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The first time he meets Percival, he almost has Vanessa eats his brains out. Almost, because Vanessa is too busy dragging the brains out of the last poacher, and almost because Percival has a bowtruckle between his fingers.
“You must be Newt Scamander.” The man says, his voice low and husky. Newt grips his wand tightly, eyes zeroed in on Pickett only. He doesn’t seem hurt, just anxious in the hands of a stranger.
“And who may you be?” He asks, tilting his chin up slightly. It’s too late to pretend that he was just caught in crossfire, that he was a defenceless victim, because Vanessa is still happily munching away, her muzzle blood-stained. Newt himself is also drenched in blood, and the adrenaline is still pumping inside of him, and his gaze is as feral as the Nundu he had come to save.
“Percival Graves,” The man introduces, strolling even closer. The warehouse they are in has poor lighting, but enough to illuminate his face. Strong and assertive features, a firm, heavy look in his eyes. Hair immaculately combed and tidied. He is making no move to hide his power, and it licks at Newt warningly, seductively. “Director of Magical Security, MACUSA. I am acquaintances with your brother, and thought to see fit that you were properly welcomed onto my soil.”
“Well, as you can see.” Newt gestures to the carnage around him - five poachers, their heads split open, throats cut - “I have been welcomed.”
“Of course.” Graves seems to be suppressing a smirk, and he’s even closer now. Newt waits with bated breath, Vanessa finally sated and sitting quietly beside him. “Don’t forget your little friend.” Graves says finally, holding the hand with Pickett out.
Before Graves can change his mind, Newt quickly coaxes Pickett back onto his own hand and tucks him away in his pocket, eyeing the other man suspiciously.
“I assume they were poachers?” Graves asks, seemingly unbothered as he gives a slow, deliberate glance of their surroundings.
“Rosemary!” Newt gasps aloud, suddenly reminded of his purpose here. Apparating gets him across the room the quickest, and he hurriedly burns the lock on one of the storage containers. He flings the doors open, and the sight in front of him breaks his heart.
The little Nundu cub is only about as long as his forearm, definitely a whole pound off what she should be at her age, if Newt’s sources had been accurate. She tries to roar, but the sound is woefully pathetic, constrained by the muzzle they’ve put on her. He croons low to her, mimicking the reassuring growls of a Nundu mother and she finally calms down, letting him approach. He works the muzzle off gently, keeping up a litany of soft reassurances to the little cub.
She’s still wary and suspicious of him, which is to be understood given the ordeal she had suffered, but she does agree to follow Dougal into the case.
Locking the case securely - he’s not taking any risks - he straightens up to finally meet Percival Graves’ guarded gaze.
“Is it yours?” The man asks.
“She’s mine now.” Newt answers, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice as he gets himself ready to apparate.
“The possession of a Nundu is illegal in 27 countries, and especially in mine.”
“She’s mine now.” Newt repeats, raising his wand in warning, “And I will be out of your precious country by tomorrow.”
Graves chuckles then, a sound that puts Newt on edge. Fear, he can understand. Suspicion, too. But Graves seems determined to carve himself a personality that is unique and indecipherable, and it makes Newt nervous.
“Your brother never said you were going to be so much trouble, Mr Scamander.” Graves notes. Does he mean it at a threat? Newt doesn’t know, but Theseus, Theseus must never know about this. How would he react? When he realizes his sweet, endearing little brother is in fact only truly sweet and endearing to selected people, when he realizes his sweet, endearing little brother is the very thing Theseus has sworn to eradicate in the world - Newt would regret it if Theseus would change his rosy outlook because of him.
But well. Newt is very like his Beasts, after all, and he doesn’t like being toyed around like this. “And what would you do?” He challenges, “What would you have Theseus do?”
Graves’ gaze drops. “We can come to an agreement.” Graves’ lips curl up appeasingly, “You keep to your poachers and avoid collateral damage when you’re in this country, and I won’t be forced to intercede with your chosen methods of protection, nor will I ever take your suitcase or any of your Beasts from you. Let’s keep everything under the table, shall we?”
Newt narrows his eyes, but finally acquiesced and nods. He’ll give this Percival a grace period, see if he upholds his side of the bargain. If this man does keep to his side of the line, it’d be beneficial to have an ally in high places.
Besides, Newt hasn’t yet seen anyone who’s only reacted to his methods with such collected calmness. This may be interesting. A nice change, at least.
If he can’t shake the other man’s presence off his mind - he goes with it.
//
Newt accepts Graves’ words as a permission for him to keep coming to America, so he does. He doesn’t fathom that he would run into Graves by pure chance, but perhaps fate will put them in each other’s paths. Or perhaps he should take fate into his own hands. He’s not decided yet, and he normally hates being indecisive, but this time it’s a good kind of indecision. He’s just waiting for that opportunity to drop from the sky.
America is a fascinating nation, a diverse biological landscape that houses many fantastic Beasts that Newt has yet to encounter and understand. He’s quickly running out of pages in his book, but his publisher had drops hint here and there that if the first book does well, they’d be happy to publish a second one, and so Newt is counting on that.
Theseus writes, but of course he doesn’t know half of what’s happening. How could Newt tell him? He wasn’t as strong as Theseus. Theseus had lived through a whole war, and his job was facing the worst that humanity had to offer, yet Theseus had so much hope and faith in mankind. Newt wasn’t strong enough to maintain that same kind of outlook. Man are despicable and are even more so to things they do not understand.
