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Grindelwald broke his brain.
He tried and tried and tried and damn it damn it damn it he couldn’t make his magic work anymore.
He tried to make a pen levitate, and it barely twitched.
He tried to summon a newspaper from his bed, and it flopped on the ground.
He thought about trying to disapparate.
Then he decided he didn’t want to find out the hard way how that could go wrong.
Queenie Goldstein visited a lot. They knew each other well enough before Grindelwald and the Obscurus Incident (and privately, he was kind of grateful that the fallout from it wasn’t his clusterfuck to untangle), but her increased presence in his life still came as something of a surprise.
He suspected it was because she was such a skilled Legilimens. She probably knew damn well all the less-than-pleasant thoughts swimming around in his head. And Queenie was nothing if not chronically concerned about the people around her.
“Don’t worry, it’ll come back eventually,” She assured him as she added water to the vase on the table beside his bed. “It’s pretty hard to take magic from a wizard. You just gotta give it time, honey.”
It was hard advice to take when he couldn’t so much as summon a paperclip.
‘Temporary Medical Leave’ was what Picquery was calling it. “You spent six months with your mind more or less detached from your body, in complete darkness. Whether your magic is working or not, you need to move slowly. You can’t push yourself too hard or you’ll collapse.”
But what she didn’t understand, what everyone didn’t seem to understand, was that he was never a man who was good at sitting still. How many switches had he taken to the backs of his hands at school because he couldn’t stop fidgeting? It was part of why being in Grindelwald’s little hole in the ground was so torturous; he just couldn’t move, and it was one of the eeriest things he’d ever felt.
Six months underground while being kept alive by magic meant that his body wasn’t in the greatest shape. He’d lost a dangerous amount of weight, and his muscles were extremely unaccustomed to movement of any kind, since he’d been stuck in almost the exact same position the entire time. Much as he hated to feel anything like gratitude towards Grindelwald, if the man hadn’t had the forethought to use magic to keep his blood flowing properly, he could have easily lost a limb.
The physical things, those would all get better with time. And he knew, to a great extent, that it wasn’t his ability to grip his wand that was a problem, or his ability to form the words on his tongue. No.
What nobody, including him, chose to acknowledge out loud was the mental toll his imprisonment had taken on him.
Two weeks out from being rescued, he could barely manage to drag himself out of bed. Part of it was the simple fact that he had nowhere to go and very little to do; he was still in the hospital, being monitored for any lingering effects that the curses Grindelwald had used on him and treated for his physical ailments. Among other, more unusual things.
Seeing sunlight coming through the windows brought him to tears.
The lights going out at night made his heart race with considerable panic.
When people spoke to him, he sometimes forgot he could respond out loud.
Sometimes his mind detached from the physical sensations of his body, and he couldn’t move or speak or feel, and that was enough to make him pass out with fear.
On one occasion, somewhat recently, that panic actually made him blow up the vase on the table. When he’d come down from the panic, he’d actually been delighted, thinking his magic had returned to him; but upon trying to summon a chair from where it sat against the wall, it didn’t budge.
So he stayed in bed, stared at the wall, sometimes directly at the light, and really only spoke to anyone when necessary. He found that the less variation he had to his day, the less likely he was to start panicking or crying or some other embarrassing crap that he never did before Gellert-fucking-Grindelwald.
That was where he was now, recounting the lines in the floor molding that lined the room, when suddenly he heard-
scrtchscrtchscrtchscrtch
-and his vision kind of went dark for a moment, probably because of the sudden, huge breath he’d sucked in.
It was the same noise he’d heard on the stones that had concealed his prison, right before one had slid aside and let in the first light he’d seen in months-
scrtchscrtchscrtchscrtch
-it’s that thing again.
He had been discovered thanks to a very persistent creature. Queenie had mentioned its name, but he hadn’t really been paying attention. Evidently its nose for shiny objects had led him right to the silver pocket watch in his shirt, something Grindelwald hadn’t thought to take off of him.
He watched it crawl across the floor and scramble up onto the bed, little pink nose wiggling excitedly. It looked up at him expectantly, like it expected a treat. All he could do was squint at it.
“What are you?”
