical wards to no avail. He’d only been PUNISHED once the dark wizard found he’d been trying to tamper with his bindings. It didn’t stop him trying again. 

Percival closed his eyes against the light suddenly brought into the room, eyes already beginning to grow SENSITIVE to it after prolonged time in the dark. But that didn’t matter. As long as he could keep his mental walls up, as long as he could keep Grindelwald from getting into his mind, nothing else mattered.

When the other man touched him, Percival couldn’t even flinch away from his hand, stuck in place. He opened his eyes again, grimacing at the light, gaze fixed at the ceiling. He wouldn’t look at the man while he wore his face. He COULDN’T. His jaw clenched, trying to ignore the other man’s fingers carding through his hair, already entirely too greasy and matted for his liking. He couldn’t remember ever being so unclean in his life, not even on the front during the war. “…Fuck you…” The words came out as more of a croak than anything else, throat too dry to properly speak.

Grindelwald pointed his wand--Graves’ wand--at him. There wasn’t anything. Not at first. Then there was a buzzing. Like an insect crawling in and over the creases of the brain, scattering about. It was growing louder. His veins should be pulsing. Then louder and louder until a deafening, high-pitched screech ripped through his head and it was like the contents of his skull, the matter and fluid, were being forced through a blender and stirred by a tsunami, an earthquake, an eight on the Richter scale--

Then gone.

All in four seconds.

It was dark. Getting colder every night now. Cars bustled too far away, lives carrying on without incident, and here, the chains rattled and the buzzing, maddening sound of silence wormed its way deep into the crevices of his ears.

In front of him, Percival Graves lied. The binding spells whispered, their unseen tongues licking the surface of their consciousness, and the damp smell of recent sweat, blood, mold and metal fermented into the floorboards. He looked broken down and crumpled. Grindelwald could almost taste lost hope. His weight creaked in the cellar and he came closer, kneeling down like he was studying the body of a beaten dog. 

He had honestly been standing outside, hesitating to knock on the door for no less than  FIVE MINUTES  before he had finally worked up the courage to do so. It was not as if he didn’t  want  to visit the other; he was just worried that Graves would not be in the mood for a visitor  ( something he would certainly not  BLAME  the man for. )  After all, they hardly knew each other; they’d only met once in passing         when he had given Tina her copy of his newly published book. 

But he  had  to make sure that Graves was okay. He’d heard what had happened and had         almost  EMBARRASSINGLY  quickly headed to America. He’d been planning on making his way across the sea to visit Tina, but hearing about what had happened with Graves had gotten him there sooner than planned. 

Yes, he barely knew the man, but there was that  NEED  to comfort an almost certainly upset Graves.  ( Who  wouldn’t  be upset after losing their entire life, really? )  He was genuinely  WORRIED  for the man, and he just had to at least attempt to comfort him. It would be difficult           from what he’d seen of the man, he was  awful  with expressing emotions. But Newt himself could certainly understand that. 

Graves’ voice jolted him out of his train of thought.   ❛ Ah, no. I don’t have a book in here. Um, did you want a copy? I could get one for you… ❜  Realizing he was still  AWKWARDLY  standing in the doorway, he scrambled inside, closing the door behind him as he was told. 

He should have never came. It was a bad time. But when Graves heard the knock on the door and saw Newt there, standing in the open with his narrow shoulders and untamed hair wet with snow, he knew he was there for a while and for a reason. He let him in.

But they weren’t close. They never were. If he was someone from MACUSA, Graves knew he would be here to give his condolences, saying nothing at all with a forced, solemn smile and a goodbye nod before disappearing down the winding sidewalk, but he wasn’t. The thought festered in his skull. Graves swept the air with his hand, magically closing the folder his paper was in, and turned back. 

Newt was still by the door. Graves shook his head.

“I have the first one. Fantastic Beasts, wasn’t it? …Over here.” He waved his hand, motioning Newt to come towards the kitchen and out of the draft. His voice was not unkind, but as he was setting a mug of coffee down for him, there was still that stormy, foreboding look in his eyes, the one that’s always there.

her nose wrinkles with disdain as he knocks the potted plant, a simple spell dragging it to its former glory and place of prestige in the window as sun beats down on it, it glows and grows under influence of little care and affection —- as most would. a lesson he perhaps would care to remember. 

he already questions her wand, whether such a notoriously complicated piece of craftsmanship should find its way to her hand and perhaps so far as to wonder whether she shows capability with such a notably complex vessel. and yet she does, eyes roll and the smug smirk remains in place as he dares to question her. “ you seem afraid, graves. afraid of a mere wand —-? ” she teases, “ when the reality is perhaps that you should fear your dignity. ”

she taunts and goads him, always. teases him with playful intentions. “ perhaps if you found your attentions better focused on assigned studies, rather than matters of obscure interest you may one day reach my level —- until then, I am compassionate enough to engage and mentor you. ”

rubble subsides, controlled like waves beating against a shore as the ground is torn from beneath him, counteracting before settling at his feet, bricks laid with no cause to believe any such damage had occurred to them – pristine. 