When Newt had first started his travels, he had been like that, too. Rosy, optimistic, hopeful, convinced that harmony could be achieved between Man and Beast. It hadn’t taken long for him to become disenchanted and disillusioned at what humanity had to offer.
//
The first time he re-encounters Percival is when he catches wind of a large smuggling ring hiding out in Nevada, and he seeks Percival out deliberately, Dougal leading him right at the doorsteps of Percival’s townhouse. He spends the 15 minutes there deliberating whether he should just go and leave, return to his lone wolf lifestyle.
Graves actually halts when he sees Newt sitting on the doorstep, looking downright pitiful and morose, his suitcase in his lap. He’s had had a few muggles give him pitying glances, likely taking him for a scorned lover or just downright homeless.
Graves sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, then goes to unlock his door. “Come on in.” He says, and Newt eagerly stumbles inside.
Graves’ house is painfully boring to Newt’s eyes. Classy, surely, as families with old names tend to be - and Graves was an old name, Newt had checked - but painfully boring.
“You need houseplants.” He says quietly. “That’s my business.” Graves snaps back, dropping his bag onto the sofa. He seems a bit tired, and his magic crackles, threatening to break free of control. “What brings you here, Scamander?”
“For your pleasant company and our budding friendship?” Newt volunteers. He shuffles to the kitchen and spots coffee beans and a pot. Waving his wand to get it going, he turns around to see Graves leaning against the doorway, watching him.
“Why are you really here, Scamander?”
“You’re interesting.” Newt says frankly, “You let me keep Rosemary. I may also need a favour from you.”
“You tried to jinx me that night.” Graves reminds drily, “There’s some tea bags in the drawer above you, come join me outside afterwards.”
When Newt does float both cups outside, Graves has shed his suit for more comfortable house clothes, and he’s sitting cross-legged on one of the sofas, a crease in his forehead as he reads over some papers in his hand.
“So, you’re the type who brings work home?” Newt asks, trying to be conversational. “I’m sure it’s very important work.” He adds quickly, then immediately figures that it’s probably better to drink his tea than try and talk.
Caring for Beasts, he could do. Fighting, he could do. Sneaking around, he could do. Killing, he could do. Talking? Merlin, please don’t make him do it.
“There is always too much work to do and not enough time in the day,” Graves answers good-naturedly, putting his papers down in a neat pile on the coffee table, “And bureaucrats are always determined to foist their work onto you, which poses the question of why they would devise a complicated system in the first place. How may I help you, Mr Scamander?”
His words are gentle and casual, and Newt takes a deep breath. “There’s a smuggling ring dealing with beasts in Nevada and I know where their biggest warehouse is.”
Graves blinks, and then a frown overtakes his face. Both of them remain quiet for a while, Graves deep in thought, Newt anticipating his reaction.
“I’m not taking you with me.” Graves finally says, firm frown still in place, “You’re a fool to think I would let a civilian into my operations. Thank you for the information, but your... help is not needed.”
A faint tinge of disappointment seeps into Newt’s mouth, but at the same time, he hadn’t really expected to be able to avoid a fight. He would be even more disappointed if that had been the case.
“I’m not offering help.” Newt says, “I am here to propose a trade. My information for the Beasts they keep. Alive.”
“I would rather not.” Graves answers, but he makes no move to remove Newt from his house.
“You will give me all of the Beasts you find there, or else I’ll have to use my own methods to acquire them.”
And so Newt pushes him, because he thinks, he needs to know if Graves will let him. Graves’ eyes are narrowed, the set of his lips firm and displeased. Newt needs to know, needs Graves’ trajectory to change because of him. Newt needs to inconvenience Graves as much as Graves has inconvenienced him, for he has made Newt think of something else other than his Beasts.
Newt holds his gaze, and somehow looking into Graves’ brown eyes are much harder than holding the gaze of that one stubborn Hungarian Horntail during the war,
“What will you give me in return?” Graves asks, “I’ve never made an exception for anyone. Why should I do this for you?”
“Is that a yes?” He counters instead.
Graves holds his gaze for a while, then shifts his eyes away. “Yes.” He sighs.
A smile blooms over Newt’s face, because he is so glad that Percival has lived up to his expectations.
Because proper, morally upright, law-abiding aurors don’t strike deals with murderers - Newt is aware that he is, to some degree, a murderer - and definitely doesn’t let murderers join in their operations. This is the Percival he wants.
A hand raises his chin slightly. Newt swallows thickly, the scent of hunger clear in the room. “Yes.” He says, breaking the silence, his voice shaky.
It’s not the first time that Newt has felt that same desire licking up his spine, but this time it’s much more intense, and it’s the first time that Newt has had the urge to succumb to it. He had encountered both men and women before who wanted him in their bed, who had had appealing appearances and sweet words, but they had been lacking as suitors. Lacking as humans.
Because like all beasts of old, only the powerful gets their way, and so Newt gladly submits to Graves.
His bed is large and soft, making Newt feel as if he is floating away, untethered, then there is Graves - Percival’s weight on top of him, pinning him there, anchoring him to this plane, to him.
In the aftermath of it he is too tired to move, and he lays there with half his weight on top of Graves in silent protest.
“Graves,” He mumbles, his eyes slipping close, “They’re moving warehouses tomorrow night.”