As expected, it didn’t answer; just stared at him with those beady little eyes.
Something shiny caught his eye on the creature’s stomach. He moved too quickly for the creature to get away, and pulled out a long string of… Diamonds? They’d been tucked into a pouch on the thing’s stomach.
The creature made a little chirping sound and grabbed the diamonds with its little paws, yanking them back.
“There you are!”
A young wizard with tousled hair and an English accent skidded to a stop in front of his room, eyes locking on to the creature, which had frozen as though it had been caught red-handed.
“What have I told you about taking things that aren’t yours? Hiding any other contraband on you?” The man marched into the room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was occupied. He plucked the little creature off the bed, held it upside down, and gave it a little shake.
Two rings and a string of pearls came tumbling out of the pouch, and the wizard rolled his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”
Your pet?
Wait. No. The words had not come out.
He cleared his throat. “Your… Pet?”
The wizard looked up, as though seeing him for the first time. “Ah, Mr. Graves. In a sense, yes: He’s a Niffler. And I’m afraid he has a penchant for pilfering shiny objects from people who’d much rather keep hold of them.”
He squinted at the Niffler. “He tried to steal my watch the night they took me out of Grindelwald’s place.” His eyes jumped from the Niffler to the man’s face. “You’re Scamander, right?”
“One and the same. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
They certainly hadn’t, unless you counted his encounters with Grindelwald, and he sure as all hell did not.
“Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security, and far less of a smug, self-righteous prick than Gellert Grindelwald.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. Tina’s vouched for you, said you’re far more pleasant than all that.” The little Niffler was still hanging upside-down, and he reached up and pawed irritably at Scamander’s hand. “What? You want to get down? Fine. But if you run off, it’s back into the case with you, no excuses.” Scamander scooped up the pilfered jewelry and set the Niffler down on the bed.
Said Niffler immediately crawled onto his lap, sniffing around as though he was looking for something. “What’s he doing?”
“Well, I suspect he recognizes your scent, and has associated it with that pocket-watch of yours. He probably wants to know where you’ve stashed it.”
He looked the Niffler in the eye and said, “I don’t have it. It’s at home.”
Interestingly, the little creature seemed to understand, because he plopped down on his behind and looked up at him with an expression that could only be described as a disappointed pout.
Without thinking, he reached out and scratched his head. Thief or not, he did kind of owe the little guy his life. The Niffler responded by leaning into the touch and thumping his little nub of a tail like a dog might.
“Ah, yes,” Scamander said with a smile, “He also enjoys a good scratch behind the ears every now and then. Of course, a lot of times that’s a ploy to get closer to wedding bands and the like, but-”
“Newt!” Tina Goldstein popped her head around the door, shooting an apologetic look at him. “Sorry, Mr. Graves. Newt, Elizabeta is having a cow trying to find those rings, you need to bring them back five minutes ago!”
“Fetch a time-turner and I might just be able to.” Scamander turned back and began to reach for the Niffler, but then hesitated.
The little fellow had curled up quite nicely on his lap, enjoying the scratches being lavished on his head. He’d never admit it out loud, but this Niffler thing was kind of cute. And soft. And it was kind of nice to interact with something that did not expect him to speak back.
“Would you like if he stayed with you for a bit? I do need to return the items he’s stolen.” Scamander gave the Niffler a withering look, which was summarily ignored.
Sure.
Out loud, out loud!
“Sure,” He said. “It’s fine.”
“Excellent. Just, uh, don’t let him leave the room, right? Most people in this hospital haven’t seen a Niffler before, they’ll think he’s adorable and he’ll rob them blind.”
“Yeah, I’ve handled thieves before.”
“Wonderful. Be back soon enough- do not cause trouble for Mr. Graves,” Scamander ordered the Niffler, and then hurried out after Tina.
Don’t let the Niffler leave. Okay.
He concentrated in a way he hadn’t since he was an eleven year-old in Ilvermorny, tried to grasp at his magic with a clumsy mind, and focused on the door.
It moved, swinging so that it was halfway open instead of fully as it had been before. He’d wanted it completely shut.
Fine, he thought, leaning back and letting the Niffler scuttle upwards and settle onto his chest, I’ll take it.
-End