Disclaimer: I own nothing, no one but, perhaps, the circumstances that happens in this story.

AN: Guess who decided to finally watch the movie? Me. Anyhow, something that was supposed to be short but grew. I also have another chapter in mind for this but, ah. I need to get farther with IART before writing anything because spoilers for that fic.

AN: I'm also not every descriptive when it comes to the characters, their actions, for the most part, are but their appearance? Not really. It seems misplaced in what I'm writing, so the best anyone can get from me are: beautiful, attractive and appealing. I'm sure there are more examples on other things I've written. I tend to go internal than external and it shows because it gets wordy.

Awareness suddenly strikes, it felt like he was being electrocuted awake and with a shuddering gasp, he opens his eyes. He's met the sight of a dark ceiling and the feel of cold concrete where he lies.

"How?" the rasp that was his voice had him flinching, from surprise or from the pain it gives him as he speaks after being silenced for so long.

Despite the risk of whiplash and a headache, he jerked his left then right wanting to see if it was the same stone cold wall of his cell for—he can't remember how many days? Weeks? Months? How long has it been since he was brought into captivity by that- by that coward—the duration of his imprisonment, though he knows in his mind that it is not the cell?

The smell gave it away.

Though it was nothing like that acrid smell of the cellar Grindelwald had so generously thrown and shackled him in, it neither carried the sterile smell of a hospital nor the scent of wet soil that he's come to miss.

It was—

There were—

To be blunt, it was an almost indescribable smell. But it the smell of freedom.

But not the one he wants.

It reminded him of death.

Desperate all of a sudden, he moved. He pulled himself up through sheer desperation and anger.

Again.

He needs to check again.

(Because he can't be— He still needs to— His men need—)

Like the caged man he was, he frantically took in his surroundings.

(Nonononononononono)

Nothingness.

His shoulders tensed.

Up above he looked craning almost forcing his neck too far and still—

Nothingness.

He sagged into himself.

A great blackness ruled the sky.

Deep in his bones, he can feel it.

Looking up was the abyss.

Looking around was the abyss.

No.

Forcefully centering himself and letting out a harsh sigh, no.

He tore his eyes forward.

It was not the abyss, not completely, he conceded.

After all, there was the floor he's sitting on. And if this were the abyss, why was he on solid ground then? The jagged edge of the ground in front of him finally registers and it is telling.

A harsh sound that could have been a laugh tinged with hysteria.

A cliff.

Of course.

Perhaps below was where the abyss he feared lurked.

"Where!?" He growls, wanting nothing more than dig and claw at the solid stone. But he was still only human. He ignores that there is no pain as he forced his hand harder on the ground, no creak of bones and joint as he kept pushing against the hard surface.

He was so focused on ignoring that missing sensation he almost didn't hear the whisper behind him.

"... Where?"

He turned too fast, almost toppling over at the sound of that soft voice.

A boy stood behind him and peered curiously at him. Pale as death with a facsimile of confusion painted on the, admittedly, appealing, young face.

They stared at each other, even if the position was awkward for him. His eyes never left the solemn eyes of the boy.

They must have made quite the picture. On one side of the stare down, a disheveled and ragged man with a beaten body but persisting spirit dressed torn robes backed by an empty dark space that could be abyss but wasn't. On the other, a lost looking boy with a blue jacket and dark pants, no shoes though only a pair of gray socks and finally, a red shirt, so bright, that it almost seemed out of place in contrast of the solemn air he projected, almost dwarfed by the sheer size of the eerie archway behind him. It had rag covering that swayed back and forth, the lack of wind not deterring its admittedly ghastly dance.

Eventually, though, the boy grew disinterested with him and broke eye contact to raise a sleeve covered hand (the jacket looked like it was a size too large for the boy and very bulky, it covered half of his hand with no problem) and bit on the cuff as the boy looked at their surroundings.

It's what snaps him back to some semblance of reason.

"Who?" His voice is still scratchy though progressively better than earlier. It also stings less.

Slowly, almost reptilian like, the boy blinked. And blinked again like he had trouble processing his questions and again with infuriatingly slowness the boy turned back to look at him, head titling just enough that it was more apparent that he had to look down on him. It annoyed him because he was not used to being looked down on, least of all by lost children.

"Me?" It was galling enough that the boy had to ask that and all with his jacket's cuff still in his mouth but he knew, just knew it, that that boy was playing dumb.