“You can call me Percival, you know,” The man chuckles instead, “You’ve screamed enough of it just now.”
“Tomorrow night.” Newt repeats stubbornly, and there’s a feather-light touch on his forehead as he falls asleep.
//
Newt only watches the fight from afar, but Percival’s magic is so intoxicating that Newt would be able to identify it from miles away. He scurries in afterwards, when everyone is gone, and indeed the Beasts are still in their cages, whining pitifully. He bypasses the Aurors’ wards with the key Percival has given him, relieved that nothing goes off when he steps into the warehouse.
There’s five Thestrals, two lone Bowtruckles which really have no business being alone, ten Fwoopers, three nests of Diricawls, a desperately injured Murtlap, five Occamy eggs that have no more chance of ever hatching - and he mourns for a bit, but just a bit because he’s on a schedule - and then he finds-
Pickett pokes his head out, chittering excitedly. It seems to put the pair of Graphorns in front of Newt at ease, and one of them drapes its tentacles gingerly across Newt’s shoulder, where the pocket with Pickett is located. They must have been kept in captivity for long, if they were so quick to warm up to Newt. And- it would make sense, too, because there hasn’t been a sighting of Graphorns for decades. Newt may very well be looking at the last pair of Graphorns in existence.
Tears truly come out when his suitcase is back in Percival’s house, and the Graphorns are happily settling into the habitat he had made for them, albeit wearily. They look insanely happy, but what Newt has done is so little. It then makes him irate, for those imbeciles had almost rendered the Graphorns extinct.
There’s a faint knock on the suitcase, and he gingerly climbs back up the stairs and pokes his head out. A bagel and a warm cup of tea is placed on the floor next to the case, while Newt’s stomach gives an appropriately timed rumble.
Percival isn’t in the room, and, feeling just slightly disappointed, Newt takes the offered food and retreats back into the suitcase.
He emerges periodically to find food waiting for him, but his benefactor never sticks around, nor can Newt take the time to go seek him out. One of the Graphorns’ had picked up an infection; The Fwoopers’ had damaged vocal chords; The original Bowtruckles had been being territorial and were refusing the two newcomers access to their tree.
Not to mention the other inhabitants of the suitcase that needs his attention. Dougal tries to help, but there are only so many things he can do without five fingers.
When everything is finally sorted out, it’s midday at some point, and Percival is not in the house. Newt stretches, shuffling to the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea and sinks into Percival’s soft sofas.
He falls asleep without prompting, and is stirred awake by the smell of cooking. There’s a quilt tucked over him.
He folds the quilt neatly at the end of the sofa and shuffles towards the smell, finally stopping at the doorway to the kitchen. Venison is cooking slowly in the pot, and there’s chopped carrots and potatoes boiling themselves.
“I hope you’re well-rested now.” Percival’s deep voice startles him, and he whirls around quickly to see the man come down the staircase.
“Or perhaps not.” There’s deep amusement laced in the other man’s voice, “Would you prefer to freshen up in the bathroom first?”
In the bathroom, Newt colours at the state his face and hair is in. A red patch decorates the right side of his chin from the sleep, and his hair is mussed and going in all directions. He forgets he’s a wizard for a few moments as he drags his fingers through his hair, trying to calm it down in vain before he realizes he can just use his wand.
Collected and appropriately presented, Newt joins Percival at the table. It’s a little before six, and Newt voices his surprise that Percival back from work so early.
“I had a gut feeling I would see you tonight,” Percival says with a slight quirk of his lips, “Now eat.”
They spend the night in bed together again, and Newt thinks maybe he could get used to this. It may be incomprehensible, even terrifying to other people, but it seems like he had been doing this with Percival for a long time. Perhaps from the very first night they had met, when Percival had come up and talked to him instead of arresting him, when Percival had allowed Newt to become the exception in his life.
Every word Percival says sounds like a promise that Newt fully intends to hold him to.
In the afterglow, Newt lets Percival play with his fingers. He doesn’t really understand the appeal, calloused and scarred as they are. Percival’s hands are larger, but only slightly. There’s only minimal wounding - Aurors tend to give more care to their hands than Newt, both due to their line of work.
Then Percival turns to summon something wandlessly, and, still in a blissed out state, Newt doesn’t realize what Percival is doing until he locks the armband around his right forearm. The weight of it barely registers, only cold for a split second before it quickly adjusts to his own body temperature. There is a white band over the onyx inlay, elegant yet simple.
“Keep it on you.” Percival’s voice is deep and quiet, and his magic locks the armband in place. “Are you trying to collar me?” Newt asks, slightly annoyed when his magic can’t break it off him.
“It’s not your collar.” Percival’s eyes are reverent as he brings Newt’s arm to his lips gently, kissing the armband. “It’s mine.”
Something clicks inside of Newt then. Not just power, not just lust, but something more existed between him and Percival that he is afraid of facing right now. Instead he buries his face in Percival’s arm and feigns weariness.
//
The second time they see each other again is an accident. Newt had been too overwhelmed with anger, he had misjudged, and he had landed himself in a situation where this time, he’s drenched with his own blood as well as the poachers. Vanessa had been taken out by an anesthetic in the early stages of the battle, and Newt had had to protect his suitcase, his Swooping Evil, and himself against a dozen or so competent poachers.
