Author's note: Hello! I just wanted to say that I'm super duper excited to be sharing this lil' story with you all, I watched FBAWTFT on the plane like two days ago and I just knew I had to write something to satisfy my hunger for more (Graves lol). Hope you enjoy it and please leave a review!

Disclaimer: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them belongs to J. K. Rowling.

Unearthed

Chapter One

i.

December 13th, 1926

"For the last time, Graves, this is non-negotiable."

Sitting in the hard wooden chair, with the bright ceiling lights spilling into his lap and the humid New York stench still lingering on his lapel, Percival Graves couldn't help but feel a familiar helplessness sinking in.

He cleared his throat. "If I may, Madame President—"

"If I may, Mr. Graves," Seraphina Picquery retorted, the beads in her headscarf glinting as she tilted her head, "you've been subjected to a cruel torment by a dangerous wizard. You need to be evaluated before I send you back into the field."

"I told the Healers, I'm fine—"

"Yes, but this is not a matter of the body. I'm speaking of your mind. It's standard protocol to monitor an individual after a traumatic situation like yours."

Percival could barely contain his frustration. "My mind is intact. It would take a lot more than what Grindelwald did to break me."

The corner of Picquery's lips twitched ever so slightly. "That may be so," she said slowly, clasping her hands over her desk. "However, I cannot make exceptions simply because of who you are."

"I understand," Percival replied evenly, "but in the many, many years of service I've provided, have I ever let you down?"

"Recent events have been unprecedented. You have never been taken hostage, and it has barely been a week since we found you."

"With all due respect, I'm fit to carry on."

"You need to take the appropriate measures."

"I don't need others making decisions for me."

"Enough!" Picquery's dark eyes flared all of a sudden, and Percival stiffened in his chair. "I will not allow you to endanger the lives of our people simply because of your stubbornness, Mr. Graves! You will meet with your designated assessor twice a week for a month, and you will not carry out any fieldwork until further notice. Is that understood?"

"I—"

"Is – that – understood?"

Percival seemed to struggle with himself for a moment or two before he answered. "Yes, Madame President."

A curt nod. "Good. That is all for today."

Standing up and straightening his tie, Percival marched across the cold stone floor and shut the door quietly behind him.

ii.

December 15th, 1926

Fernadette Holloway was nervous.

It wasn't often that she made the trip to the Woolworth Building. Many of her patients preferred the outskirts of New York City, where one could find a little peace of mind and quiet. Her subject today, however, was very much a city man, and very much renowned for his intimidating persona. And although Fern was used to dealing with difficult people, she had a feeling today was not going to go as smoothly as she would've liked.

"No matter," she muttered to herself, approaching the revolving glass doors. "S'just another job."

A well-paying job.

The imposing monument of the Salem Witch Trials sent a shiver down Fern's spine. The MACUSA headquarters breathed history and grandeur, with the ticking of intricate devices and gleaming phoenix statues. Fern took a moment to take it all in before the elevator doors slid open and she was herded inside.

After a long and crowded ride, the doors finally opened at her floor. Fern found herself in a long corridor, with black walls and floors that shone under the white lights. Already Fern felt an uneasy foreboding, as though she were about to encounter something menacing in this place. She swallowed her discomfort as she set off, heels clicking sharply. It didn't take long to locate Grave's office, guarded by a black door with a shining silver knob and knocker to boot.

"Here we go," she breathed, tucking a dark strand behind one ear and smoothing down her blouse (she really should've spent a bit longer ironing the damn thing). She lifted the heavy silver knocker and let it fall before taking a step back, a tense smile stretched over her face.

A moment passed. There was no indication of movement within the room. Hesitant, Fern tried again, bracing against the loud knock and the looks she was beginning to draw. This time, she stood there waiting for what felt like a minute, but still she heard nothing.

"Okay. You're not here," she muttered, folding her arms and looking around. Behind her stood rows and rows of wooden desks—each piled high with case files, quills and memos—accompanied by a wizard or witch displaying varying degrees of stress.

Fern approached the nearest desk. "Excuse me," she asked the young woman, who looked startled to be singled out, "would you happen to know where Mr. Graves is?"

"He's at a meeting," the Auror replied hastily, flicking her wand and reducing an old memo to ashes. "Law Enforcement stuff, bet it might take a while."

"Great, thank you," Fern said with a small sigh, returning to her post by his door and wondering how long it would take until the Director of Magical Security decided to show his face.

iii.

"Cogwick, consider this a warning. If you and your community continue to jeopardise the Statute of Secrecy, we will have to take action."

The elder goblin considered him for a moment with untrusting eyes. The two were sitting opposite each other in a quieter section of the entrance hall. The sunlight shone between them from high-set windows.

"We do not abide by your Wizarding laws," the creature replied in a raspy voice.

"And yet you want our protection," Graves stated calmly, leaning forward in his armchair. "I understand that your rituals are important, but this is the third time a No-Maj has had to be Obliviated on your territory. I need that to stop."

Long, pointed fingers displaying a large amulet ring tapped across the armrest. "It is difficult, controlling these No-Majs."

"Which makes my job very important."

The goblin's devious eyes focused on him. "It is even harder controlling wizards, wouldn't you say, Mr. Graves?" he continued, as though Percival had not replied.

