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1. Seraphina Picquery
Looking back, Seraphina realised that she had seen the signs.
One did not reach her position by being blind to subtle changes and shifting nuances. For her kind, blindness was a deliberate act, self-imposed and carried out with intent instead of naïveté.
Seraphina wondered at her own blindness when she stepped into the interrogation room; the Dungeon, the more battle-weary Aurors would joke at the end of a long day, breath sour with firewhisky and apathy. But instead of slimy, moss-stained rocks, those unlucky souls would find themselves confronted with off-white walls and tiles, barren and cold like stale winter. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, more white on white, and you might wonder at such an excess of white, this aloof, impersonal colour—until you see it marked, defiled, stained. Blood was a particularly convincing argument on that canvas.
The Dungeon, they called it. Right now, it was more an abattoir, and the butcher stood calmly in the middle, a terrible centrepiece of a grotesque scene. Seraphina recognised some of the pieces (limbs, heads, torsos, parts of a hip, maybe an ear, sliced and torn and mutilated), but most were bits and morsels that defied any recognition.
Only an hour ago, they had been a pair of spies, one smirking, the other pursing his lips, both aligned to Grindelwald. She had left them in the capable hand of her Director of Magical Security, confident of the answers she would get at the end of the hour. Percival Graves never failed to deliver.
But this.
Well, Percival, she imagined herself saying, if only to distance herself from the horror so gregariously laid before her eyes, interesting interrogation technique, if somewhat unconventional and a bit too messy for protocols. But no matter, what of the results? Are secrets truly carved on the hearts, as our grandmothers used to say? Is that why you resorted to so drastic a measure? Then you must’ve unearthed something invaluable. Don’t tell me, the password to Nurmengard itself? Doubtless you are aware that Congress won’t accept less than that, not if we want them to turn a blind eye…
“Director Graves,” Seraphina said instead. She heard the faintness in her voice but there was also a sense of disconnect, as if it had come from behind a thick wall of mud, not her own throat. His presence, too, was a study on contradictions. He was standing only a few paces away, and yet it was as if there was a gaping chasm between them. She stared at him and marvelled, once more, at her own blindness; for this was a man she had known for decades; a friend she had personally chosen; an ally she had trusted to enforce the law, wherever and whenever, with his particular brand of ruthlessness.
But not this far, a small voice inside her head wailed.
It took seconds, or perhaps minutes, but he finally stirred, turning to meet her gaze. “Madam President.” His voice was calm, controlled, the fine modulation of the properly educated. Seraphina heard, instead, a softer, messier voice that hastily stitched syllables together into a jumbled train of explanations, wrapped in a charming accent—no, Madam President, we are the ones who have encroached on her territory, she was only protecting her nest, and yes, the rules are quite wrong, if you will allow me to explain…
“I’m afraid I must hand in my resignation,” Graves spoke again, still with the same detached voice.
“Yes,” she answered for lack of anything else to say, eyes fixed on the dark, thick red that drenched his hands. She had thought a wand responsible for this carnage. Clearly, that judgment had been too hasty, not to mention far too sane.
He nodded and retrieved his coat, the deep black untouched by blood. She could have shouted for the guards, for reinforcement. She could have reached for her own wand and battled him here and now. She would most likely fail, but at least, she would have tried.
Instead, Seraphina remained completely still as he walked in her direction, footfalls silent and weary. When he brushed past. When he slipped out of the door. When the sound of his footsteps disappeared, ending with a quiet pop.
In her head, countless scenarios and endless subterfuge played out, from the most reasonable to the most ridiculous. These deaths must be explained. Panic would strike. Fingers would point. She herself would have to shoulder the blame now with the man responsible for them in the wind.
For now, however.
Seraphina inhaled deeply.
For now, she closed the door behind her and let him have a half-an-hour’s head start.
–
2. Jacob Kowalski
Jacob would always remember Percival Graves as the man who had stood uncomfortably in the middle of his bakery, surrounded by Niffler pastries and Occamy cakes.