He’s so drained of magic he has to slump against the wall of an alley, cradling a deep asleep Vanessa and his suitcase to his chest. There’s still 8 or 9 poachers out there, searching for him, and Newt knows they’ll be able to before he can gain enough strength back to apparate away. He undoes the latches of his suitcase, prepared to call Rosemary out. A full-grown Nundu certainly wouldn’t escape the notice of muggles or wizards, but Newt figures he’d just have to apologise to Percival later.
His leg is throbbing where it had been deeply lacerated, and he’s pretty sure some of his ribs are broken from a strong, combined depulso. His vision is swimming, and his hair is blood-matted, and Newt really doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of this in one piece.
The poachers spot him before he can get Dougal to fetch Rosemary. Fuck. His arm shakes as he tries to lift his wand, but he knows he’s not going to be fast enough to stop the burst of red light heading towards him.
Suddenly his arm flares, and there’s a golden glow bursting out from where the armband Percival had given him, and as the curse dissipates, there’s a sound of apparation and Percival Graves arrives at their midst, curses ready at wandtip and he’s absolutely furious.
Newt thinks this makes the most gallant of mating dances. Blood drenches the walls and soaks into the paving stones as Percival tears the poachers apart casually, his magic crackling dangerously around him. In moments all of their opponents have been disposed off brutally. It’s a bloodbath, and Newt would be leaping into Percival’s arms if he could, but he’s still completely drained and can barely twitch a finger as Percival kneels beside him, casting diagnostic spells on him.
“What have you done this time?” He asks Newt, gently scooping Newt into his arms. Newt just closes his eyes and leans into Percival’s neck, letting Percival take him wherever he wanted to.
//
Newt’s favourite coat is bright blue because as all Beasts know, the more eye-catching, the higher likelihood that it was a strong predator, perhaps even poisonous. The Swooping Evil is a perfect example. The Occamy another.
Percival’s preferred colour are shades of black and grey, because only the shadows can survive in a world filled with light and darkness.
//
The third time they meet is a surprise. Newt hadn’t meant to be out so late, in Detroit, but he’d be glad that Hugo had decided to escape the suitcase again and try to make a run for the closest jewelry shop at that time.
When Newt approaches with a struggling Hugo in his grip, Percival watches him intently, on his face a smile that is barely there. His hands are shaking a bit, so Newt immobilizes Hugo and stuffs him in a pocket, going to take Percival’s hands in his own.
“I thought I read in the papers this morning that they were acquitted.” Newt says lightly, casting a gaze to the three bloodied, mangled bodies at Percival’s feet. Percival lets out a big sigh. The other man isn’t actually taller than Newt, despite the fact he carries himself so, and when he’s hunched over he looks even tinier in comparison to Newt.
“They killed one of the junior aurors.” Percival says quietly, letting Newt take his wand away and massage the tenseness away from his hands. “He was an only child, with an ailing mother. They ruled it an accident.”
“Tell me about it over tea,” Newt says, “In my suitcase.”
Percival mutters some quick spells, and the three bodies start to disintegrate, the marks of blood peel away from the pavement. Soon the area is clean again, with none the wiser about what had happened here tonight.
Newt apparates them to Percival’s townhouse, and together they go down into Newt’s suitcase. The last time they had met, Percival was the one who had carried him down here, feeding his Beasts for him as Newt lay on the bed, still indisposed.
They had taken to him perhaps a bit too easily, Newt had thought snidely, but then Percival’s large hands had been cradling Hera, letting the Occamy bump her beak against his nose, and Newt just stood there, watching them. Percival fits right in, Newt had realized. Newt could have just left the suitcase right then and Percival would be at home, right here, with Newt’s Beasts.
They do end up having tea, with Percival drinking Newt’s when Newt had accidentally put a tad too much of milk in it - distracted when Percival’s fingers had been deftly scratching all of the Niffler’s favourite spots - and Newt drinking the one he had originally made for Percival.
Just a drollop of milk, perfect for Newt’s tastes.
Percival speaks quietly, but not haltingly. He tells about the three thieves that they had spent months chasing down, and the junior auror that would have made senior, and hence have more desk work, after this case. He tells about the fiendfyre they had left burning in the centre of New York, and the junior auror that had tried to save a burning no-maj child. He tells about the trial this morning, how they got off by buying their way through the judges.
“And so you killed them.” Newt finishes for him. “And so I killed them.” Percival says in confirmation.
Newt kisses him softly, gently, the way he imagines ordinary people who love each other do. Percival chases it, unrelenting even now, pressing Newt into his chair, caging him in. They remain like that for a long while, lips and tongue pressing against each other languidly.
It’s not just Percival who needs the reassurance, it’s also Newt that needs the peace and quiet.
After a long while Percival leans back into his chair, hand gently caressing Newt’s hair.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Percival remarks quietly. “You bring me peace. I don’t want to destroy it.”
He holds a hand out when Newt makes to speak. “I know, you walk the same shadows I do. That is why I love you so. But knowing you find comfort within the dark of the night doesn’t stop me from trying to bring you the most beautiful light in this world.”
Percival’s proclamation of love should surprise him, should disgust him. But it doesn’t. Instead he kisses Percival’s blood-stained knuckles, threading their fingers together, anchoring him there. Newt doesn’t think he ever wants Percival to leave. Percival sees this as his own emotional baggage, which he thought Newt wouldn’t want to see. If it is someone else, yes, Newt would have turned away, for people driven by emotions are irrational and weak.