Percival forced a face of disregard. "Believe me, it's nothing I can't handle."

"Rumour has it you were taken hostage for quite some time," the old goblin went on brashly, a leer revealing straight, sharp teeth. "Surprising. One would think that such a highly appointed Auror would be skilled in self-defence."

"I did not ask you here to goad me, Cogwick," Percival bit back, standing up. "This meeting is over."

"Your temper has worsened," Cogwick commented with a dry chuckle; he too slid from his armchair. "I must say, though, I am impressed you did not take time off."

"I'm a busy man, now do I have your word to stay out of trouble or not?"

Cogwick inclined his domed head ever so slightly. "We will see." And without so much as a gesture of goodbye, Cogwick turned and trotted down the steps toward the golden revolving doors.

Percival watched the goblin go with ill-nature brewing in his chest. He could think of at least a hundred more preferable endings to their meeting, yet somehow he had let the goblin get the better of him. Not surprising, perhaps. He'd always found difficulty intimidating their kind.

No matter, he told himself, running a hand over his gelled hair and returning to the elevators. There was still work to be done. His days were notoriously busy, what with mentoring the Aurors, controlling the community's exposure levels and advising Picquery's team. Percival rarely had a moment to himself. Usually he could manage it all with an iron fist, but something was off in the air lately. He knew it stemmed from the hidden looks and whispers, the unspoken sentiments and pity following him wherever he went.

All alone in the elevator, Percival sighed, the sound spent and agitated.

No matter.

He was due for an update from one of his senior Aurors. However, when he rounded the corner and strode toward his office, it was not Geoffrey standing by his door but a young woman in a camel-coloured coat. Her blue eyes were focused on the arched ceiling, studying the historical paintings and inscriptions between the many pillars.

"Can I help you?" His voice came out more demanding than he'd intended.

The stranger jumped, brushing away a strand of black hair. "Mr. Graves," she blurted, fumbling forward and offering him her hand. "I'm Fernadette Holloway. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Do you have an appointment?" he asked, shaking her hand after a second's reluctance.

She seemed confused. "Er, yes, sir. President Picquery told me we'd be meeting every Wednesday and Friday at two o'clock."

The clock above their heads read two forty-three.

Monday's meeting seemed to come back to him through a fog. "Ah, yes," he said, surveying her with hard eyes. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and there was a kind yet nervous air about her. "You're the Healer."

"Well, not quite," she corrected, "I work in a specialised division at the hospital. It's not so much potions and magic but more about asking the right questions and talking about…"

Holloway's voice quavered to a stop under Percival's cold gaze. She gulped. "Should I come back another time?" she inquired hesitantly, when he did not speak.

Percival considered it. In all honesty, he would've liked nothing better than the Healer (or 'not quite' Healer) to leave him to the comforting solitude of his office. And yet if he missed this session, he knew Picquery would find out about it at some point and come breathing down his neck like an angry mother dragon.

"No need for that," Percival remarked, pushing open his door and beckoning her in. "Let's get this over with."

iv.

Fern sat in front of Graves' desk as he closed the door and walked across the room slowly. It was the first time she'd seen him in person. He was paler than she'd imagined, and there were circles under his eyes that had been absent in the press photos. Nevertheless, he was immaculately dressed, from the styling of his hair down to the shine of his shoes.

"So," Graves started, seating himself at his leather chair and running a hand over his tailored waistcoast, "what do I have to do to pass this…assessment?"

"There's no manual on how to pass, Mr. Graves," Fern replied with a small smile, reaching into her bag for a quill and notepad. "I'm simply here to make sure you're all right after your recent experience. I'll be asking you some questions, and all I need you to do is tell me what you think, how you feel."

"You don't suppose it'd be easier to just read my mind, would you?" Graves replied sarcastically, reclining back. His mannerisms were telling of a man who was used to having his questions answered promptly.

"It might be, Mr. Graves, but my methods don't involve Legilimency or Veritasium. The No-Majs call it psychology. I'm just here to listen."

"And what makes you qualified to judge whether I'm sane or not?"

"Rest assured, I am."

Graves looked as if he were having second thoughts about the whole affair, perhaps due to the curtness of her last answer. His brow was furrowed as if dubious, and his hand was stroking his tie restlessly. It was plain as day that he didn't want her there. Fern had not spent long in his presence, but already she was starting to feel the infamous chill that people associated with Percival Graves.

"Very well," he said at long last, with a flippant wave of his hand. "Begin."

Fern positioned her quill. "Mr. Graves, why don't you talk me through the events leading up to your capture by Gellert Grindelwald?"

A scowl was quick to form on the man's face. "I've been through all this with the court."

"Yes, I've read the file. I'm well aware of the details. But I'd like you to tell me how you felt in the moment. What were you thinking, and what do you think of it now?"

"You want to know what I think as of now?"

Fern nodded eagerly.

"I think this is a waste of time and that you should leave. I don't know what President Picquery told you, but I don't need therapy."

Well, that went south real quick. A tiny part of Fern wanted to defend herself, but professionalism, curiosity and many years of training caught hold of her tongue. He was not the first to snipe at her, after all. So Fern recomposed herself, sat up straight and hitched a patient smile onto her face before trying again.

It was going to be an interesting few weeks.