Chapter Text
Graves isn't completely ignorant. He understands why his department is enamoured with this man. This man, with his Nundu and his bowtie, a strange mix of wild and shy, apologetic and anxious, or is it apologetically anxious? Anxiously apologetic? What is he?
"Uh, Mr. Graves?"
His bright blue coattails flap about almost as wildly as the coppery ringlets that halo his perpetually nervous face, like writhing, uncontrollable-
“Er, ah, oh, Director Graves, sir? Do pardon my misadressing you, um, but I was told you’d requested, uh, me. To see me? Requested my presence. At your office. Sir?”
-snakes, that's what they are, tiny wriggling serpents, copperheads that coil and curve and shine in the sunlight streaming through his office window, flopping over his face (which Graves hasn't seen yet) and curling around his right ear just so-
“Um. Is. Is there something I-“
“Sit, Mr. Scamander.”
Graves rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers for something to do with his hands, and narrows his eyes (analytically, not threateningly) at the (almost trembling, is the man cold?) magizoologist now slowly lowering himself into the single, uncomfortable chair in front of Graves’ desk, clutching his case in front of him like a shield.
Hmm. Snakes. Maybe he's Medusa. Is that why he won't meet his eyes? Graves is oddly touched.
“Um, Mr. Graves, Sir?”
It would explain a few things. His effortless kinship with his creatures, for one. Graves watches the man squirm in his seat, open his mouth, then close it. And then do it again, adding lip-biting into the mix this time for purposes Graves cannot even begin to comprehend and could he desist?
Medusa, or Veela? Maybe both? Graves doesn't know enough about cross-breeding to know if it's possible, only that it should definitely be made illegal. It's (probably) why Graves is so stiff and...unable to articulate in this man's presence.
Possibly. Almost certainly.
This man, who looks like actual conversation is a foreign concept to him. This is the man Graves can't figure out how to talk to. Honestly, doesn't dealing with beasts give you some sense of how to appear in charge of a situation?
He watches Newt look at him, then look away quickly, as if waiting for him to say something. Graves suppresses the urge to sigh. Just because he's in charge of several rambunctious aurors doesn't mean Graves can take charge of a conversation. And he'd thought Scamander was smart.
The fact that Graves is so discombobulated in the presence of a meer man, this man, of all men, is confusing. Unless he's not a man, or at least, not completely. The veela theory comes to mind again, but is dismissed almost as quickly - Newt isn't blonde.
The maybe-man fidgets a bit with the handle of his case, and then goes still, knuckles whitening as he sneaks a peek at Graves before looking away again. Graves lowers his hands back into his lap as his eyes narrow further (contemplatively, not criticisingly).
The action makes Scamander's shoulders hunch in further, which Graves ignores, because honestly, this man tames dragons and Graves knows this. Graves isn't buying this oh-so-innocent act. He's clearly up to something.
“So sorry. But um. Could you maybe.” There's a faint tremble in his soft voice as those eyes dart up to Graves' forehead, than to his left ear before quickly darting back down to the floor and damn, this guy is good. Graves would almost buy the innocent act if he wasn't so keyed up. And well informed.
And Newt Scamander's eyes are actually a rather pretty shade of green.
He really should ask Theseus about the Veela thing. Maybe the hair colour isn't really a thing. He has to ask. As a matter of urgency. For the good of his department. And his sanity.
"Uh, I'm sorry, but can I - it's just that I have to meet with the Madame President in a few minutes, and she doesn't like to be kept waiting, as you, um, of course you know that, how wouldn't you, she's your boss." A nervous laugh. "Anyway, if there's anything you need me to do, you can tell me, otherwise, so sorry, but I really do need to go,"
Scamander keeps talking in that deceptively guileless voice, and his shoulders are hunched in almost as much as his hair sticks out, and does he honestly think it makes him seem smaller? The man is taller than Graves would be even if he somehow steals Picquery’s headgear of choice and plonks it on his head. Graves' eyes narrow further. The man is shaking so much it's a wonder he hasn't fallen out of his chair. What do his aurors see in him?
Right. Nundu.
"And she always seems, ah, rather irritable when I'm late, of course, she does seem to be more irritable in my, erm, presence than she usually is but, um, I- if you could just-"
“Where is your niffler, Mr. Scamander?”
“-tell me what's. Uh. What?” His nervous rambling stops and his eyes shoot back up to Graves’ face, startled into propriety. “Um."