But Percival’s heart has always been bigger than Newt’s, he had known this from the day they had met. Percival is not weak because of it, or despite of it - Percival is stronger because of what he is willing to do. They are alike in the regards that they would do anything to keep their loved ones safe, but unlike Newt, Percival loves easily.
And Newt doesn’t really mind, for only someone like Percival could love someone like Newt.
Percival is soft sighs and gentle touches as he falls apart, lets Newt make him fall apart.
When they are basking in the aftermath of it, peaceful and tranquil, Dougal meanders over into the bedroom of the suitcase. Neither of them pay attention to their nudity, just keeps quiet as the Demiguise ambles over with something in his paws.
He pushes it into Newt’s hand, that is dangling over the side of the bed, and he props himself up to stare at the Demiguise.
He had been working on it for a while, actually. He hadn’t meant to - no, he must have meant it, or else he wouldn’t have made it - he gives it to Percival, heart stuck in his throat until he sees Percival puts it on. It doesn’t have the same protective charms Percival’s armband does, but what it does have is a charm designed to encourage healing, something he had picked up in China.
It’s a pendant, made from Occamy egg shells.
//
The fourth time is less of an accident, and more of a coincidence. The Ministry’s Summer Gala of 1926 had been exceedingly extravagant, marking the centenary of the Ministry’s move to the Whitehall building. As such, Newt is pulled along by Theseus as his plus one.
The party spans three expanded ballrooms, and the refreshments disappear in moments of being put down. This is alarming to Newt, who can’t adopt his usual strategy of sticking by the food and wine and only engaging when prompted.
As soon as Theseus loses his attention to some of his colleagues, Newt grabs a champagne glass and tucks himself away in a balcony outside, casting his gaze over the Ministry gardens. He’d barely managed to get two or three pieces of cakes before someone had tried to talk to him, so he had to flee.
The wind is always chillier at nighttime, and Newt finds himself painfully naked in the proper suit Theseus had wrangled him into, without his coat to shrink into, without the steady presence of Vanessa by his side. He can hear the music, faint in the background, mingled with voices of people.
Newt shoves the last cake into his mouth, then something catches his eye. Leaning against the railing, he spots the familiar black and blue and tilts his head in slight curiosity.
Ducking back into the hall, he quickly mumbles his way to the downstairs, then out into the gardens. It’s even colder outside, but he follows his intuition and lets his footsteps lead him.
They carry him to one of the mini courtyards deep in the gardens, and he ducks behind a large fountain with a centaur adorning the top tastelessly.
Percival is talking to someone there - Newt’s nose scrunches up minutely as he wracks through his brain to identify the stranger, before it finally lands on Michael Davies, the Director of International Transport. Newt had seen him a few times when he was still running errands for the Ministry, and of course, he had heard the rumours of the extra coins he brought in by turning a blind eye to some things that people wanted transported.
He’s saying something to Percival, in such a low voice that Newt can’t catch much beyond “Sunday” and “Bristol” and a whole bunch of names. Newt inches a little closer, then notices that Davies’ eyes are glazed over, as if he is parroting words out of his own control.
Finally the tirade comes to a stop, and then there is Percival’s voice, clear and confident, a sharp contrast.
“Obliviate.” Percival drawls. Newt watches as Davies collapses like a puppet with his strings cut, and Percival calls for two house-elves to take him away, saying that the man had drunk too much.
“Abusing your position, Director?” Newt says, emerging from behind the fountain.
“Abusing magic.” Percival smirks, seemingly unsurprised to encounter Newt here. “No point in inventing a spell if you aren’t going to use it, isn’t that right?”
Newt, who had also been quite liberal with his imperio's to get information, just shrugs and sits down at the edge of the fountain, patting the space next to him with a hand.
Percival fixes him with a soft look and obliges. In such close proximity Percival’s body heat makes Newt shiver slightly, but simultaneously there is the growing desire to press himself closer to Percival, with total disregard for public decorum.
Newt has always been one to pursue his own wishes, just like his Beasts. Percival’s arm wounds around his shoulders, tugging him closer, until he is almost half-sitting, half-leaning into Percival’s lap. The man is warm and he snuggles even closer.
Percival’s firm hand comes to rest around his waist, and then there’s a blanket conjured over the both of them. Humming in contentment, Newt brushes his lips against Percival’s chin, and he returns one onto Newt’s hair.
Utterly at ease, Newt spends the rest of the night in Percival’s arms.
//
The fifth time they meet is coordinated. Percival had sent a letter, saying he would be in England for official business. Newt doesn’t question how Percival had gotten his address, and writes back that he’d be glad to have him, and maybe introduce to him the Scamander Hippogriffs, if he so wished to meet them, although his mother was not always pleasant company. Or else, Newt would also be happy to meet Percival in London.
Percival writes back to say that he’d be honoured to visit Newt’s family.
The visit goes half as well, and that’s better than what Newt anticipated. The first two days he’d spent alone with Percival had been relaxed, filled with debauchery and just Newt being able to be himself around someone. No more shyness or pretending to be demure, no more faked compassion and empathy at the world, no more mustering up fake feelings just for the sake of another’s comfort.
On day three Percival joins Newt in purging a forest in Wales of their muggle hunters, and at night they head to the Scamander Manor together for dinner.