There had been other memories, but those had been taken away from him—and he wasn’t him anyway, so Queenie had said, curled up next to him in the sofa one evening. Newt had laughed, a soft, warm sound that lingered pleasantly in Jacob’s ears, like his grandmother’s humming.
There was a deep, silent ache in his chest now, in that corner that used to belong to Newt. It must be a hundred times worse for Mr Graves, and this was the thought rattling in his head as he came downstairs at three in the morning for a glass of water and found the man standing in his living room, shrouded in shadows.
“Mr Graves?”
“Mr Kowalski.” A cool, toneless rumble returned his greeting. Jacob remembered what Queenie had whispered to him only two nights ago, the horror, the shock reverberating through MACUSA and the American wizarding world. It made him acutely aware of the silence around them now, as thick and ominous as a white blanket of fog. They were alone—and this was a very powerful wizard standing not four steps away from him.
And a murderer, so they said.
Jacob swallowed. He realised that he was afraid—and yet, strangely, not afraid enough. “Are you hurt?” he asked instead, squinting at the dark stain on Mr Graves’ white shirt, just under his collar.
“No,” was the short, almost brusque answer. “He wanted you to have these.”
Mr Graves waved a hand; rolls of parchments and bundles of paper tumbled onto the coffee table. Jacob stared, unsure what to make of them, until the handwriting unlocked his recognition like a key to a locked chest.
They were manuscripts. Newt’s manuscripts.
Grief washed him afresh like a violent wave threatening to sweep him away. Jacob blinked back hot tears, struggling to keep his voice steady. “These are too valuable, I cannot accept them.”
“Then throw them into the fire,” Mr Graves said callously. “They’re yours to do as you see fit.”
“But–”
“Good night, Mr Kowalski.”
“Mr Graves.” Later, Jacob would wonder what had possessed him to take a step forward, to stop the man and the chilling presence of his magic from leaving. “I just baked some pastries last night. Would you like to try some?”
Jacob did not wait for an answer and immediately turned to the kitchen, preparing a box. His hands were trembling, around croissants and cherry tarts and apple pies, shaped in the likeness of things only seen in dreams. But Jacob was, had been a soldier. He had walked through a battlefield of nameless corpses. He had heard death, seen death, touched death. He had crouched next to his fellow soldiers, lying deep in rotting earth, and watched them die. He would never not recognise the sight of one walking to his death, with only resolve as his thickest armour and strongest weapon.
The least he could do, Jacob thought miserably, was to make sure that Mr Graves at least had something to eat.
“I hope you’ll enjoy them,” he said, looking at the gaunt face and dead eyes. Magic or no magic, loss dealt the same heavy blow. Jacob waited, silence still buzzing in his ears, until Mr Graves took the box from his hand.
“The Puffskeins,” the man spoke quietly, as if imparting a secret. “He said you’d love them. Could be an idea for something new.”
It took a moment for Jacob to find his voice, past the lump in his throat. “I will read everything carefully. Thank you. For bringing the manuscripts.”
There was a small, almost imperceptible nod before Mr Graves disappeared in a wisp of smoke, the box of pastries cradled in the crook of his arm.
It was the last time Jacob ever saw him.
–
3. Porpentina Goldstein
“Goldstein!”
Tina had expected Percival Graves’ deep, smoky drawl; instead, it was her new boss’ panicked cries, rampaging through the choking silence like a pack of angry Gnomes. She bit down a curse. There were at least four Grindelwald’s men still lurking around and the idiot was calling out for her like they had been anywhere but in the middle of a battle.
Wincing at the sharp spike of pain in her left arm, Tina leaned against a crumbling wall—once part of a grand theatre building—and strained her ears to listen. No other sound followed. If anything, it only roused the fear crawling under her skin.
This had been a straightforward enough mission, at least in the briefing room. A group of Grindelwald fanatics had been spreading terror among the No-Maj community in Los Angeles. This morning, Intelligence had finally pinpointed a location most likely to be their headquarters, and her team had been dispatched to take care of it.
