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There was a large, smoking hole in the centre of a public park where there ought to be a small cluster of birch trees. Percival grit his teeth. It was before dawn, two weeks into this investigation, and none of his Aurors seemed anywhere close to presenting him with an answer for why the local flora seemed to have developed a penchant for going up in flames.
“This is the fourth incineration we’ve seen in as many days,” he muttered to Auror Goldstein, who stood to his left. “You’re absolutely sure that we have no leads?”
She winced at his tone. “Well,” she said, thumbing through a thin stack of parchment, “I’ve heard from Forensics that the burn marks lack precision, which could maybe indicate an inexperienced or inebriated magic-user. And the only pattern in what’s being burnt is that it’s all wood.” She shuffled the feeble stack in her hands.
Percival privately thought that she was reaching. “So it’s a drunken wizard who specialises in arson. Why haven’t we caught them yet?”
Goldstein bit her lip, rocking back on her heels. “Well, perhaps- ah, but it’s unlikely,” She cut herself off, ducking her head to busy herself with the case file. Percival sighed. Despite her clear skill as an Auror, the demotion she’d received during his absence still hung over her head at times, dealing a blow to her confidence. He turned away from the smoking remains of the trees to look at her directly.
“What is it,” he asked flatly. “You’re leading this case, so whatever it is, someone will look into it.”
“It’s just that Melanie, down in Forensics, said that the burn marks remind her of dragonfire.” Goldstein was gazing at the charred stumps before them. “And I know that sounds crazy, but I ran over the case with a friend who’s familiar with dragons. He said that it might be an avenue worth exploring.
“A dragon.” Percival raised his eyebrows. “You’d think we’d have noticed if a dragon was flying over our heads, wouldn’t we?” Though, he thought grimly, Grindelwald went unnoticed as Head of Magical Law Enforcement for three months. From Goldstein’s awkward expression, she seemed to follow his train of thought.
“Besides,” he continued, “it’s just past six months since the last incident with the release of a magical beast in this city. A bit soon for a repeat performance, don’t you think?”
Goldstein gave a valiant attempt at maintaining a poker face for all of ten seconds. “You know, funnily enough, Mr. Graves,” she started, and Percival sighed again.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been in contact with that magizoologist.”
“Mr. Scamander is a highly qualified individual in his field,” Goldstein said loyally. Her voice had steadily grown in volume beyond the quietly polite murmur she’d adopted following her reinstatement. “In fact, he’s one of the most knowledgeable experts on dragons in the world, and he just so happens to be in New York.”
Percival could feel a headache beginning to form. “I assure you, President Picquery will see to it that we both lose our jobs if Mr. Scamander brings about the same type of chaos as he did last time. What exactly are you proposing, Auror Goldstein?”
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “with your permission, I’d like to consult with him further, and bring him in as an official contact for the investigation. I don’t want any possibility to be ignored, and frankly, Mr. Graves, I have a good feeling about this lead.”
Goldstein met his eye, her face set with quiet determination. It was deeply refreshing to be addressed directly, Percival thought. Since his reinstatement after being freed from Grindelwald’s imprisonment, the Aurors in his department had either been overly friendly or much, much more distant. It was a frustrating balance, especially when it went hand-in-hand with the veritable destruction of the veneer of professionalism he’d carefully maintained since first being hired.
Goldstein held his gaze, seemingly unfazed by any of this. He nodded sharply. “Like I said, you’re in charge of this case. You don’t need my permission, but I trust you if you think it’s a good start. If your dragon-rearing friend has any advice, bring him in for further discussion.”
It was this conversation that ultimately led to Newton Scamander, the proud owner of a completely illegal menagerie of beasts and creatures, standing in the corner of Percival’s office. He was clutching his briefcase’s handle with both hands, and there was something visibly twitching in his jacket pocket. Percival hoped that it wasn’t a doxy.
Goldstein had brought him in, and he trailed after her like a visibly uncertain dog. He wore a vibrantly blue overcoat, and a simple shirt and pants beneath it. His hair was unruly, falling over his face in reddish-brown curls. His face was angular, but distinctly handsome, his sharp cheekbones dotted with a smattering of freckles. He wouldn’t meet Percival’s gaze.
“So,” Goldstein was saying, “I spoke to Newt about the fires, and there are a few species that might fit the bill.” She gestured to Scamander, who moved forward, carefully setting his case down on the ground. One of the latches flipped open. Scamander didn’t seem to notice.
He stood at Goldstein’s side, though he was a pace further away from the desk than she. His eyes were flitting nervously from the desk to Percival and back again.
“Mr. Scamander,” Percival said, rising and offering a hand. “I apologise for the last time you saw me.” It had become a common phrase for Percival as of late, though it tended to evoke more sympathetic stares than he liked to garner.
To his credit, Scamander didn’t seem phased by it. He nodded, briefly shaking Percival’s hand. His touch was surprisingly warm, and he pulled away quickly, tucking his hands back into his pockets.
“I believe this is our first real meeting, actually,” Scamander corrected absently, and met his eyes for a beat. His gaze was blue, clear as a morning sky. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Graves.” His tone was rather painfully earnest, a slight, unconscious smile upon his lips.
Percival, slightly caught off guard, nodded bemusedly, quickly trying to regain his composure. “In that case, it’s good to meet you.”
Goldstein cleared her throat, and they settled into their respective chairs. Scamander offered Percival a tightly bound journal. There were feathers sticking out from between the pages.
“My notes on dragons,” he explained, and Percival gingerly opened the cover, letting a shower of what appeared to be whole, shimmering dragon scales drop onto his desk with a clatter. Flipping through the pages revealed a near-endless amount of anatomical sketches. Every other available space was filled with cramped ink, his intricate notes capturing everything from the lustrous quality of a scale to the pH value of saliva.
Percival looked through several pages, tracing his fingers over the inked dragons- each drawing so meticulously detailed that he half expected it to twist and move upon the page as charmed photographs would. He glanced back up at Scamander, who had been watching him rather intently.
“You’ve been briefed on the case, I trust,” Percival said, and Scamander nodded.
“Tina let me examine some of the debris after the fire,” Scamander said, nodding to Goldstein, who smiled encouragingly. “The magical residue is far too wild, in my opinion, to be indicative of anything but dragonfire.”
He reached across the desk, taking hold of the edge of the journal, and flipped forward a few pages, pushing it gently back towards Percival. “I think a likely candidate is the Northern Atlantic Sheerwing.”