"Who else?" he snaps, before he let out a large sigh and ran a hand down his face.

He usually has more self-control and would have no problem playing the game the boy decided to play and eventually turn it to his favor. Captivity has done no favors with it and his temper.

"It's rude to demand for my name when you've yet to give yours," the boy said frowning and looking so genuinely offended, he almost believed it had it not been for the afterthought he added, "Sir."

He looks at the boy again, face calm, sleeve still caught between his teeth.

"What?" Incredulity seeped into his tone because for all of the things the boy fixates on, it's that!

"I'm not telling until you introduce yourself," the boy finally freed the sleeve, only to cross his arms and look away; looking like the perfect picture of a brat that won't budge until he has what he wants.

"Like you don't already know!" He snarled so viciously. He sighed.

And there, his temper reared its head again. It wasn't helping his case to think tha—"Perhaps, but for formalities sake. Mother always says: it is appropriate and polite to introduce yourself than just assuming."

The boy shot him another dirty look before looking away again as he left him speechless. His jaw floundered, he was not sure how he wanted to continue and his anger just melted away.

"My name," He eventually found his voice and tried speaking again; at the rasping sound of it, the boy turned an eye at him though he had yet to face him again. Slowly, since it didn't hurt as much if he spoke slower, and syllable by syllable, almost dragging it with a gnarled and rusted hook from the back of his throat, he introduced himself with some semblance of bravado and firmness that he usually does, "is Percival. Percival Graves, Director of MACUSA's Department of Magical Security."

"Mister Percival Graves." He almost bristled at how the boy said his name. He was—it wasn't like he was tasting his name and how it fell out of his mouth as he spoke but it was a near thing. He sounded like he was being factual and questioning all at once and again it was said in such a damningly slow manner.

"Or would you prefer Director?" the boy asked again but obvious with his tone that he wasn't really looking for an answer.

So, Graves didn't speak and again they held each other's gaze. It was an eternity in its own right but the boy eventually seemed to find what he was looking for as he nodded. What it was he was actually looking for? He doesn't know, he does know a great weight was suddenly left him as soon as the boy stopped giving his complete focus on him.

"—ath."

"'Scuse me?" He snapped, startled out of his thoughts.

The boy was just amused. Finding him to be so amusing, that he was out of his depth. Maybe he wasn't that different from Grindelwald in that regard, reveling in the feeling of causing so much co—

"I'm only answering your earlier question, Mister Director," This time, the voice cut faster through his racing, raging thoughts. This time, the boy's voice and tone did not grate on his nerves as much even though he can detect that tinge of amusement that laced his tone.

"You asked 'where?' although," The boy reached a half-covered hand up and let his pointer finger rest against his cheek with eyes wide with, well he'll assume it's fake, wonder, tilting his head to the side again as he mused, "I suppose you weren't really expecting an answer since you were still busy," he doesn't really finish his sentence, only flapping both hands a bit as he trailed off.

"Anyway," The boy honed in on him, there was no other word to describe it and he can't help but tense even though he was under his scrutiny earlier. "Like I said, if you'd pay attention, we are just beyond the threshold of The Veil."

"The... Veil..?" His forehead wrinkled as he tried to work out where he heard the name before.

"—addison was telling me all about it!"

"Sounds..."

"Like a load of nundu dung?"

"Well. You said it, not me."

"Ha, ha. Shove off, Perce."

"Hey—can't take a joke? But, in all honesty. It sounds really dangerous."

"Yeah, well. S'why the Unspeakbles're the only ones that're authorized to meeessssss with it. No one really knows what it does."

"And they think that studying this veil is a good idea."

"Eh, well. It's like things go in but no one knows where it pops out. I mean. Nothing's been spat out from our side of the Veil. Yet."

"It sounds like a migraine."

"Eh, dunno 'bout you Perce but look on the bright side."

"What bright side? And quit hogging that! Order your own drink."

"Touchy. Touchy ponce. And I mean, and I dunno how they did, but the thing's in the Ministry, yeah? Think of all the ways it could go to hell if it were in, I dunno? In the middle of a muggle park or in Hogwarts?"

"Hmm, just thinking about it gives me a headache. Security must be hell."

"I know right? Like, there are just so many ways it can go wrong. At least with the Unspeakables it's in a relatively safe."