None of them had expected to arrive to a scene from purgatory. This part of the city was as good as gone. Most of Grindelwald’s followers had been slain. What remained of their ranks fought wildly like cornered dogs, because Percival Graves was a terror and a madman whose goal was to exterminate. It had quickly escalated into a three-way battle that claimed victims more by accident than design.
“Goldstein!”
Her superior again, closer this time. Tina inched along the wall, craning her neck, wand poised for an attack. It took her two seconds to locate him, trapped like a fly on the wall, held still by thin, silvery cords that threatened to sink into his flesh at the slightest provocation.
Tina hurried along to his side, fear twisting her stomach. One look was all she needed to recognise the intricate spellwork, both elegant and an absolute pain to untangle.
“This is rather tricky,” she said doubtfully. “Was it Graves?”
“Who else?” her boss snapped, face red with humiliation. “Homicidal lunatic. Fetch me my wand. It’s somewhere over there.” He jerked his head to the right, cursing when blood dribbled from a new cut on his cheek. “You see it?”
Who wouldn’t, Tina bit down the words before they had a chance to leave her mouth. Their working relationship was strained enough as it was. She found him lacking, petty, too much bluster and not enough competence. Simply put, she could not respect him. He knew that she could not respect him, and this bitterness turned him sour, hostile.
Tina did not blame him. Very few people could step into the shoes Percival Graves had left behind and not drown in them.
His wand was an ostentatious piece, pure black, with a heavily gilded base and a sprinkle of rubies. Even from a stone’s throw away, there was no mistaking its gaudy shine. Tina picked her way carefully, footsteps silent, eyes and ears alert.
And then she saw him.
Tina froze, smoke and dust and ghosts in her lungs, crowding for space. It was like looking across time, at someone she had known, once upon a time. The last time she had seen him, he had been a brooding shadow in his office, head propped on his fist, the lamp on his desk a dim pool of light that painted more lines on his face. Those first few days after the funeral, no one had dared to approach.
She had seen the Dungeon, afterwards. Somehow, this scene before her eyes was more frightening. There was a body—no, not a body, it was a man, alive—floating just in front of him, limp, spinning slowly, as if suspended on invisible ropes. Even from this far, she could feel the dark, heavy sweep of his magic, flooding the air.
He was talking, too soft for her ringing ears to hear. The other man answered in snarls and sobs, face contorted in ugly, frightened lines. She saw Graves take a deep breath, and knew what was coming.
He raised his right hand, slowly, palm facing up. Then he curled his fingers inward.
The scream tore into her ears, her nerve, her soul. Her insides curled in fright, and she would have too, if she could bring herself to move. Instead, she stood rooted, watching his face that was devoid of any expression, and his hand, moving like a puppeteer’s to play with the victim’s body.
Tina knew that spell—had seen him use it once, in an interrogation room, drawing the same agonised screams. Experience did not make the second time easier to bear.
There had been theories, after the ‘incident’ in the Dungeon. The most popular one was that his time with Grindelwald had, for lack of a better word, unhinged him. Tina remembered hearing it repeated in bars after work, always in whispers; then she remembered meeting the blank gaze of a fellow Auror, across curling cigarette smoke and tables littered with bottles. They had known better. It was a knowledge that gnawed on one’s soul, but Aurors had to deal with worse every day. She had always known this side of him, the hungry, terrible darkness, kept in check only by his iron control—and later, Newt. Newt who had carried so much brightness within him that one sweet, lopsided smile from his twitching lips could eclipse the sun.
There was a special kind of loss only known to those who had touched that much brightness. Now Newt had gone, and Graves–
Graves was more magnificent, more terrifying than she had ever seen him. When he turned, eyes finally finding her, it was like looking into an abyss. His victim had crumbled to the ground, limbs bent at unnatural angles, like three others at his feet. There was nothing like death to make one look unnatural.