The drawing was as intricate as all the others. It was coloured, and depicted a smaller, lizard-like dragon, made distinct by its whitish-blue scales and its large, translucent wings. “They hunt over the sea, and typically live in shallow waters, so their camouflage is top notch. They can be nearly invisible when seen from below. Perhaps the increase in boating off of the Eastern coast has caused a flock to migrate inland.”
Scamander pushed a lock of hair from his eyes, pointing to a scrawled note in the corner of the page. “And I think that it’s relevant, the fact that during mating season, a female Sheerwing will scorch a circle of earth prior to the building of its nest, to test the quality of the land.”
Percival nodded, following Scamander’s train of thought. “Perhaps our arsonist is just a mother searching for a place to land.”
Scamander snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”
Goldstein lifted her quill from her notebook. “Is there any way to predict where the dragon could go next? We could try to intercept it, before any more damage could be done.”
This started Scamander off on another, much longer tangent. Percival settled back into his chair, watching Scamander’s enthusiasm radiate from his person as he spoke. It was a start, he supposed, but one that would have to be carefully monitored. Despite all the good he’d done, Percival couldn’t help but harbour some lingering doubts over the man’s character.
Of course, his reservations were dealt a significant blow when, not three days later, he watched Scamander tempt an angry dragon the size of a small house into his suitcase without the use of his wand.
Percival watched from the corner of his eye as Scamander meticulously picked out every cucumber slice in his salad. He speared each one on his fork, and brought them one at a time to his lips, eating them in small bites, rather like a rabbit. Goldstein was beside him, a hotdog balanced on her lap. Together, they sat on a bench on the edge of Central Park.
It was a beautiful day, the sun streaming through the dappled leaves above them. Percival’s mood was unusually high, made so by the fact that he and Goldstein had successfully closed yet another case- their sixth, since they had begun working together in earnest.
Scamander hadn’t officially assisted them with this one, but he had tagged along after everything had been wrapped up, and had been more than willing to join them for a late lunch.
Since the dragon incident, Scamander had taken to his role as a part-time consultant for the Department of Magical Animalia with ease. It had rapidly become clear how vastly he outranked even many of the senior members. Percival had heard through Goldstein, who had heard from her sister that Mathilde Jornfang, the current department head, had made it her mission to have him hired officially before the end of the year.
Percival had forgone lunch, and was instead cradling a black coffee in both hands. He leaned back against the bench, looking out at the vibrant green of the budding trees, listening in to Goldstein and Scamander as they talked.
“Do you remember when my Erumpent escaped into the zoo in this park?” Newt asked Goldstein, gesturing with his fork. He looked rather pleasantly nostalgic, as if this was a statement that was typical in any sense of the word. Goldstein made a pained expression over her hotdog at the memory.
“Gods, we were cleaning up the city for weeks after you left,” she lamented. “There was so much Exploding Fluid, I could’ve brewed a Flare-Up Draught using only what I could wring out of the cleanup materials.”
“You have an Erumpent?” Percival asked, shocked. “Those are illegal both here and in Europe, Mr. Scamander. They’re categorised as Extremely Dangerous magical beings.” His eye was beginning to twitch at the mere thought of how illegal ownership of an Erumpent was.
Scamander had the gall to wave a hand airily. “The American classification system is based on the perspective of an Auror, not a magizoologist. I assure you, the Erumpent only becomes dangerous when threatened, or when prevented from mating. Besides, she’s currently staying in a lovely preserve in Libya.”
Percival took several seconds to absorb the information that Scamander had dropped unceremoniously into his lap.
“But the explosive horn,” he protested, “surely you can see why most wizards are wary of it? The amount of casualties is remarkably high, for an animal as rare as the Erumpent is.”
Scamander nodded, but looked unconvinced. Percival suspected he’d trod on a subject that Scamander had discussed many times before. “The casualties are so high because the Erumpent is a highly sought-after animal, Mr. Graves. Wizard poachers try to hunt the Erumpent without knowing anything about it, because its parts are rare and useful. It doesn’t help that so many legends of its danger and strength have spread, so the killing of one is seen as a feat of bravery or moral superiority.”
He took another bite of his salad, chewing carefully. “I believe that the real problem stems from a lack of proper education on the species, combined with hunting and protection laws that are much too lenient.”
Percival blinked, surprised despite himself. He made a mental note to review the law on magical creature classification when he had the chance. “I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted. “Though, I’ll admit I am less of an expert on the subject than you are, Mr. Scamander.”
Goldstein frowned thoughtfully. “Newt, have you ever given any thought to trying to amend the Animalia and Magical Creatures Classification System? I’m sure you’d be allowed to give an opinion at the very least, now that you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself over here.”
Percival was vaguely aware of the ongoing office bet over when Scamander would finally allow himself to be given a permanent position at the office. Goldstein, it seemed, from the slight quirk of her lips as she spoke, was in on it.
Scamander looked inquisitive at that, so Percival added: “If you were to enact a change, I imagine you’d have to do less paperwork justifying your collection of creatures.”
“Why would I bother dealing with that, when I can ask you to file it for me?” Scamander said, cracking a wry grin. “You haven’t wronged me so far.”
It was true. Two months ago, Scamander had received a rather belligerent owl, reminding him with no minced words that his licence of ownership of his caravan of Bowtruckles had expired. He’d been given a week to get his paperwork in order, or would be fined handsomely.
Percival had caught him as he’d been scurrying from the services desk in the legal department, a disorganised stack of paper clutched in one hand.
“It’s been a while since I’ve stayed anywhere long enough for any of the owls to catch up with me,” Scamander had told him jokingly. “Though it was deliberate, most of the time,” he continued, as if he were letting Percival in on a secret. “I never got the hang of filing paperwork.”
Upon hearing this, Percival had taken it upon himself to review Scamander’s paperwork himself. It wouldn’t do, he thought, to allow him to be arrested for fraud, just when he had begun to be actually useful to MACUSA. In the end, the shock of the sheer mess of Scamander’s files had frustrated him so severely that he’d taken a full day to re-file a majority of the paperwork himself.
Scamander had smiled brilliantly at him, and somehow, Percival had found himself back there nearly every day until the permits were nearing a sense of proper organisation. Scamander’s paperwork had found its stealthy way into his schedule, tucked in among meetings and casework.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Percival said to Scamander, who only smiled. “Without my help, you’d be forced to write yourself up for illegal possession of a hundred creatures.”