“We might not actually be able to get to the stables, you know.” Newt says quietly, “We might not even be here for long.”
“I’ll follow you.” Percival reassures him, something sinister creeping into his tone. Newt has never been more enamored by a promise before.
There’s a hopeful look on Theseus’ face when Newt opens the door, but that look automatically darkens when his gaze falls onto Percival and Newt’s joined hands.
Theseus gets angry, of course. He blames it on the age difference, but Newt knows it’s the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head. Not being able to protect Newt made Theseus feel insecure about himself, so Newt just puts on his best puppy eyes and tugs lightly on Theseus’ sleeve, begging him silently.
“What are your intentions to my younger brother?” Theseus demands as Newt helps Percival hang up his coat. The older Scamander has his arms crossed, standing between Percival and Newt, and the hallway leading to the dinner table.
Percival holds himself as if unbothered. “I am courting Newt.”
Newt’s gaze flicks between the two older men, and has the deja vu feeling of watching two Gryphons fighting over a female.
Theseus looks absolutely ridiculous, eyes bulging in disbelief, his face quickly turning all shades of red. He looks like he is on the brink of epilepsy, and there’s a faint tinge of pity in Newt for him. Although Theseus cares for Newt deeply, there’s one thing he was never really able to understand: Newt doesn’t need Theseus, or his mother’s approval for anything in his life.
“Theseus, I’m almost 30,” Newt says out loud, “Surely I am allowed to make my own choices in marriage partner. You certainly didn’t consult anyone before marrying Leta.”
“That’s different!” Theseus squawks out immediately, but instantly realizes the flaw of his own argument. His features scrunch up in impatience, and he pinches the bridge of his nose before he finally grounds out, “Newt, this is a man we’re talking about. A man who is 10 years your senior.”
Percival raises an eyebrow but stays silent.
“So what?” Newt snipes back, and Theseus’ face falls even further.
“Thee, you have to learn to trust me once in a while,” Newt lies through his teeth, “You do trust me, don’t you?”
Theseus gives a sharp, instinctive nod. He throws one last scathing glance at Percival, but starts walking towards the dining hall.
The dinner goes as well as Newt expects. His mother sits aloof at the head of the table, clinging to archaic views of aristocracy that mean nothing after the war. Theseus seems to have gotten over whatever he had had to overcome, and is reminiscing with Percival about their time during the war and in their respective positions in the government. Percival is civil and charming as he is, and their mother cannot find fault with him, so she turns her snide remarks onto Newt. Onto his disappointing career, onto his age, onto his seeming inability to retain any friends, on the fact that he didn’t even finish his schooling properly-
Percival’s hand finds his under the table cloth, and it is only then that Newt realizes his fists have curled into balls, knuckles white and nails digging into his flesh. He had never really minded them in the past, but to have them said with Percival in vicinity - Newt felt more vulnerable than he had ever been before.
But he clings to Percival and endures, because his mother is the one person he cannot kill, but frequently thinks of doing so. He does have some kind of morality and ethics when it comes to his family, after all. Besides, Theseus would be sad.
They do end up making it to the stables, and there Newt shows Percival what his true childhood was like.
//
There is no sixth time, because after that Newt’s hurrying up to Egypt, chasing rumours of a Thunderbird being held up there. Percival wants to follow, but Grindelwald, a dark wizard, is making his rounds across Europe and Percival is summoned back by his president.
After he finishes his business, he writes to Percival to ask if he is free to accompany him to Arizona to free Frank. He’s about to send it off when the band on his arm flares. Frowning, he takes his clothes off to examine it properly. The onyx inlay seems to have lost its sheen, and the white has lost its colour, fading into the black.
Newt burns the letter and lets the owl return to its perch.
//
Goldstein’s name had come up in conversation before - She had been Percival’s mentee for a while, and Percival had mentioned offhandedly that she reminded him of Newt. Guided by emotions and protective to a fault, except that Newt would go to greater lengths, Percival had said with a chuckle.
So all in all, not great memories. But Newt squashes his jealousy down and plays his part well. He hadn't exactly wanted his first day on this trip to New York to turn out like this, and he fully blames Hugo, but to his delight, as he weaves a story of why he is here, Goldstein leads him straight into the MACUSA building.
It’s exactly as Percival described, tall, thick pillars and a wide, wide ceiling that seemed to lead straight into the sky. It’s a perfect mix of antiquity and the trends of the new age, grandiose yet open and refreshing. Percival likes working here.
Newt plays along with it when Goldstein shoves him into the elevator and straight into a room that smells of old books.
There’s a group of people standing in the middle of the room, around a large table, engaged in a heated discussion. Conversation stops as Goldstein pushes him into the room. Something flutters inside of Newt when he realizes Percival is there, a frown on his features in seeming confusion. But there’s also something that makes Newt’s heart clench in slight dread, as if anticipating something dangerous to happen. It’s the feeling he has when he accidentally stumbles across a Beast’s territory and is about to be on the receiving end of sharp claws.
Newt gives him a small, hopeful smile, characteristic of what others expect of Newt Scamander, but Percival stares at him as confused as before.
The terrible feeling in his stomach grows even larger as his smile slowly flickers out, and he drops his gaze to his shoes to hide the slight anger that must be showing right now. What in Merlin’s name is Percival doing? Is this some kind of new subtle display of power? If it is, Newt doesn’t like any of it.