Slowly, Tina put her wand away. Later that night, in Queenie’s arms, she would question her decision, for this was as conscious a decision as she had ever made in her life. Now, however, its weight burned in the pocket of her coat, and she ignored it. Newt had suffered far worse than this, worse than any loss of moral code, or even a dear friend. When they had found him, she had nearly gone mad with rage, looking at the state of his body.
Graves’ hand rose, this time palm facing down. Tina half-expected an explosion of agony, something like the Cruciatus maybe, but when he crooked his fingers, no such thing followed. Instead, a suitcase flew to his hand, dusty and battered and so achingly familiar that she couldn’t help a gasp.
He did not look at her when he Disapparated. Only then did she notice that she was on her knees, rubies digging into her flesh.
–
4. Theseus Scamander
Theseus was walking through Hell—or at least, a rather convincing facsimile of one.
He sidestepped another pool of blood and rounded another corner, delving deeper into the warren of a place. A secret hideout for Grindelwald’s soldiers, his latest intelligence had said, built into a hillside in the outskirts of Dijon, because apparently not even evil dark wizards were immune to the beauty of French countryside.
One hall followed another, all littered with bodies. Many of the heads were split open, leaving the grey content exposed, and he tried not to think of what it meant. Instead, he thought of letters, filled with youth and school woes and experimental charm theories condensed in words, crammed into several inches of parchments.
Once upon a time, the name Percival Graves had only filled him with pleasure. Now, it was the name of a wanted fugitive, a mad, coldblooded murderer whose notoriety was quickly approaching Grindelwald’s.
At least, one of his bolder new recruits had argued, he did not hurt the innocents.
Theseus had cast him off into the abyss of janitorial duties for a month. The sour taste of hypocrisy filled his mouth as he pushed open the last door down the last hall—and there he was, sitting on a suitcase, the suitcase, and leaning over a body. He did not look up when Theseus entered.
Even now, Theseus remembered the exact passage; sixth year, when everything had been less, far from enough for the hunger inside him. Never had the curse of a brilliant mind made its presence more felt, particularly in the dreariness of winter. Graves had been a blessing, even from across the Atlantic. Two young minds, discovering and encouraging each other, had stopped at nothing. Ideas poured forth, notions, fractals, countless what-if’s and what about this's. He had floated this particular idea in his previous letter, emboldened by their earlier discussion on the sanctity of one's mind. Graves had replied with suggestions and particulars, all described with the precision of a meticulous brain. The words had filled his head with images, sinister and forbidden, but for sixteen-year-old boys, sinister and forbidden were mere sources of excitement.
As usual, his imagination proved to be far more dramatic than the real execution. Or perhaps it was he who had turned jaded, the world now seen from a curtain of mist after… after. There was the skull, laid open, the cut clean and neat, and then there was the mass of human brain, from which Graves pulled thin, silvery wisps with the easy care that could only come from long practice.
In the far corner of the room, a Manticore was chewing what looked like a human leg. Theseus kept his gaze on the man.
“You’re quite an expert now.”
At the sound of his voice, Graves slowly looked up. There was something distant in his manner, almost careless, but it all abruptly changed when his eyes fell on him.
Only decades of experience and discipline stopped Theseus from raising his wand. Being the sole focus of those eyes, rapt and hungry, was nothing less than unsettling. He did wonder at that. They didn’t exactly look alike, despite being blood brothers and all, but perhaps what similarities there were—red hair and green eyes and certain bone structures, under certain qualities of light—were enough.
Theseus broke the spell with a challenging tilt of his chin, saying loudly, “You know, when we discussed the theories through all those letters ages ago, whether it was possible to extract a particular memory from a brain without consent, I never actually considered this.”
Detachment returned to Graves’ posture almost instantly, as if a wave from an invisible wand was responsible for it. “To force an extraction while the subject is still alive doesn’t yield the desired results.” There was a mechanical quality to his speech, solemn and rehearsed. “I tried three times, on three different live subjects. Not only that they went mad in the process, the information gained was also faulty.”
“So a dead brain yields a more accurate result?”