“Then I suppose I’d better see about a job,” Scamander replied loftily. “None of my creatures are dangerous, and Merlin knows that none of them ought to be illegal.”
Goldstein looked inordinately pleased. Percival wondered absently if he could persuade her into sharing her winnings.
For the four months that Percival spent chained up in the basement of an abandoned No-Maj building, he spent most of it in a magically induced coma, slipping dizzily in and out of restless fog and nightmarish visions. The rest was spent awake, blearily attempting to wandlessly break himself from the thick iron manacles locked around his wrists.
He was plagued with the memory of Grindelwald, his grin stretching across his gaunt face, as his skin twisted and bubbled beneath his own magic, moulding itself into a new face- Percival’s own. The thought of that man wearing his very skin was a common theme in the lingering nightmares, even after Goldstein and her team of Aurors had come bursting in to save him.
The first week back had been agonising- even the wards to his own office had initially repelled him, unused to his by-then unfamiliar magical signature. His previous assistant had quit once the news about Grindelwald had emerged, and he had yet to find a replacement.
His employees avoided him, now more than ever, and even Seraphina, a longtime friend, avoided his eye. Whether it was due to lingering guilt over Grindelwald, or a healthy dose of suspicion, it left Percival rather ostracised, even among his more trusted subordinates.
He dragged a palm over his face, weary after yet another meeting. The bristling tension had seeped into his own magic, sending his typically pristine control into strained disarray. A Calming Draught would be of no use to him- there was no point in an Auror whose senses were dulled with lavender-scented magic.
A rap on the door broke Percival from his musings, and he reluctantly waved his hand to open the locking charms. His temples pounded with a powerful migraine, and Percival briefly squeezed his eyes shut, desperate for even a moment of peace before the onslaught began anew.
Instead, the door clicked open, and rather meekly, came: “Mr. Graves? I found that paper on the Flesh-Eating Slugs, if it would still be of any help.”
Percival looked up sharply, to see Scamander poking his head in through the doorway. He seemed more dishevelled than ever. There was an enchanted paper mouse clinging to his sleeve that he didn’t seem aware of. Despite his extended tenure within MACUSA’s halls, there was still something so vibrant about him- distinct, even among the eccentricities of wizardkind.
“Yes, come in,” he said, and Scamander entered, closing the door quietly behind him. He deposited a neat stack of parchment on the desk, and took a seat across from Percival.
“It’s a fascinating paper,” he remarked. “It’s by Merylla von Planderdart, who also wrote a very insightful article on the preservation of flobberworms- a veritable genius in the field of magientomology.”
Percival nodded, comprehending very little of what Scamander was telling him. Regardless, it calmed his nerves slightly to hear an explanation of the significance of Flesh-Eating Slug research upon magical medical advancement.
“Are you quite alright, Mr. Graves?” Scamander asked, snapping Percival from his reverie. He tilted his head, looking slightly like a confused dog. It was more endearing than it ought to have been. “I don’t mean to offend, but you look a bit tired.”
“It’s been a difficult day, in all honesty,” Percival replied. Scamander frowned at this, his eyebrows pulling down empathetically.
“Is there anything I could help with?” Scamander asked. “I’m afraid I’m not usually any good at comforting, but I’ll do my best.”
“I doubt it,” Percival said, his morose mood getting the better of him. He sighed. “Though I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scamander.”
Scamander frowned thoughtfully at his response, but said nothing, long enough that Percival allowed himself to continue. “In truth,” Percival said, “I find it exceedingly tedious at times, having to live through the aftermath of Grindelwald’s impersonation of me. There is much more suspicion, more tension in nearly every part of my life.”
Scamander tilted his head, turning to look at him. Percival watched his blue eyes dart around the edges of his face, then dip down to focus on the wall just over his left shoulder.
“I hadn’t met you before your impersonator, but honestly, it seems like a rather poor impression, now that I’ve gotten to know you properly.”
Percival blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?”
Scamander fiddled with his wand as he continued. “I mean, the two of you hold yourselves entirely differently. You don’t have the-” He paused, seemingly searching for a word. “You don’t stand like him, to start. Or I suppose I ought to say that he didn’t stand like you. ”
“I wasn’t aware I stood any particular way,” Percival replied, and Scamander met his eyes for a brief fraction of a second.
“It’s not particular,” he said, and his tone had levelled out, dropping the awkward hesitancy that Percival tended to think of him with. “It’s related to body language, though I will admit that humans tend to be more complicated than animals, which is unsurprising, of course.”
He gestures with one hand, fingers still loosely grasping his wand. “When you’re sitting, like this, your shoulders are even, more, uh, stiff. The other- Grindelwald, that is, I remember that he’d lift his right shoulder rather unconsciously.” He shifted in his seat, leaning against one of the armrests, as if trying to show Percival what he meant. “I remember thinking that he felt predatory, though I’m sure it’s odd to describe a man in that way.”
“And,” he said, gesturing at where Percival’s hand was resting on the desk, “you hold your wand with more grace, in my opinion.” Percival’s fingers twitched unconsciously.
“What I mean to say,” Scamander muttered, “is that simply by observing how you go about your life, Mr. Graves, it is easy to see that you are not a magical terrorist hellbent on the destruction of the wizarding world.”
There was something in the way that Scamander spoke, as if he was so thoroughly sure that his conclusion was foregone- like it would be absurd to believe anything to the contrary. Percival thought back to how Tina had described him, back when Percival had been given the full story. A bit strange, she’d said, but kind-hearted, and truthful beyond a doubt. He was telling the truth, then, or as close to the truth as he could perceive. It loosened something tight and tense in Percival’s chest to hear, something that he hadn’t been entirely aware of until that moment.
It was then that Scamander seemed to realise that he had gone off on a tangent, because he flushed slightly, colouring his cheeks, and he ducked his head to further hide his expression. “I apologise, I’ve rambled, haven’t I?”
Percival offered him a small smile, which only seemed to fluster him further. “I don’t mind,” he replied. “Thank you, Mr. Scamander. I appreciate your attention to detail.”
Scamander looked up, offering a grin to match. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Percival was startled, momentarily, at just how young he looked when he was properly happy.
Scamander leaned forward on his chair, both arms braced over the mass of his suitcase. “Call me Newt, please,” he said. “I know we’re not the closest of acquaintances, but it’s so odd to be called mister. I feel like a peacock.”