“ you must try harder. ” 

With a slash of her wand the rubble jerks to a stop, paralyzed in the air, and shoots back into place like nothing ever happened. But there’s still some dirt drifting in the air. And then there’s the rising excitement, the static, the hissing magic--it infects him.

She taunts him and his mouth twists in a snarl. There’s an eagerness in his eyes. 

“Use your wand,” he breathes, ordering for her to attack, his head lowering. “You’re holding it in... Let it go.”

Then, quick as the space between each heartbeat, Percival flicks his hand and a barrage of expulso curses erupt for her. Once, twice, fast and hard. Too much wandless magic, too unpredictable and wild and he’s not holding back. He whips at the air and a flash of blue light illuminates the tower like thunder, sending crackling streaks at her. Flares spark from from his fingers. 

The lack of weight due to his missing suitcase tastes peculiar  &  distinct.  Like he shed his fur and feels particularly naked  &  vulnerable without the safe haven which happens to be the place humming with magic and enlivened with the presence of magical creatures he cares for.  He even decided to leave his Swooping Evil back in England, all except Pickett.  Mostly because Pickett would not let go of him anyway.     ‘     I am terribly sorry but you may have to tell me where I can find this Speirs person for you and let them know about what you might need by tomorrow,  Mister Gaves.     ’     Hesitation and Awkwardness coalesces into a brief articulation of coyness,  an expression which fades as quickly as it’s been concise.     ‘     And I sincerely apologise but you really do look like you could need someone to —  as we say in Britain — help a lame dog over a stile.     ’

A British accent. Graves lifts his head, and he knows.

“That'll be alright," he said after a short pause. "I'll--take care of it.”

With a ledger still in his hands, Graves knows better than to ask. It's Newt, and the young man knew who he was right away. Not because they met before--they didn’t--but because he saw this face when he was sentenced to death in an interrogation room and electrocuted on a railway. He saw Grindelwald. Something swirls in the pit of Graves’ chest and he forces it down. 

❈.   a post war letter, enclosed in a book for @graveaura  . 

“ I hope this letter finds you in good health, now that war has reached such a conclusion. may those days of duels in the north tower have prepared you for such combat — you need not thank me, it is but my duty as your loyal friend. 

perhaps it will not surprise you to learn of my promotion, they say that war forges individuals from fire and yet I find myself with little different feeling, if only regret. but times change and so must we. 

I collected this on my travels, it appeared to me that it may appeal to your interest —- to collect continental confections is beneath me and would be an admission of my guilt in the sherbet matter. ( of which I deny any accusation. )

you always were the overachiever, extension of knowledge and prowess is not unknown to you — that is why this book appeared to be the most relevant to your interests as a gift. 

read it well, I wrote my name in the top corner of the front page for old times’ sake. 

yours, faithfully, 

a lifelong friend. ”

I couldn’t thank you even if I wanted to--there wouldn’t be enough time.

I know. I was there. Whatever it is you’re feeling--I feel that, too, Phina. Just like you. But there’s nobody I would have rather fought the war with. We could have fought it with anyone. I fought it with you.

I got past the cover. Considering what happened with those cards of yours, I’d say that’s an improvement. What was the future you read again? Before our duel. I wonder how close you were.

There’s something I want you to have. It’s not the sherbet, but if there’s anyone who could use it, it would be you. 

Don’t go where I can’t follow.

Yours, Percival Graves

There is a bottle of raging firewhiskey that came with the letter, and on it, a small tag. ‘You’ll need this, Madam President.’ 

The year is 2185. The Andromeda Initiative, founded in 2176, is launched and a handful of each of the Citadel races venture out on a 600-year-long journey to the galaxy of Andromeda. Their goal: to expand and settle in a new world.

Before his involvement with the initiative, Graves, whose family is involved with American politics, was the acting secretary of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) from the years 2179-2184 under UNAS president Christopher Huerta. He was a highly skilled biotic, having been exposed to element zero at the age of nine in 2149 when an eezo refinery nearby blew, and later attended the Biotic Acclimation and Temperance Training (BAaT), a sort of biotic school and the first of its kind in human history before its closing. It was there that he was fitted with L2 implants. 