“If you are quick enough. Unfortunately, there will always be gaps in the obtained memory. The longer you wait, the less complete it is, but better an imperfect memory than a wrong one.” He paused to deposit the silvery strands into three separate vials; the glow cast an unearthly light on his deeply lined face. “To fill in the gaps, you simply have to harvest more from other brains. Sooner or later, the puzzle will be complete.”
“Sounds like a hassle,” Theseus murmured, grasping at something less absurd to say.
Graves shrugged; it was such a painfully human motion that Theseus blinked, staring at him. “It is a hassle, but still more efficient than torture.”
“I’d imagine.”
The discussion had clearly come to an end. Graves rose to his feet and lay the case down, quick and efficient, but oddly gentle. Locks snapped open with a wave of his hand, and then—and then, he made a soft, clicking sound that made Theseus step back, staggering under the weight of the past. The echoes settled in his ears and brought to life memories of summer holidays, long walks into the moor, snaking pathways among dense cloisters of trees, and, most of all, his brother’s blinding smiles.
The Manticore moved, heeding the call, and slipped into the case, strips of flesh still dangling from its mouth. Theseus stood silent in the doorway with a painful clench in his chest and heat stinging his eyes. For a moment, all the horrors of war fell silent, insignificant in the face of sheer, crippling grief.
Newt. Newt, oh Newt.
“He wouldn’t have liked it, you know,” he said it out loud, tried to, despite the quiver in his voice, all frayed around the edges. “To see his creatures used in this manner.”
“Wouldn’t he?” Graves whirled around, snarling, a sudden whiplash of white-hot fury. “But he knows what to do. He should come back and tell me that in person. And then I’ll stop.”
A burst of magic shoved him away. Theseus had expected it, and his shield came up just in time to deflect the worst. He stepped aside all the same, saying nothing as Graves swept past, suitcase in hand.
He told himself, there was no use arguing with a madman. Deep down, Theseus had absolutely no wish to stand in his way.
–
5. Albus Dumbledore
Albus was pondering over the nature of soldiers.
He would hesitate to call himself one. There was a certain heroic quality to the word that he did not think he deserved. When you were so used to looking at the world like one would a chessboard, well, nothing could be farther than heroism.
In a war, each and every one had their own role. He knew where his job lay. Someone with his skills and intelligence wove traps and watched others fall into them. Someone like him, Albus had told himself countless times, used everything they could use to bring an end to the war (naturally, in their favour). And so when Percival Graves had thrust himself into the frontline, tearing across Albus’ plans and formations, it would have been nothing short of foolish to ignore him. Not when he decimated the ranks of Grindelwald’s army so quickly and efficiently, much better than a legion of trained Aurors could.
Love was a terrific fuel. He himself was a living proof to this.
Theseus was telling him about the extraction. Phantom facts removed from dead brains; gruesome, insane, but genius—and absolutely necessary in a one-man crusade. Percival Graves was, above all, a logical man. That was the other thing they had in common.
Theseus had fallen silent, now staring at him with stubbornness radiating off every part of his body. There was a strange echo in his voice when he said, declared, “You will let him, Albus.”
Albus met his gaze squarely. It would be a lie to say that he had not seen this conversation coming for months, since the name Percival Graves had first popped up in their discussion. “Of course I will,” he replied quietly, as he had imagined countless times. “Grindelwald must be stopped.”
“And you will let him.”
Now, that tone of voice was new. Albus raised an eyebrow; the insinuation could not be clearer, but if there was one useful skill he had forced himself to acquire since the dark days of his youth, it was to not take offence. Hot tempers seldom led to anything but unnecessary complications.
“Have I done anything to make you think that I’m not contributing my best in our efforts to capture Grindelwald?” he asked instead.