Percival chuckled, because Newt would know, better than most. “Percival, then,” he replied.
“A pleasure, Percival,” Newt said, jokingly offering his hand, mimicking their first meeting. Percival shook it, and tried not to think about how the syllables of his name fell so gracefully from Newt’s tongue.
The illegal animal trading ring had been a recent development, and one that Percival had not anticipated. Newt had been the one to bring the case to his attention, actually.
According to him, it had started with a distraught mother, who had brought in what she had believed to be an owl, purchased for her son’s tenth birthday. She said that the bird wouldn’t fly, and wanted to contact the vendor to voice her complaint. The actual problem with the owl, Newt found, was that it was actually a Venomous Snapsparrow, poorly disguised as a typical barn owl.
Of course, this brought a much larger problem to their attention, because the breeding of that specific hybrid had been entirely illegal for decades. This discovery had set off a series of seemingly fruitless investigations ending in frustration and late nights.
Then, Auror Stutely had managed to track an illegally purchased Banana-Eared Constrictor back to a single address. The building was supposedly owned by a group of No-Maj businessmen, but a search quickly revealed that the individuals in question did not exist in the slightest.
They had snuck into the basement of the building through the web of underground tunnels, branching off of the central sewer lines. Under the assumption that this was one of the smaller, outer branches of the ring itself, Percival had given Newt permission to accompany him as he cleared the building from beneath, as Goldstein and her team would take out the upper floors.
However, as soon as they surfaced from the tunnels, it became clear that there had been a very serious miscalculation.
The dark room was massive, far greater than the No-Maj city plans had indicated, and was assembled into a rudimentary warehouse. There were packing crates, empty and stacked haphazardly, and a cluttered desk pushed up against the wall.
They crossed the room slowly, not daring to light their wands. It was due to the oppressive darkness that Percival only noticed the cages when they were close enough to touch. They were stacked beside the door, wrought iron and uncomfortably small. Inside the closest cage, a large, pink puffskein rolled onto its side, managing to look extremely maltreated and pitiful without having any visible features beyond its plush fur. Percival frowned.
In the dim light, Percival could see but a sliver of Newt’s face, but it was enough to recognise the tight, upset shape of his expression. His shoulders were a line of tension, his fists balled at his side.
He traced his fingers along the edge of the nearest bar of the cage, his frown deepening. “They’re magically enhanced,” he said. “There’s no way to break this seal, not without blowing our cover.” He shook his hand, as if trying to rid himself of a bad sensation. “And alongside it, a painful warding charm for the cage’s inhabitant.”
“This is horrific,” Newt said. He looked at the animals with such clear heartbreak on his face that Percival’s own heart clenched at the sight.
“Goldstein is outside,” Graves murmured, trying to comfort him. “We’ll clear the basement, and she’ll follow with her team. We’ll get them out.”
It was enough to get Newt moving again, though his expression remained stormy as they entered a winding hallway. Each door they passed revealed yet another warehouse, with even more cages, their inhabitants huddled away from the magically buzzing bars.
They picked their way through the maze of chambers, following the barely legible markers on the stone walls. It was difficult to keep a running tally of the amount of beasts they passed. It was clear that this stronghold was much greater than an outpost- perhaps even the central key to the animal smuggling ring as a whole.
They had reached the end of the hallway, with only one room to go. Percival cast a glance over his shoulder at Newt. The man had become increasingly tense the further they’d progressed through the catacombs, understandably so. Percival was worried for him.
Newt, noticing his attention, shot him a weak grin. “I’m alright,” he said. “I’ve seen this kind of cruelty before.”
“We’re almost done.” Percival replied, though the severity with which Newt spoke struck him, leaving a persistent sadness. Percival tried to school his face into something reassuring, just for a moment, before pushing ever onwards.
From the moment the door opened, Percival immediately knew that something was terribly wrong. The room was significantly smaller than the rest. There were fewer cages, and none of the restless, magical movement caused by the creatures captive before. One half of the room was filled with loose material, stacked haphazardly against itself. Beside the door, a great metal cage loomed, big enough to fit perhaps even a dragon.
The room stank of decay.
At his side, Newt inhaled sharply. He pushed past Percival, striding through the room, right to where the cages were stacked against the wall furthest from the door. Percival followed at his heels. Newt was kneeling before the cage when he caught up, his scarred hands working quickly against the magical lock. The cage was damaged, one corner badly bent and warped, the sharp metal dangling dangerously close over the animal inside.
Inside the cage, there was a young mooncalf. It wasn’t moving.
“It must have damaged the enchantment,” Newt murmured, “and shocked itself into a stupor.” He waved Percival over frantically, his nervous energy seeping from every gesture. “Help me open the cage.”
“The Alarming Jinx may still be active,” Percival warned, but even as he said it, he was kneeling at Newt’s side, his wand in hand. “We could blow our cover if this goes off.”
“Please,” Newt said, his voice wavering as he gazed at the small creature. “Please, you have to let me help.” He wouldn’t face Percival, instead remaining hunched over the tiny cage. “I don’t know the strength of the enchantment, but she may not have long left.”
Damn it all if Percival wouldn’t do anything to keep him from sounding like that. Together, they made short work of the spell- partially due to the nature of the curse, which was designed to resist more to the removal of the enchantment than the opening of the cage. Percival drew a tentative series of runes around the lock with the tip of his wand, and with a thrum of magic, the cage clicked open.
There was silence, but Percival knew better than to trust that the spell was broken. Newt flung the lock to the side and reached in, gingerly taking the mooncalf into his arms. It went without protest, barely making a sound at Newt’s gentle ministrations.
“I can still save her,” he whispered, and Percival’s heart clenched tight in his chest. “I have to save her.” He held the animal in one arm, supporting the frail neck and head. With his free hand, he cast a healing spell, letting smoky blue mist flow from the tip of his wand.
It settled in the bare folds of the beast’s skin, rubbed raw of its typical silver fur. The poor creature shuddered at even the gentlest magical touch, and Newt’s expression crumpled. Percival removed his coat, folding it to give the calf something to lie upon.
Newt wrapped the pitiful beast in the soft fabric, devastation etching lines into his handsome face when the calf flinched. It drew breath, but slowly, and its chest rose in uneven time. From his coat, Newt drew one of his many notebooks, placing it open on the ground between them. Percival felt useless as he flicked through the pages, searching for a means to alleviate the pain of the creature.