In the Woolworth Building, MACUSA’s headquarters, Graves stands slouched over a large desk with his hands planted firmly over the surface. There’s a slew of forms and reports people have sent out to him, things he needs to look over by the end of the week, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He has gone what must be three days without rest. He feels it in his joints. Damn. He picks up a folder with an auror’s report when an owl overhead screeches.

When he hears a footstep, he automatically assumes he knows who it is and why they’re here. Graves closes a ledger.

Years of shedding blood and sweat and sleep to get back to the way things were. Years of wearing himself thin, of giving himself so entirely to his duties it became the only thing he knew. And it’s all led up to this point. The kettle still hummed from recent heat. There was the temperamental grumble of his neighbor’s car. He sat at his table for two with only his thoughts and papers to fill the space.

A knock came at his door. He glanced down at the document, the last he needed to sign, and then to his clock. No point. He exhaled and left to answer it, expecting someone from MACUSA or even Picquery with company and nothing to say. But not him.

“…No book in there, I gather,” Graves assumed, nodding down at the suitcase and recalling the reason why Newt saw him last. The snow melted as it touched his floor and he made a deep sound of affirmation, leaving to put away his papers. “Come in–and close the door on your way.”

“ like your boyish good looks to be overtaken by strands of coarse grey? never. ” she teases, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips as she piles the cards together, pushing them towards him.

“ why would I be afraid? only someone not destined for such greatness as I would be afraid of what their future holds. ” she beams. “ in reality, the future should be afraid of me. ” always so confident, so assured and arrogant. she relishes every opportunity pushed towards her and revels in it, basking in the glory always attributed to her name. 

she is confident, perhaps too confident. 

and now he has such audacity as to challenge her to a duel. he cannot shy away from the smirk that spreads with excitement as static builds, electricity surrounds them as he extends an invitation to him —- to better him. 

always to better him. 

“ you want to defeat a lady? how rude. ”

Pushing himself off the ledge, Percival nearly knocks over a dead potted plant sitting beside him and lands on his feet, all teeth and half-laughing at her shameless pride. The future should be afraid of her? She’s sparking, too confident, and his wolfish eyes narrow like he’s memorizing all of her intricacies. 

“I’d like see to that for myself.”

the grasp of her fingers tightens around him, holding on to him for fear of allowing him to slip from her. like a rug, swept from beneath her feet — her greatest confidante, longest standing friend — taken from her just as her father had been those years ago. 

those years ago when she first received the letter and he took place at her side, allowing him to rest her head on his shoulder until exhaustion overtook her small frame — until the pain slowly subsided. her eyes follow his, but his seem so distant, as though he cannot quite train his focus for a long enough period of time to fixate on her. 

a sharpness billows at the pit of her stomach, spreading through vessels to trap her lungs, crushing them under the weight of grief. she doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want her lips to betray her, breaking under strain. —– wonders if even she can speak. 

“ I told you I wouldn’t have survived the war if not for our duels, in our ilvermorny days. your persistent arrogance and need to better me saved my life. and now you’ve saved it again and while I should shower you with praise and thanks —- I cannot. 

don’t go. ”

The pain was ebbing away. Evaporating. There, throbbing near the gaping hole, then gone. The feeling of her arms and the shallow whispers of her inhales ease him, and for the faintest second he believes he is lying sprawled on the wasteland of his tangled sheets, inhaling fabric softener as the lazy morning sun seeps through his blinds. 

FAMILY MAGIC

I have always found it interesting to consider the possibility of family magic, such as a specific spell or spells that a family has practiced in and passes down from generation to generation. It can be a unique spell known to that family only or a type of magic that the family specializes in such as advanced fire spells. 

These family secrets, if you will, are not inaccessible to those outside the blood. Given immense practice, many witches and wizards can learn them with varying success. However, as the name would suggest, the majority tend to keep it within the family, and years of practice has given the members a greater propensity in successfully casting more-potent spells. It is as though their blood, exposed to these powers, has made them predisposed in casting them. It also makes it easier for them to learn.

Family magic tends to be more common in purebloods and those hailing from old magic. The Graves family is one such example. Their ability: shadow magic. Percival Graves himself is well-versed in it.

SHADOW MAGIC

Shadow magic has been in the Graves bloodline for as long as anyone can remember, even before the great Gondulphus Graves, one of the original twelve aurors of MACUSA. It is defined as the manipulation and use of shadows. 