The lines around Theseus’ mouth tightened. “Not capture,” he hissed the word out like it was something repulsive. “If you think that someone like Percival Graves would stop at capturing the fucking scum…”
Albus couldn’t find his voice for a long time. Guilt was a terrible thing, the way it clamped down on one’s soul and poisoned everything, even the best of intentions. It had been his softness, his sentimentality, that had allowed Gellert to escape. Everyone else had been clamouring for a swift execution. Finality. No loose ends. Azkaban had its cracks and some people were simply too dangerous. It had taken every single influence, every debt owed, every power of oratory, practically everything in Albus’ arsenal to stop the Kiss.
Only after the news of Newton’s death in Gellert’s hand had reached his ear that Albus was reminded to this simple lesson. In war, there was no room for sentiments, and certainly not when you were dealing with Grindelwald. To this day, he still expected Percival Graves to appear on his doorstep, the right hand of Nemesis coming for retribution.
At the end of that encounter, one of them would be dead.
“Like I said,” he spoke at last, slow and grim, meeting Theseus’ accusing gaze. Sometimes, he still wondered how this man could bring himself to be in the same room as he was. “Grindelwald must be stopped. Whatever the cost.”
He expected a fist to the face, the way Theseus’ fist had broken Headmaster Black’s nose after Newton’s expulsion. All he got was a look of such loathing before the man turned around and left.
Albus sighed and sank into his chair. When he closed his eyes, he could still clearly see the boy with a Hufflepuff scarf, sitting in front of his classroom with arms tight around a dying Jarvey.
–
+1 And one who knew that he had, in fact, not gone mad
Contrary to popular belief, Percival Graves had not gone mad.
Many times, again and again, he wished that he had. Madness would infinitely be more preferable than this half stumbling life, this endless marching in the cover of vengeful shadows, reaching for intangible ghosts.
At the same time, his life had never been clearer, lined with purposes. Here, in this compartmentalised space of missions and objectives, was where he thrived best. A definite set of goals. Existing parameters. Probable courses of actions. He listened. He tracked. He planned.
Power had always come easily to him. He remembered his grandfather’s eyes from a lifetime ago, watching his success upon success with dark, ruthless triumph. Percival knew that he had inherited the same eyes, the same cold ruthlessness. This was the reason why he had been so good at his job. Why Grindelwald had come after him first.
Why he now had a list of names in his head. Why he shattered bones and split skulls and took lives. Why he left a trail of corpses in his wake.
Why he lived and breathed for a ghost.
In the quiet moments, he still thought of Christmas Eves, nights spent by fireside, Newt sprawled across the sofa as he made countless annotations in Percival’s copy of his own book. The second edition would probably have spanned across three volumes; a veritable encyclopaedia, Percival remembered saying with a laugh, kissing his hair, breathing in the smell of grass and endless summer.
The same creatures which filled those pages now prowled around him during hunts. Percival added his own notes, next to Newt’s cramped, untidy scrawls. Bowtruckles, for example, looked small and harmless, but anybody foolish enough to cling to that opinion obviously had never seen one dig into a human body and make a mess inside. It was a particularly slow and painful death, much worse than being crushed by the brutal weight of a snarling Occamy. He let them, sometimes; he knew how it felt to desire revenge so badly that it ate you on the inside.
This was a black, bitter life, but this was no work of madness. Percival chose this life with both eyes wide open. He expected nothing less, but perhaps, perhaps, during those fleeting moments between dream and wakefulness, there would be a small window of breathless ease; a place where everything was fine and perfect and he could almost feel Newt at his side, smiling his soft, sweet smile, his lips trailing down Percival’s cheek to his jaw. Then he would blink his eyes open and the unforgiving world would storm in, but for just a moment, in that wonderful space, there he would be.
Percival lived for those slivers of bliss. And to kill Grindelwald. The latter could wait, however—until he had found every single one of Grindelwald’s followers. Until he had emptied the world of his doctrines. Until he had wrecked Grindelwald’s dream of a wizarding empire to pieces. Until he had stripped him down of every shred of dignity. Until he had reduced him to nothing, nothing but a broken, crushed, witless worm that was neither alive nor dead.
Only then would Percival kill him.
End