From the hallway, the silence was broken. Loud chatter, and the heavy footfalls of approaching guards. So the alarm had gone off after all. Percival rose quickly, his wand at the ready. Newt looked up at him briefly, before turning back to the shivering mooncalf.
“I need a minute,” he said, “maybe two. If you can hold them off for that long, I’ll get her heart rate back up.”
Percival nodded, his wand at the ready. He stood, twirling on his heel to face the door, which burst open with a bang. Suddenly, he was face-to-face with three thugs. They wore No-Maj clothes and matching scowls, setting on him all at once.
His shield blocked the first round of hexes, and the curses that followed were slow enough that they could be flicked away with a wave of his wand. Quickly, he disarmed the rightmost man, sending his wand flying from his hand with ease. Wordlessly, his next spell forced the man back, falling away from the fight.
The other two proved a touch more difficult, both shooting spell after spell towards him near-simultaneously, keeping him on the defensive. Clenching his jaw, Percival parried their attacks, sending their hexes splashing away from him.
The air was thick with magic, spells ricocheting off the walls with chaotic abandon. Percival hastily cast a shield at his back, ideally enough to keep the fire from reaching Newt. The move was risky, and in seconds, the wizards had advanced upon him.
Percival fought them off- he could tell that the leftmost attacker had begun to slow, and he pressed forward with another surge of attacks. He could best them here, he was sure of it, he thought, so sure that he failed to notice that his back was no longer to Newt.
From behind the shield- “Percival!”
Newt’s panicked cry had barely reached his ears before Percival heard a sickening crunch, and was brought to his knees by a crushing wave of agony. His right leg was aflame with pain, and warm blood flowed freely from the injury. Gasping in pain, Percival rolled onto his side, trying to catch a glimpse of his attacker.
For a terrifying moment, he was back in the basement, Grindelwald advancing upon him through a haze of pain. Percival shook his head furiously, trying to orient himself through agony and memory alike. The previously disarmed brute was clutching a bent metal pipe, stuck through with sickeningly sharp nails. He sneered cruelly, and raised the pipe again. Percival fumbled desperately for his wand.
He had it in his grasp a mere second too late, and braced himself for another blow that never came. Blinking, Percival opened his eyes to reveal Newt, standing protectively before him, his wand held aloft and his eyes shining with determination. Percival tried to speak, to rise to his feet, but even bending his leg sent a spike of pain up his spine.
Newt flicked his wand sharply, forming tight circles with his wrist. Brilliant golden sparks rained from the tip of his wand, joining together and expanding. The dim room filled with sudden light, gold shimmering brilliantly from Newt’s projection.
From behind, Percival could see little of the conjuration itself. He saw only a great mass of light, and felt the pressure of immense magic. On the other side of the spell, the guards began to scream.
Percival’s stomach dropped.
He turned to Newt, who hadn’t stopped his magic- even still, his wand was dripping with brilliant power. His face was set in a mask of quiet determination, his lips pursed in an angry frown. The screams increased in volume, and there was a loud crash- the huge, empty cage in the corner of the room.
Newt stepped forward, advancing with calm, steady paces, his wand still held aloft. The screams seemed to worsen, increasing in pitch and desperation, and Percival struggled to rise, his injured leg protesting at each movement.
“Don’t kill them,” he pleaded, his heart sinking as Newt failed to acknowledge him. His coat was flowing out behind him with the force of his magic. “Don’t be responsible for their deaths, Newt.”
His voice was lost beneath the clanging of the iron cage, louder still. Newt kept advancing, right up until the door was within arm’s reach. With his free hand, he seized the handle and swung the door shut, letting the lock clatter loudly as it slammed closed.
With a final sharp flick of his wand, the light disappeared abruptly, fizzling away to darkness. The thugs were in the cage, Percival realised, and they were alive. Their faces were pale, harrowed with terror- it appeared that one had tried to rip his own hair out. Newt turned sharply on his heel, returning to Percival’s side.
He offered a hand, and Percival took it, carefully eyeing Newt for any sign of lingering fury. Newt didn’t meet his eye, but took his weight easily- he was stronger than his wiry frame would suggest. There was noise from the upper floors- hopefully Goldstein had gotten tired of waiting for the signal, and had moved in of her own volition.
“What the hell was that?” Percival asked, as Newt hauled him to his feet. Even in its aftermath, Newt still crackled with leftover magic, energy radiating off of him like rogue static electricity. He shook his head, and a dust of lightning zipped from his unruly hair.
“A simple spell, really,” he replied shortly. “A bit of a mishmash of a few illusions. It’s meant to mimic the intimidation tactics of the Spark-Shot Leopard Frog.”
“You used an invented, unregistered spell on your fellow wizard.” Percival said. “You could have maimed them, or worse.” Newt scoffed. It was impressive , he didn’t say. You’re so terrifyingly impressive.
“I know for a fact that the spell wouldn’t hurt them,” Newt said. “The Spark-Shot Leopard Frog uses light refraction, alongside its natural pheromones to create a fear-inducing illusion that repels and frightens its natural predators. All I did was give them a bit of a shock.” His tone was flat, his expression deceptively placid. He was as angry as Percival had ever seen him.
He glared at the guards, who were still shivering in the iron cage. Percival thought of the mooncalf, of the awful, wrecked expression on Newt’s face, and took a deep breath.
“You can’t try new magic on people, no matter their crime. I could write you up for this,” Percival said, but his heart wasn’t in it. “You could’ve killed them. It was too reckless, especially when we don’t know how many more of them there are.”
“I don’t care, ” Newt snapped. “I knew that I wouldn’t hurt them- and I didn’t. You can write me up for illegal use of magic, I don’t care. You’ve seen what they do to these animals!” With a sweep of his hand, Newt gestured to the room of cages that surrounded them. “How many creatures were taken from their homes, only to die in this prison ?”
Behind the chaos of the fight, the small mooncalf was resting, still wrapped in Percival’s coat. Newt looked at her, then back to Percival. “It was pure luck that I could save her,” he said.
“They are the worst kind of human,” Newt spat. “No creature deserves this fate- there is nothing , nothing that could excuse their actions.” He was restless, pacing in the cramped confines of the room. “I try to save as many as I can- but there will always be more poachers, more hunters. They won’t stop, not when they can still make a profit.”
