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The first time Percival laid eyes on Gellert Grindelwald, it was in a photo on the front page of the Daily Prophet. It was mid-December of 1918, and he sat huddled around a cramped table in a London pub with a few friends from both the American and British wizarding armies. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of stale beer, but the men were in high spirits. American No-Maj soldiers were shipping out by the hundreds on boats, and MACUSA was rumored to be opening the International Floo Network channels back up.
They might even make it home in time for Christmas.
“This bloke,” Theseus said loudly, smacking the paper down in front of Percival and pointing at the photograph of Grindelwald, who was making a speech to a few hundred German witches and wizards, arms waving wildly in his fervor, “wants to start another damn war. We just beat the bloody Germans a month ago! You think they’d learn. Pace themselves.”
“What does this Gellert Grindelwald want to go to war over?” Percival asked. He took a sip of his Firewhiskey, watching as Theseus slopped his own drink down the front of his uniform.
“Something about wizards and Muggles— more us versus them nonsense,” he said vaguely. “The man’s a fanatic.”
Fanatic. Percival caught on the word. It felt dangerous.
+++
They met in person a little over a year later. After the war, Percival had gone back to his job as an auror for MACUSA, and he was on the fast track to become Director of Magical Security despite his young age. He was a hard worker with few friends, and the ear of Seraphina Picquery.
All of these things drew Gellert to him like a moth to a flame.
As Percival fell in love with Gellert’s ideas and doctrine, he began to fall in love with the man, as well. The passionate way he spoke, the way he could make anything seem possible— and Gellert tended to Percival’s adoration carefully, helping it to grow strong like weeds in a garden.
“If you’re going to harbor a dangerous fugitive,” Gellert began one night after dinner, as the two men sat in Percival’s study, “you might as well learn something from him.”
Percival glanced up from his book, eyebrows raised skeptically. “What could you possibly have to teach me?”
“How to take control of your magic. Your position in life.” Gellert stood up and crossed the room, taking a seat on the loveseat next to Percival. The room was warm, lit mostly by the glow of the hearth, fire crackling. If he was going to enlist Percival in his plans, he needed to be convincing. It wasn’t enough for the other man to simply believe in his cause—to get Percival to do what he wanted, Gellert needed him to be truly invested.
Luckily, he had experience in this form of manipulation. If he could win over Albus Dumbledore, he could win over a man like Percival Graves.
Closing the space between them, Gellert took Percival’s hand in his own, the pad of his thumb brushing softly over Percival’s knuckles. “We could have everything we’ve ever wanted, you know. It’s right there in front of us—all we have to do is reach out and take it.”
Percival’s breath caught in his throat, Gellert’s words washing over him. It wasn’t the first time the other wizard had broached this subject, and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t laid awake at night, considering what it would mean for him. For them.
There could be a them—and Gellert was right. He had so much to teach, and Percival craved that knowledge almost more than he craved the man himself.
“What would you need me to do?” Percival breathed.
A smile spread over Gellert’s face, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew then that he had won.
+++
It took months of planning to arrange the switch, all of the scheming and lying completely nerve-racking for Percival. The Polyjuice Potion had to be perfected; Gellert had to be briefed every single evening on the events of that day at MACUSA, and the whole plan was starting to wear on him.
But he knew it would be worth it, in the end. What he and Gellert were going to accomplish would better the wizarding world, it would free them from the statute of secrecy and all that came with it. So what if they had to break a few laws to get there? Making history couldn’t be easy. He had learned that during the war. Sometimes change came hard.
“Do you think you’re ready?” Percival asked, anxiety bleeding through in his voice despite his attempts to conceal any doubts he had.
Gellert stood over the kitchen sink, filling a silver flask with the freshly brewed Polyjuice, his eyes meeting Percival’s in the reflection of the window. They were so close to going through with this—part of him was afraid the younger man would get cold feet at the last minute and all of their carefully laid plans would be ruined.
He couldn’t let that happen.
“Yes,” he said, trying to inject confidence into his tone. Screwing the cap onto the flask, Gellert slipped it into his pocket and turned around to face the other man. “I worry that you aren’t ready, however.”
Percival didn’t say anything, instead leaning back against the wall and letting out a puff of breath and staring at the floor.
Reaching out, Gellert took Percival’s chin between his finger and thumb, forcing his gaze up, making their eyes meet. “Do you not trust me?”
“It would be more accurate to say that I don’t trust them with you,” Percival said wryly, twisting a handful of Gellert’s waistcoat in his hand and pulling him close, their lips nearly touching. He could feel Gellert’s warm breath on his skin, and it made his heart clench painfully, solidifying his resolve.
Gellert pushed in close, pinning Percival to the wall with his hips, hands bracketing his shoulders as he gazed down at the other man. “I can take care of myself,” he said, silencing any response Percival may have had by pressing their lips together.
Percival melted into the kiss, determined to enjoy these last few hours with Gellert while he could. Soon enough, looking at his lover would be like gazing into a mirror.
“I know,” he whispered, eyes slipping closed as Gellert trailed open mouthed kisses down his throat and across his collarbone, finally managing to distract him, his mind taking him back to the first time he had seen the other man.
Percival felt drunk on the opportunities that yawned before them, brought on by the dark magic of Gellert Grindelwald—the fanatic.
It felt like strength. It felt like power.