"Your niffler, Mr. Scamander.” He watches his green eyes widen, then dart to the window on his right as if craving an escape route. And they really are rather pretty eyes, he doesn't understand why Newt keeps them covered, and his nose isn't half bad either, a little crooked, just the slightest bit upturned, curving softly down to a rather tempting cupid's bow, nestled over pale pink lips and Graves is suddenly possessed by the urge to-
"Darcy? Is? In the case, as she, um, always is. At least," His freckles seem to stand out a bit more as he pales, and his breathing speeds up a bit. "She should be. In the case. Where she always is. Yes."
"I see." Graves leans forward slowly, raising his eyebrow and watching as Scamander's shoulders shrink inwards. "So, she's in the case. That case."
"Yes?"
"And is not currently in the custody of Auror Goldstein, caught and contained?"
"Oh dear, is she really, I'm sorry, Mr., ah, Director Graves, so sorry, but I really must be-"
"Sit down, Mr. Scamander."
Newt sits back down. His eyes darte frantically around the room and his knuckles are white around the handle of his case.
Graves speaks calmly, coolly, as though commenting on the weather. "So. After rampaging through my department and upending a total of thirty one inkwells, each of which conveniently went missing almost immediately after the reports lying under them were ruined," Graves ignores the man's horrified eyes, which are focused on his own for once, grow wider and wider with each word. "The seventeen silver tipped pens that have vanished into thin air, the three aurors and one President Picquery who tripped over nothing and got back up only to realize their watch was nowhere to be found, after all this, Mr. Scamander. After all this, you say your niffler, Darcy, was it?"
Newt let's out a sound halfway between a squeak and a sob. "Yes, uh, Darcy, she-"
"Darcy, is in your case, you say."
"I-um-"
"And you are our consultant magizoologist. I heard you've come with excellent recommendations, not to mention an unparalleled level of field experience." He steeples his fingers on his desk aand watches as Newt flushes in mortification. It's a pretty colour on him. "So I suppose I'll have to take your word for it."
"Oh, I. Is that. Oh. Alright. Yes" The man gets up slowly, almost hesitantly, "I'll. I'll just."
"I do believe a visit to Auror Goldstein's office would be prudent."
"I'll just. Do that, Mr. Director sir. I. Thank. You?" He jerks to his feet and backs away from the desk, adjusting his bowtie and licking his lips in his haste to escape. His green eyes are suspiciously shiny and it's good that he can't see that Graves is on the verge of a nervous breakdown (possibly because Newt is on the verge of a breakdown himself) but Graves is on the verge of a nervous breakdown and the furrow between Mr. Scamander's eyebrows and those bright eyes, which had been fixed firmly on the ground since he'd stood (and Graves is suddenly desperate to have them fixed on him) aren't really helping matters. "I'll just. Go, then."
"I do believe Abernathy has, ah, misplaced his silver cigarette case as well."
A frantic nod, a sweep of bright blue coattails and a door closing softly, and it's like the man was never here to begin with.
Graves unsteeples his fingers and takes a deep breath, trying to collect the wits that have somehow ended up scattered across his office floor in the last few minutes. Then he steeples them again, finding he rather likes the pensive aura it gives him.
So. Veela then. At least one eighth, he guesses. And he needs to ask Theseus about the Medusa thing too. Maybe they're related, somehow? There must be something, because there was a moment in that meeting - talk - encounter when Graves had been sure he couldn't move a muscle, he couldn't hear, see, think about anything except the man in front of him and that isn't normal, is it?
"Of course it is, dearie," Queenie Goldstein skips into his office uninvited, as she's wont to do these days. He ignores her, focusing on his steepled fingers. She keeps talking regardless. "It's called feelings, Percy."
"I hate that nickname."
"Anddon't be silly, Newt's not a veela, he's one hundred percent human." She raises an eyebrow judgementay. "And Medusa? Where did that leap of logic come from?"
"Sit down and drink your coffee. Mercy Lewis, it's bad enough I have to put up with your presence in my office without having to answer all your ridiculous questions."
Queenie grins at him brightly. "So? How'd it go?" She sets two coffee cups on his table. The bitter aroma soothes him. His shoulders slump as tension he didn't even know was there evaporates.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, ruining his steeple in the process. He used to be terrifying. Intimidating. Unapproachable. And yet, in front of Scamander, he was. None of those things.
What was he?
"Oh, you're still you, honey, don't you worry. All the aurours in your department are pants-wettingly scared of you. But not people who understand you better now. Like me! And you're right, the steepling really does give you a meditative air, you might try doing it in meetings now and then. Picquery might actually take you seriously for once." She winks at him and he gives her his best glare, which she ignores in favour of dropping into his chair (which has been transfigured into a cushy pink armchair, when did that happen?) and leaning forward excitedly. "So? Did he agree to coffee?"