He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging leftover magic even still. “I don’t know what to do ,” he said, and the fire that had burned so viciously, chasing down the smugglers had left him, seemingly all at once. “What else can I do, Percival?”
Newt turned to him, his expression cracked open and vulnerable.
Percival placed a gentle hand on his arm. “We’ll do what we can,” he said gently. “Because it’s all that can be done.” Newt stilled, then sighed, the fight leaving him in a gust. He leaned into Percival’s touch.
Theseus was late.
Percival had snagged a seat by the window, watching snow fall gently to the ground outside the pub. Theseus had sent him an owl weeks ago, informing that he and his fiancée would be spending a few days in New York, before moving on to the West Coast.
He’d been rather vague with his explanations, chalking up most everything to a top-secret case for the Ministry. Percival privately wondered if he was making a series of excuses to go on vacation with his soon-to-be wife.
Regardless, Theseus had proven to be an upstanding acquaintance over the years, and had eventually become one of the laughable few that Percival considered to be a genuine friend. Unfortunately, amidst his endless intelligence and bravery, it seemed that the only thing he was lacking in was punctuality.
The bar was one of the few that were not strictly wizards-only. It straddled the boundaries of a No-Maj neighbourhood, and attracted a consistent crowd of both sides of the magical divide. Disguised as a typical speakeasy, the bar caused enough crossing-over of individuals that most wizards either concealed avoided the place entirely, or begrudgingly put their wands away for an evening.
Because of this, Percival found himself here whenever he deigned to go out for the night- rarely, that is, but often enough that Theseus had known almost immediately where to go, once they’d arranged to meet.
As if summoned by the thought, Theseus pushed his way through the crowded bar, a smile on his face. His cheeks were flushed with the cold, and he gracefully evaded a cluster of drunken No-Maj women, settling himself into the booth across from Percival.
“Good evening Percy,” he said, and Percival rolled his eyes at the nickname. Theseus had adopted it after their first meeting, at an international conference of Aurors. They’d been seated together for a particularly rousing debate, and, as Theseus liked to say, the rest was history. A friendship forged in Fiendfyre, the two of them.
“Theseus,” Percival replied. “You’re late.”
Theseus shrugged, looking entirely unapologetic. “Much traffic in the Floo, you know how it gets. Leta couldn’t join us tonight, she’s awfully busy, but she sends her warmest regards.” He unwrapped the scarf bundled around his neck, and turned to Percival with a grin. “But, I did bring someone else with me,” he said. “I think that the two of you will get on swimmingly.”
Percival raised an eyebrow. “You never think to warn me about your antics, do you?”
Theseus smiled charmingly. “And ruin the surprise? Please, Percy, say you don’t think so little of me.” He removed his coat, revealing an impeccably neat suit.
Percival fought a grin. “I know that you’re exactly the type of person to set up some sort of rendez-vous without consulting either of your associates.”
Theseus opened his mouth, doubtlessly to respond, when he was interrupted by a voice that was incredibly, incredibly familiar. “The line for the bar was massively long, Theseus,” Newt said, and Percival turned, instinctively searching in the crowd for a familiar face. “I’ll make you get us drinks later- Percival?”
Percival had vaguely been aware of Newt’s familial ties to Theseus, but neither brother had been particularly forthcoming on the subject, so he’d not given it much thought until this point. A rookie mistake.
With a flush that mirrored his brother’s, Newt looked entirely surprised to see him. He was clad in his usual coat, though the seams shimmered with magic enough to indicate a proper warming charm was in place. Percival raised a hand in greeting, equally bemused. Across from him, Theseus wore a mischievously pleased grin, eagerly watching their reactions.
“Newt,” Percival said evenly. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Oh, don’t tell me the two of you know each other already,” Theseus bemoaned, but his feigned exasperation lasted less than a minute. If anything, he seemed more excited by the idea that they were already friends.
“He works at MACUSA, and he’d been a consultant for months before the fact,” Percival said. “Surely it was inevitable that our paths would cross at some point.”
“I should have expected you to meddle,” Newt said, sliding into the booth beside Percival. “I really ought to have put it together when you said your ‘fit friend Percy’ would be joining us tonight.”
“You think I’m fit?” Percival asked, raising an eyebrow at Theseus. Theseus grinned teasingly, the bastard, and slung a friendly punch into Percival’s shoulder.
“Don’t be coy, Percy,” he snarked, “it doesn’t become you.”
“He’s always trying to set me up with his friends,” Newt complained. Theseus laughed loudly at his disgruntled expression.
“Is it such a crime to want one’s brother not to die alone? I’m just looking out for you, purely out of the goodness of my heart.”
Newt sighed dramatically, and the brothers continued their back-and-forth with gusto. Percival was quiet, still lingering on the apparent fact that Newt was attracted to men, coupled with the idea that Theseus thought him a worthy candidate for the romantic affections of his brother.
His solitude lasted less than a minute, as Theseus roped him back into the conversation easily. “I trust my brother has been showing those MACUSA chaps how a real expert deals with creatures. Or,” he winked at Newt, “fantastic beasts, I should say.”
Newt cast him a flat look. Never one to be deterred, Theseus went on. “Percy, have you had the chance to read Newt's book? It’s been just flying off the shelves over in London.”
“I have a copy,” Percival admitted grudgingly. Beside him, Newt snapped his head up, turning to look at him curiously. “It was very informative.”
“What high praise!” Theseus crowed, and when Percival turned to look, Newt was blushing lightly.
Eventually, the crowd parted enough for them to order, and they spent a welcome few hours conversing and laughing intermittently. In the end, Theseus was so kind as to offer to pick up the tab, and so Newt and Percival moved outside, waiting for him on the snow-covered sidewalk.
The brisk winter air was a pleasant change of pace after the stifling warmth of the bar. Newt pulled a knitted hat over his ears- it was green and pink, and oddly lumpy in places. Percival fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette case.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Newt said casually, his eyes trained on the silver case as Percival slid a cigarette out. His gaze was far too sharp for someone who had been drinking, Percival thought.
“I try not to,” he replied. “It’s a terrible habit.” He’d picked it up during the war, and it had lingered for far too long afterwards. Now, he tried to keep them only for when he was either drunk or pitifully exhausted. He held the cigarette between his teeth, and cupped his hand around the No-Maj lighter to protect the small, orange flame.
Most wizards preferred simple, wandless magic, but Percival had always preferred the physical sensation, the ritual associated with smoking. Over the years, he had come to enjoy the weight of the lighter in his palm, the quiet click of the fire. He took a drag, and exhaled slowly, breathing a stream of smoke away from where Newt stood.
