Work Text:
Percival Graves was many things. Wilfully blind would never be one of them, not after-
Well.
He, unlike many of the Junior Aurors (fools, but then really, had he really always been so bad that he imitated him with apparent ease?) wasn't just going to let the Magizoologist leave without looking just a little into how a man who had never completed his official magical education, could withstand Gellert Grindelwald.
He, unlike many at MACUSA, was forevermore unwilling to believe in sheer dumb luck.
It was only after he'd begun digging that he'd remembered why Scamander seemed familiar.
Theseus, of course, had always spoken fondly, if not exasperatedly of his little brother, even during the war when he'd gone galiv-
Percival Graves set down his coffee, and began a new search.
Percival Graves set down his papers, three nights later, and looked at Seraphina Picquery's rushed attempts at deporting Newt Scamander from the country in a new light.
Percival Graves was an intelligent man with a good memory. He remembered many things from the War. Most of these things he often wished he'd forget.
But... just at the edge of his mind, he remembered the whispers of the Man in the Blue Coat.
He remembered his confusion when the same man was sometimes called the Man who wears No Hood.
Remembers looking into the topic, finding nothing on the man himself, but the 'Hood'? He'd found whispers of those who did wear those amongst all of history, once he'd dug hard enough.
He hadn't been Director of Magical Security and head of MACUSA's Department of Magical Law Enforcement back then.
He'd hidden the history again, not content, so much as terrified, of what would happen should he discover more.
He didn't think Picquery really knew the truth of the matter, only that the man was dangerous.
Of course, he was Percival Graves.
So he invited the two Scamanders to the next New Year's party.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
And of course, with Percival Graves' luck (because despite his disbelief in Scamander's, he was well aware of his own), his desire to hide history didn't seem to matter, because it came running regardless.
He'd sigh if it wouldn't bring attention to himself.
Goldstein was instructing her squad to flank the newcomer, eyes watching the woman carefully, but Percival brings his glass to his lips and intones quietly (if not perfectly calmly, as he's smart enough to figure out how these things might work) "No need. Scamander will deal with it, hmm?" and turns his eyes carefully from the Woman to the younger brother, and sips carefully at his champagne.
Newt returns his gaze, and with a quirk of his lips which was rather unusual to see on his face (because it looked a little like a smirk), he invited Graves to join him.
And really, Graves is absolutely not payed enough to deal with this.
"Lead on, Scamander." Because, apparently, he'd chosen now to be the paragon of politeness.
He'd also come into the habit of never using honorifics with most of the people who'd come into contact with not-him.
"Ms Frye," Scamander greeted, and Graves found himself only slightly reassured, because at least Scamander knew who the damn woman was.
"Newton," she returned, and then both Brits rolled their eyes. Also not fond of the honorifics then. She turned sharp eyes on Graves.
"You'll be pleased to note that some of your Rooks have grown brains in your absence," she said, and when Scamander rolled his eyes this time, it was fondly.
"Likely due to not being under your Rooks' influence," he returned glibly, and she elbowed him with some level of humour, and he returned her motion by ruffling her hair.
Graves, meanwhile, was scouring his brain for 'Frye'. He'd heard it somewhere, or read it...
Ah.
Hippogriff dung, he thought eloquently.
"Any reason you've come in person?" Scamander, and Graves found himself under that gaze again.
"Our friends round these parts thought it feasible to inform us that they've had a little temporary undermining done, Lark."
"Subtle," Scamander replied, unimpressed.
Graves, meanwhile, voiced his earlier thought beautifully.
"Hippogriff dung." And he did sigh this time, just as Scamander smiled.
"Come now, Graves, have some belief in our talents," the man commented, and oh, because while he'd known he was sharp, that was beautifully done. He was asking, quietly, if Graves actually knew what those talents entailed.
"It's not belief that I'm lacking," Graves grumbled, but moved towards Goldstein so the room would be cleared of... innocent parties.
When he returned, a careful twenty minutes later, it was to Scamander's wand rolling to a stop at his feet, next to the door.
He looked up, and caught only a reflection of light on the man's arm before said limb shot upwards and the man who'd been holding him was falling to the floor.
Graves didn't need a diagnostics charm to know the six people littered on the floor were dead.
Ms Frye, he noted absently, had disappeared.
"So," he commented idly, as they worked to give the scene an appearance of a distinctly more even duel, because they'd been trying to keep Scamander under the damn radar.
"Fancy going for a mug of tea?"
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
"I did actually wear a hood, despite what rumours might have you believe," Scamander said earnestly.
"Right. I'll make the assumption that it didn't tend to stay on," Graves retuned, and from the expression that crossed the man's face, sitting opposite him, he'd wager he was right. Despite Scamander's former... ahem, employment, he truly was just a kind magizoologist who desired to help those in need.
Graves wasn't about to dive into the morality of the whole matter.