He lets Goldstein mumble her way out of the situation and herd him out of the room. Percival doesn’t say a single word.
Percival’s reaction is frustrating, but Newt refuses to even entertain the idea that Percival no longer- loves him. Percival has been the only man, the only person that Newt thought would-
Nevermind. If Percival changes his mind, Newt is not beneath brewing a love potion to get him back.
He answers Goldstein’s questions through a daze, still trying to wrap his head around what had happened. It was just like that one time in a Quidditch match against Ravenclaw, and the beaters kept sending the bludgers at him. He hadn’t touched the quaffle once in the whole game, and at the end they had lost.
But this is more. More so than that stupid Quidditch match that was also his last, because he was expelled a month later. It is more like the time three of his dragons were sent to the Somme and didn’t come back, and no one would answer him when he asked where they had went.
Then in his periphery he sees Percival approach, and it’s unnerving, because Newt is normally extremely at ease with Percival’s presence, even if they had spent more time apart than together. Percival is the one who can sneak up behind Newt, who can slip in and out of the covers as Newt sleeps on, undisturbed.
Not this one.
The jigsaw puzzles finally fall in place as Newt instantly realizes this Percival wasn’t his Percival when the man allows Goldstein to open his suitcase. Percival had promised - Percival had promised, and had proven himself faithful, worthy , and the Percival that Newt knew would never cross Newt’s bottom lines like this.
So as soon as not-Percival’s hands touch the latch, Vanessa’s flying out, screeching in indignation on his behalf. Goldstein and the other man there are clearly caught off guard, so petrificus totalus incapacitates them immediately, leaving a flustered not-Percival with his hands bound behind his back, Vanessa screeching into his ear.
“Revelio.” Newt hisses out angrily. He’d love to use something more painful, but he won’t risk Percival’s life. The aurors have managed to get themselves out of the binds and are now gaping openly at what Newt has done, but all Newt does is glare hatefully at the imposter.
He’s dueled Percival before, he’s felt Percival’s magic before, and there was no way Percival would have let this happen without a fight. “Where is he?” He demands, Vanessa edging even closer.
Grindelwald’s expression seems torn between being impressed and being downright furious at Newt, and Newt oh so wanted to just have Vanessa chew on him and be done with it, but he would be no use to Percival if he is locked behind bars, so he refrains.
Then he realizes his case wasn’t even his case, and there and then he almost explodes with rage. Instead, he lets himself be corralled into the office of America’s Madam President.
She’s what Percival describes her to be - able to see the world Percival and Newt resides in, but through the same lens that Theseus does. She is tired, and stressed, and Newt takes pity on her. Only a little bit, however - She was meant to be Percival’s friend, and she hadn’t noticed he was gone.
So he plays the role of the hurt and wronged foreigner, too angry at her to even feign respect. She also eyes him warily as she asks him how he knew that it had been Grindelwald impersonating as Percival.
“I don’t know Grindelwald.” He answers in a clipped tone, “But I know Percival.”
“If I may,” The president asks, “What is your relationship with Director Graves?”
Newt thinks about this. Lovers? Paramours? He thinks about the pendant that should be around Percival’s neck, the armband on his own skin, and what slips out of his mouth instead, “We’re engaged.” His answer takes himself off guard, let alone the president. The widening eyes, the almost defensive curl of her lips, signs of a beast that feels its territory is being encroached upon.
Protective, are you, Madame President? Perhaps Newt sees fit to relieve her of that responsibility.
“You’re engaged.” The president repeats, “I was- we were not aware of this.”
Newt doesn’t answer her.
She lets him go in a daze, and he quickly trots down to locate Tina and figure out what in merlin’s name had happened to his- fiance.
//
They find Percival feral, a self-inflicted curse that reduces one’s mind to a primal state. It’s easy to undo, but it’s still on Percival. It ensures there’s no memories, no rational thoughts, nothing there for Grindelwald to prey on and steal, and Newt is so impressed by his lover’s quick thinking. There’s no counter curse for it, but automatically unravels when the cursed is at peace.
The downside is that Percival doesn’t seem to be able to find peace even after he is saved by his aurors, in his familiar office, or in the company of his colleagues, so Newt has to forcibly barge his way past the healers to cradle Percival’s face in his hands, subtly reveling in the bestial side of this man.
Percival all but lunges at him, pinning him onto the hospital bed, and Newt briefly wonders if Percival is going to fuck him right there, then he realizes that he really wouldn’t mind. To the victors go the spoil.
Then Percival’s breathing slows down, and his grip becomes less crushing as he regains his sanity. He lifts up from Newt’s body reluctantly, dark eyes meeting Newt’s own, his gaze intense and searching. Newt, in turn, also savours in the proximity of his lover, something threatening to snap inside of him once again at how on earth no one else had been able to notice Percival had been replaced.
Percival that was so full of energy, who was so strong, so reliable, who was harsh when he needed but gentle when it counted, who was honest and loyal and just all these things Newt thought he had chosen to put aside, that Newt thought he couldn’t have, as long as he had his Beasts to take care of, but Percival proved that man can be honest to their desires and still be unselfish, that Newt still has the capacity to love another human unconditionally.