“I knew a wizard in Brazil who could blow smoke in the shape of a dragon,” Newt said. He hadn’t looked away from Percival’s hands, the cigarette held between two fingers. “He would make it chase the local children around. It amused them endlessly.”
Percival smiled. “I’ll have to learn that one.”
A companionable silence stretched between them, and Percival looked up at the sky. The night was mostly overcast, but every now and then, a smattering of stars would peek through the grey clouds above them. He took another drag from his cigarette.
“Truly, I didn’t know that Theseus would set this up,” Newt said, and he seemed actually apologetic, as if Percival would ever object to seeing him. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your night out.”
“I’m always glad to see you,” Percival replied. Belatedly, he reflected that he was likely drunker than he thought, because this was an awfully intimate thing to have let slip so casually.
If it had come off as strange to Newt, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply moved to stand at Percival’s side, and the two of them looked past the lit-up street lamp, at the cloudy, starless sky.
Newt felt the protective wards surrounding his apartment shiver, and he looked up from the moulting Murtlap curled up on his desk. Blinking, he rose from his desk, murmuring quiet platitudes to the creature, as he carried it back to its enclosure.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” he called, amplifying his voice as best as he could over the rumble of animalia surrounding him. Whoever it was was waiting politely outside the door, meaning that it wasn’t Jacob or Queenie, who both had keys, and it certainly wasn’t Tina, who preferred to Apparate directly into his house.
There was no response, so after he got the Murtlap back to its habitat, Newt climbed the ladder, exiting his case and reorienting himself with his surroundings. He startled slightly at the dark sky outside his window- how long had it been since he’d gotten off work?
He crossed the room hurriedly, trying to neaten his clothes as best as he could before opening the door. It was a futile effort- his shirt was stained with what was likely an Energising Potion, and his pants were ripped at the knees from the advances of an overeager Fire Crab. It was a lost cause. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and opened the door.
Whoever he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t Percival Graves. He looked exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes, and was slightly out of breath. A dishevelled Percival was a rare sight, but what captured Newt’s attention was the bundle in his arms, swaddled in what looked to be one of Percival’s expensive woollen scarves.
“I found it in an alley,” Percival said, offering the bundle to Newt, who accepted it carefully. When he peered within, he was met with the furiously angry face of a cat. It glared at him with baleful yellow eyes, and meowed loudly.
“You brought me a cat?” Newt asked, but his bemusement was quickly lost to growing interest. The cat had thick black fur, with the odd patch of white, and was quite a beautiful animal, despite the layer of filth coating it.
“I couldn’t leave it outside,” Percival replied shortly. “It was in an alley, alone, potentially injured. I doubt it has an owner. I thought that you would be able to help it.” he concluded. Bless him, he looked worried , his dark brows furrowed with concern. Newt felt a curl of affection bloom in his chest. Remembering himself, he stepped back, allowing Percival to follow him into the apartment.
“It looks as if it’s been left to live on the streets,” Newt agreed, frowning at the poor thing. “Though likely not for long, as it doesn’t seem malnourished.”
Behind him, Percival exhaled quietly, seemingly relieved. “That’s good to hear,” he said. He glanced briefly at the barren walls of the apartment as Newt led him to the living room, where his case stood wide open. Newt couldn’t read his expression.
“I spend most of my time down in the case,” he explained sheepishly. “This flat is mostly just another degree of security between the creatures and the rest of the city.”
Percival smirked slightly. It looked good on him. “I think Goldstein would have your head if another one of your beasts got loose.”
“I’d believe it,” Newt chuckled slightly, and nodded towards the case. “After you,” he said. “Anything we would need for the poor thing should be down there.”
The cat, when fully extracted from its woollen confines, was indeed a female cat, and she busied herself with sniffing around Newt’s worktable. The end of her tail flicked with interest as she moved back over to him, and Newt ran a hand down her back, grinning when she began to purr.
Newt checked her paws, then her ribcage and abdomen for any signs of injury. The cat continued to purr happily, and flopped down on the table.
“She seems to be in very good condition,” Newt said, and enjoyed how Percival visibly relaxed at his words.
The cat rolled over onto her back, baring her stomach for more petting, and Newt tangled his fingers in her thick fur.
“She’s a very sweet cat,” Newt said, and Percival laughed.
“She does a good job of disguising that,” he replied. “When I tried to pick her up, she wasn’t shy about expressing her disapproval.”
He held his hand out, revealing a narrow cut, slicing from the curve of his wrist to his knuckle. It was bleeding lightly. The sharp scarlet of his blood against the pale hue of his skin made Newt momentarily think of tropical birds- the eye-catching colour intentionally used to attract a mate.
He didn’t say this out loud.
Instead, unthinking, Newt reached out and took Percival’s hand in both of his own. He gently moved closer to assess the wound. Percival followed his momentum, shifting slightly closer.
“It’s really nothing,” Percival was saying. “I can heal it myself, there’s no need to trouble yourself.” Newt wasn’t really listening, peering at the cut for any sign of infection. Percival had very long fingers and his fingertips bore the calluses of one who was well-versed in spellwork. They were good hands, he thought.
“I’ll fix you up,” Newt said, snapping himself back into the present moment. “It’s the least I can do. You’re the one saving kittens off the streets.” He grinned at Percival’s indulgent look.
Wandlessly, he cast Episkey , murmuring the spell under his breath. Percival shuddered when his magic made contact, the spell smoothing over the cut with fresh, new skin. Newt let his hands linger, holding Percival gently, loose enough that he could free himself, if he wanted. Percival didn’t.
Instead, he looked at Newt, his dark eyes open and defenceless, and Newt looked back, his gaze flitting nervously over the handsome lines of his face. His heart pounded in his ears, overwhelmed by the proximity, the touch. He resisted the animal urge to flee, to back away to the safety of his creatures. Percival tilted his head, ducking to meet his eye.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and it felt like a greater statement than what it was intended for. It felt intimate, like something much too serious for this conversation. Newt pulled away, turning to check on the cat.
“Would you like to stay a while longer?” Newt asked, and it was easier to ask him this when his back was turned. “I can make some tea, if you’d like.”
It broke the tension of the moment. Percival looked at him carefully for a second, before accepting gracefully. Newt led him through the winding halls of the case, stopping only to greet the creatures that crossed their path. Percival followed him, eyeing the enclosures with the attention of an Auror.