He sighs, knowing he's not getting out of this, and then frowns contemplatively, picking up his coffee cup. "It didn't come up." She pouts at him reproachfully and he shrugs, taking a sip. Ah. Bliss. "It was a work meeting, Goldstein, strictly professional."
"Oh, really. The strictly professional meeting that you've been anticipating for weeks. Planning. Plotting. Maybe even looking forward to."
He ignores her. "Considering the first time, this one wasn't too bad, I suppose."
Queenie raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. "You mean the time Tina brought him in here to introduce you to each other and he took one look at you, 'meep'ed, and fled?"
"I honestly don't know why that happened, I took care to arrange my face into something perfectly pleasant."
"He 'meep'ed, Graves!"
"The man calls himself Mummy, and named his Nundu Lily, and his niffler Darcy, who knows why he does anything!"
"He 'meep'ed!"
"It wasn't my fault!"
She gives him a flat look but lets it slide. "Well, he seemed pretty shaken on the way to Tina's just now. But relieved, that you hadn't ordered Darcy to be sent away, or exterminated or anything. So that's one good thing, I suppose."
"Exterminated?"
"Apparently nifflers are classified as pests in most official documentation."
"Oh. Well. I wouldn't have had the thing killed."
"Well, you can't blame the man, you almost had him exterminated once, remember? Well, you wouldn't remember, obviously. He does, though. Rather vividly."
"I did what?"
"Not you-you. Other-you. Grindelwald-you."
Why had no one told him this?
Queenie looks horrified. "I'm- I'm so sorry, honey. I thought you knew."
Of course she did. She couldn't know that Picquery had insisted that he be given as little information as possible about what had happened. That the Healers had insisted on as little mental strain as possible but.
He's fine now though. He's better.
They could've told him.
"We didn't want to bring things up that were probably better left forgotten." Queenie's voice is barely a whisper, but it still makes him wince. "It wasn't you. That's Newt's trauma to handle, not yours. There's nothing you can do. It wasn't you, Percival, and Newt knows that."
Yeah, but he'd made the man come to his office and forced him to sit through what had probably been equated to torture in his mind, considering first memories Newt has of him are of him sentencing him to death.
And to think, he'd been about to ask Newt to coffee. Jesus. Escaped the execution and now your Boss/Superior/co-worker who has the same face as the psycopath who tried to kill you has a crush on you. A guillotine would probably look kinder next to Graves.
Is that why Abernathy has been going stiff whenever he sees him? Had he tried to have him executed too? The other Goldstein's been rather jumpy lately, now that he thinks about it. Who else, what else has he missed, no one he trusts has told him anything that matters, and the rest of his department is obviously too suspicious (or scared) to realize he's the same as before, just a little worse for wear.
Not that the silence is any different from the past few months. Or years. Maybe he is the same as before, maybe Grindelwald was the same as him. Maybe he really does have just himself to blame.
"Don't be silly, honey." Queenie's voice wavers unsteadily, but her hand grips his arm almost too tightly. "Tina's fine. There's some, ah, family stuff. It's nothing to do with you, I promise. You didn't send Abernathy to the gallows, just to the basement to file wand permits. And Percival, trust me, Newt knows it wasn't you. He's not awkward because it's you, he's awkward because you're you. He's just...bad with people."
Graves snorts, amused despite himself. "Understatement of the year."
He needs to fix things.
"Newt might also possibly think that you look much more, intense, than your, ah, impersonator did. Just a possibility, of course," Queenie adds hesitantly.
"Does he, now?" He deadpans. "How wonderful, to be more intense than the darkest and craziest wizard of our time."
"I think he meant it as a compliment, actually. Although he did, hypothetically, of course, think you were just as intimidating, if not more-"
"Is there a point to this lecture, Goldstein?"
"And he might have compared the shade your eyes to thunderbird feathers." Graves' mind draws a blank at that, because what. "All this is purely hypothetical of course, there's no way I could possibly know, that accent really throws me-"
How would Scamander even know what colour his eyes were? The only time he'd actually looked Graves in the eye was when Graves had been telling the increasingly frazzled man about his - oh.
"And he also has some, a few, possibly flattering thoughts about your mouth, although I don't think those are, ah, suitable for spoken conversation, maybe I could write them down for you? If you'd like, I mean, this is all just speculation, of course-"
"Goldstein."
"Hmm?"
"How exactly does one steal a thief?"
She stares at him, for once uncomprehending. Graves steeples his fingers and grins.