“Percival?” He reaches out tentatively, cradles Percival’s face in his hands. His lover makes the adorable confused noise Newt has heard before, like the young Nundu cub he had rescued such a long time ago. Adorable, but also pitiful, and it tears at Newt’s heart.
Merlin, Newt wants to just leave and rip Grindelwald to pieces. But he knows Percival needs him now, so Newt just clings tighter to Percival. His hand slides into Percival’s hair, patting him soothingly. For Grindelwald is self-serving and that is one thing Newt would never allow himself to become - for then he would have no need for his companions, his Beasts, his Percival, and by then he might as well not have a purpose to exist in this world.
He pities Grindelwald, really, that this man cannot find his own purpose in this world. If he cannot, then they might as well rid the world of him.
“You’re here.” Percival’s voice sounds like he’s just woken up from a dream, and Newt can’t help but think it’s adorable. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I’m not heartless,” Newt snaps instead, “Just selective with my affections.” His hand, however, is still gentle as his fingers graze Percival’s scalp lightly, grounding him.
Percival turns to bury his face into the crook of Newt’s neck, inhaling deeply. Newt croons him back into sleep.
He awakes the next day and Newt is still by his side, making some edits to his chapter on Nundus. They exchange soft, possessive touches as Newt helps him lean against the head of the bed, and Newt watches him finish his breakfast before starting on his own.
Their first guest comes a little bit after noon, and Newt makes his displeasure clear to Percival. There’s only one chair in Percival’s room, and he’s not giving it to the Madam President. Clinging resolutely to Percival’s hand, he watches the Madam President with the gaze of a wary predator.
“Sera.” Percival greets, and she returns it with a calm and relieved, “Percival.”
They exchange pleasantries; she apologizes, he forgives, and Newt is unhappy throughout.
Finally, the president’s gaze slides towards Newt, and she addresses the elephant in her mind. “I had no idea you were seeing someone.”
“And you had no idea he was replaced by a doppelganger.” Newt growls back. The president once again stares at him like he is some sort of ghost she had never seen before, boggled.
Percival’s thumb rubs over Newt’s hand in soothing circles, and he hunches closer to the other man, a difficult feat given the bed between them.
The president’s gaze shifts between them once again, and then she makes up her mind about something, turning to tell Percival he was not expected in the office for a good few months, but was welcome back in his original position before she leaves Newt and Percival at peace.
When the sky begins to darken, Newt is getting restless in the white room. He doesn’t feel safe here, doesn’t feel safe leaving Percival here either. One night was very much his limit.
The healer insists that no, you can’t take Director Graves home yet, he’ll relapse, he needs the sedatives, until Newt snaps at them uncharacteristically about how he’s the man who brought down the worst dark wizard of their time, and dealing with dangerous beasts is in his job description, so fuck off. Well. Uncharacteristic to everyone else, at least. Percival just has that fond, sappy look on his face at Newt’s outburst. If it was on anyone else, Newt would have been disgusted and disappointed, but it’s on Percival, so it’s okay.
Percival does relapse that night, but Newt’s prepared and ready for him. Newt had been watering the plants, but as soon as Percival stops halfway through a sentence, he quickly throws the watering can into Dougal’s direction and drags Percival into the suitcase.
In the privacy of the suitcase he ruts like a beast, too, mindless, just taking and taking without regard for Newt, like Newt is just a body for him to breed, a vessel for his primitive desires.
It goes on for three days and Newt’s so tired that he doesn’t even want to coax his magic to heal the scratches and bruises all up his body. Percival tries, when he snaps out of it, but halfway through cleaning Newt up he just relapses and there’s not much point to cleaning after all.
At the end of it Percival simply holds him and Newt holds him back, each other’s blot of hope in this world that is dark and disappointing.
“You still love me.” Newt mumbles out, towards the end. “Always.” Percival answers him fiercely, “Never doubt it.”
“I never did.”
//
Percival recovers, and Newt is with him in every step. He goes back to work two weeks after, regaining control of his department rapidly and righting all of Grindelwald’s wrongs. Newt hears his subordinates, the ones that had remained, he hears their wonderment and doubts at why they had never noticed their Director had been replaced. Newt thinks vehemently that they deserve this guilt.
But still, Grindelwald had taken something away from Percival those two weeks, something that many of Newt’s beasts had also gone through.
Newt doesn’t think less of Percival because of this - an alpha of a pack bears many scars, but they are trophies of his triumph, not his shame. It is because of this that when Percival asks him quietly to accompany that night, he goes without question.
It’s not because Percival needs to reclaim his pride, or confidence, or reputation - once stolen, none of these could be returned. It’s because of who Percival is, who he always had been. The shadow in the night, the hidden side of MACUSA’s justice, the judge, jury, and executioner.
This time he lets Newt see this side of him, wandless and non-verbal magic stunning the guards and enchanting the wards. Newt adds his own magic into the mix, so Grindelwald is truly caught off guard when the two of them slip into his cell.
The dark wizard gives a thin-veiled smile, but before he can open his mouth to taunt, the curse is out of Percival’s mouth and wand.
There is no fanfare, no shedding of blood, no torture, no revenge. Simply the act of a man doing the only thing required to keep his loved ones safe. Grindelwald’s body hits the ground with a thud, face perpetually frozen in a weird grimace, torn between a smile and a frown.
Percival’s hands are steady as he locks everything up behind them, and he holds his hand out towards Newt, open and ready for Newt to take.