The living space he’d allotted himself within the case was rather meagre, at least when compared to the grandiose heights of the main halls, but Newt had never needed anything greater than it. There was a fireplace, and a cot, alongside two armchairs. A flickering lamp rested upon a stack of books.
“It’s not much,” Newt admitted, nearly bashful, “but please, have a seat, and I’ll make us something to drink.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Percival replied, “It’s quite a feat to produce a space such as this with only Expansion Charms.” Newt busied himself with the kettle, setting a Warming Charm beneath it to heat. Percival settled into one of the plush armchairs, casting a glance over at the wilds of the rest of the case.
Newt smiled to himself as he dug around in the small cabinet for a second mug. “Light the fire for me, would you?”
“I have a confession to make,” Newt said, later, once the tea had been drunk, and the fire was burning low.
Percival hummed inquisitively, looking warmly in his direction. Newt thought that he looked rather lovely in the firelight, the orange glow casting his typically severe features into a softer, more tender light.
“When we met at the bar, with Theseus,” he murmured, “it wasn’t one of Theseus’ harebrained schemes.” He tapped his fingers nervously against the arm of the chair. “Well, not entirely.”
“What do you mean?” Percival asked, his voice unfairly rich, deep and velvety.
“I mean that he knew that we were acquainted,” Newt said. “He knew, because whenever I wrote to him, I seemed incapable of neglecting to mention working alongside you.”
Percival shifted closer, perhaps to listen, or, perhaps because-
“He knew that I was rather enamoured with you,” Newt admitted sheepishly, the words barely escaping his lips. “And naturally took this knowledge as an invitation to meddle.” Newt’s cheeks were warm- undoubtedly flushed beyond any hope of saving his dignity.
He chanced a look at Percival, prim and proper on the other armchair. He was resting his chin upon one hand, his lips quirked in a slight, devastating smile. His dark eyes sparkled in the dim light.
“What did you tell him?” Percival asked, and Newt felt himself flush further, opening his mouth to protest, when- “I’m not teasing you, Newt.”
He leaned forward, close enough to take one of Newt’s hands in his grasp, his hold gentle enough to be broken at the slightest touch. Newt didn’t pull away from him. “I wouldn’t, not about this.”
“I told him that you were as powerful as I’d expected,” he confessed. “But that you were much kinder than you wanted to appear. You weren’t at all the big, scary Auror that the gossip made you out to be.”
“Is that so?” Percival asked. He was watching Newt very carefully, his curiosity blanketing something deeper below. He wasn’t smiling, not quite, but his eyes held a quiet sort of amusement. “You’re very attentive, Newt.”
“I enjoy watching people. A human’s body language is often more truthful than their words,” Newt said. “I’ll admit, it’s easier than trying to keep up with conversation at times.” It earned him a chuckle from Percival, which was enough to keep him speaking, pushing him forward on the emotional momentum he’d created.
“I told him that you listened to me, all of the time. I thought it was mad, how you’d listen to me.” Newt continued, and even the thought of it made him flush. “I’ve been tuned out by more people than I’ve had creatures in my life. I couldn’t fathom why you wouldn’t be among them.”
Percival moved closer then, rising from his chair to kneel before Newt. Newt’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him. “How could I not pay attention to you?” Percival said, and his voice was a low rumble in his chest. “You’re brilliant. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
Newt inhaled sharply at the praise. He felt undone in this moment, fizzing with energy like a shaken soda. The feeling was edging on elation, and it was this pent-up sense of euphoria that pushed him to speak, to push the two of them irreversibly past the boundary that had unconsciously been drawn.
“But perhaps the most damning thing,” Newt said, his eyes locked with Percival’s, “was that I told him how much I liked you, far more than an acquaintance should.”
Percival exhaled, as if that were what he had been waiting to hear. His lips curving up into a grin, he leaned up to press their mouths together in a gentle kiss. Newt hummed, returning it with pleasure. He cradled the back of Percival’s head, urging him upwards, until he was bracing himself against the back of Newt’s chair, practically caging him in between his arms. They parted reluctantly for breath, after a moment, but stayed close, lingering in the other’s presence.
“Newt Scamander,” Percival murmured, his breath ghosting against Newt’s lips, “you are an absolute wonder.” His gaze was practically adoring, soft and unfathomably tender. Newt felt alive, to be seen by him, and dragged one hand down his chest, taking his typically neat tie between his fingers. Smiling, he used his grasp as leverage to pull Percival in again.
It was dizzying to kiss him, and so Newt did, again and again. He pushed ever closer, letting his hands come to rest on either side of Percival’s trim waist. Percival let out a quiet noise, right from the back of his throat, and Newt licked into his mouth to chase it.
Percival’s hand shifted from his shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing gently and urging him further into the embrace, as if the two of them could kiss each other enough to become one. Newt moaned softly at the pressure, and it seemed to liven Percival, who pulled him into a tight embrace.
From the hallway, a sharp thud, as sudden and as loud as thunder in the quiet of the evening. Newt and Percival sprang apart as if burned.
Percival, Newt noted, looked rather wonderfully dishevelled, his typically pristine hair mussed from Newt’s probing touch. Percival rose to search for his wand, attempting to school his expression into something more put-together, but it was undone by the flush high on his cheekbones.
“It’s likely only one of the creatures,” Newt murmured, getting to his feet to follow. “The apartment is secured with wards- I would know if someone unwelcome entered.” Still, he followed at Percival’s heels, a touch closer than strictly necessary.
Sure enough, as they rounded the corner, they were met with what had once been a stack of books on Newt’s desk, now scattered across the floor. The cat sat at the edge of the desk, one paw still in the air. She meowed innocently.
Newt took one look at the surprise on Percival’s expression before bursting into peals of laughter.
“A very sweet cat, you said?” Percival snarked, having recovered from his surprise, and Newt only laughed harder, nearly bent at the waist with mirth. “She takes after you, if anything, the little chaos-maker.”
The cat, as if on cue, hopped down to the chair, and began pawing at Newt’s sleeve. Newt shot him an amused glance. “I’ve yet to hear you complain about it,” he replied, stroking his hand down the cat’s spine.
“I suppose you’re right,” Percival replied, moving into Newt’s space with comfortable ease. “I think I have begun to like your chaotic nature.” He kissed him again, and it was soft and sweet.