“ I see a beard in your distant future. ” she taunts him. her eyes glance between the book and the cards displayed before them, referring back to them at every opportunity. her lip curls lightly, teeth wrapped around it — deep in consideration. 

“ pay attention, I won’t read the future of the undead. if you would care to rest, i’d suggest you do so on your own time. ” she scorns, reaching out to grasp his hand, the very tip of her finger tracing the fine lines of his hand. 

her lip curls slightly, eyes narrowing as she considers the information presented to her. “ to read the future is a greater waste of time. ” she complains idly. “ little information can be garnered from foresight, rather instead worry and anxiety overrides reasonable decision. ” she crosses her legs, placing five cards before him. 

“ six of swords, present position, rite of passage —– resentment and change. the chariot, present desire, determination, strength of will — victory. five wands, the unexpected, —- great conflict. nine pentacles, the immediate future — over-investment. ” the final card, her frown deepens. “ six cups, the outcome —- reunion. ” a breathy sigh. “ this is a waste of time. ”

A beard. He makes a loud huff, a sort of laugh. “You’d like that.”

Percival goes back to settling down, but just as he does, she scorns him and grabs at his hand, running her finger against the winding lines of his palm. His hands are too warm. She takes the cards.

“Worried what they’ll say about you, Phina?” He slips a slow smile, his eyes glinting, and as though she’d suddenly plucked his interest from the air, he scoots on the ledge to give her more space. But it’s dumb, really. Fortune telling. He watches her as the setting sun reaches through the frosted window and spills pinks and golds into her hair, illuminating her hands as she spreads five cards in front of him. 

Change, victory, conflict, investment, reunion. 

If she raises her head, she would find his dark, stormy eyes fixed on her.

the pitch of her every word must exist in each corner of his consciousness as she kneels before him, commanding him with soft words to remain by her side and to not abandon her in her hour of need. —- where she needs him to comfort her as he slips away from her.  

“ rest, graves. ” she whispers. trying to soothe him. trying to pull him back from the brink as his eyes shift, as he startles her with breaths becoming softer. her hand presses against the wound that he has taken for her, against injuries that she cannot stifle as easily as she may wish. her hand drifts from her own wound to hold him, to take a firmer grasp — to reassure him of her presence. “ I know —- I know. ” her words are quieter than she would appreciate. her indomitable tone reduced to anxiety, worry and longing. 

“ don’t go, stay with me. ” she calls for help, her voice shrill —- it sounds unfamiliar to her own ears, scanning the room for the approach of anyone to help. apparation is his only chance ——— and she worries he cannot survive the journey. too afraid to move him, not wanting to shave away precious moments. she bites her cheek. 

“ we can’t stay here. ” 

He feels heavy and weightless like sinking down the depths of a black sea. He hears her, though. Her voice, soft as a whisper. It keeps him afloat just a little while longer, dissolving away into the quiet humming of his consciousness. She holds him close and, for once, he is not sure if she’s too warm, or if he’s too cold.

We can’t stay here.

No, they can’t. But maybe, on another day, he would have liked to.

“Go on,” he says after too much time. “...I’ll be there momentarily.”

As if there’s just a file to finish. A meeting to plan. An auror to discipline. Something. He is paling now, a snowy landscape, and the blood is too, too bright against his skin. Graves stirs once, but it is weak. He settles into her thin arms and is reminded of inevitability, a friend, one he doesn’t want. He fights the temptation to close his eyes again.

[No, I’m solid on the belief it was GrindelGraves. 

It was GrindelGraves’ way of showcasing his dominance over her and reinforcing his higher position. Surprised people thought it was intimate! I thought it was demeaning, if anything. He lowers his head to her like she’s a shy pet and he touches her without permission. He’s her boss. It’s unprofessional.

Not to say Graves couldn’t have been close to her. He calls her by her first name, and more than that, by her nickname, so it would suggest they’re at least friendly. But when he reached for her and wiped the mustard, she looked shocked and stiff, suggesting to us the real Graves didn’t do anything like that. She was flustered, but not in the I’ve-got-this-hulking-crush-on-the-walking-eyebrows sorta way. It was humiliating. He wiped her mouth in front of other people. Her boss wiped her mouth. Sorta embarrassing. I’d head for the hills. 

It’s pretty consistent behavior from GrindelGraves. He always closes the distance and assumes he has permission to touch other people i.e. Credence. It comes off more like an attempt to assert power and dominance, to reinforce his power over you.