"Wasn't there an accident?"

"Oh. That. Yeah. One of the suspects for the Richardson's case gave the newbie watching him a slip. A real slippery resourceful fellow too. Somehow, and the security's been upped since then mind, he made it to the Veil's room and thought he could hide there. But the boys were on his tail, see, and saw him enter the room and well. Eh, there was a lot of tumbling and a lot of people got tackled. We got the bastard. But just before they could fully restrain the fellow he pushed one of the boys through the Veil. And just like that, we had to file—"

"The Veil of Death." He breathed.

They were—

That means—

No—

He stared at his fist, he wasn't aware (and that's not good at all. He's no use if his attention keeps lapsing,) that in his frustration that he was pounding his fist against the floor in frustration.

"I can't be," He wasn't too proud to acknowledge, even to himself, that he sounded weak. Pitiful. But it wasn't begging, not yet it wasn't.

If Grindelwald, that thrice damned pitiful excuse for a man that was so far into his own ass that he was honestly surprised that the man wasn't spewing literal shit out of his mouth (it would have made things harder, no doubt for that—that but he's the type of man persistent and charismatic enough that there would still be people who'd buy into his shit), couldn't make Graves beg, even with all his machinations, mind games and torture; he won't allow this to break him either.

"Huh," Graves' eyes snapped back to the boy as he huffed out that quiet laugh, the boy had one hand on his hip, the other twirling a lock of his messy hair.

He shot the boy a dark look that led to more laughter.

"Such… passion. I suppose." The boy continued.

"What?" He snarled at the boy, voice failing halfway through the word.

"Hmm," the boy moved forward, soon he was smiling and crouching in front of Graves and suddenly there was a glass of water being offered to him. "Thirsty?"

He stared trying to find some form of malice, some form of trickery in the boy's eyes. There were none.

And yet.

He looked at the grinning face then the crystal glass with cool water and then back again to the face. Graves repeated it a few more times before sighing and shook his head. For all that his throat begged for water to soothe its burning, "Pass."

He said it all with all the distaste he could muster (and believe him when he says there is a lot) but all the boy did was laugh, push himself up. The glass disappeared as he soon as he brought his hand down and clasped them behind his back, "Probably a good thing, Mister Director. Now," the boy clapped for emphasis and Graves jolted by the unexpected echo that came with it, "tell me Mister Director…"

He began circling Graves.

"…" Graves made sure to watch him as the boy circled him, grim face getting grimmer.

"How… much would you give to, ah, get the chance to get back at that man Grindelwald?"

How much?

To have that smug bastard—how much—caught.

To have the chance—how much—for payback?

For that he'd… He would—

"… almost anything." He rasped in the end. Looking at his clenched fist and the skin bruised on his arms. He raised his head slowly, "I'd give just about anything to catch that bastard."

"Hu-hmm, so you say," Graves' eyebrow may have given the slightest twitch at that and the boy stopped in front of him, hands still clasped behind him, "Grindelwald is quite the character, no?"

Graves snorted in derision, "One way to put it."

The boy smiled, though it was more like baring teeth, "Yes. He also has a bad habit of looking into things he really shouldn't, wanting things he has no business wanting."

Wary now, Graves just watched him.

"I suppose it shouldn't be too surprising." The boy wasn't looking at him anymore, having moved his gaze towards the blank expanse in front of them, subsequently turning his back to Graves as well, he can see how his hands fiddled with his sleeves. "Especially given the company he used to keep and the things that catch his interest," the boy sighed, with undercurrent of distaste surrounding his otherwise dry tone.

"You know…" The boy began, turning to look at Graves again, "I'm sure, it will be quite a sight. And very entertaining."

"…what?" He really shouldn't be getting distracted from more pressing matters. But the boy was insistent with keeping his attention.

"If you get the chance, I mean," he continued like Graves never interrupted him, "watching you hunt Grindelwald, without the slightest shadow of doubt, will be extremely entertaining…" the boy ended it with a sigh that could almost be considered dreamy and the very air around them seemed to quiver with agreement and want, the kind of want that just feels it'll explode into vindictive glee.

And sure Graves wanted to take Grindelwald down, it'd be a herculean task but, if he gets the chance to do it, he was certain he won't be the only person on that manhunt. But…

"…too late for that."

The kid blinked again and made a little noise, "Ah, yes. That." Like it was little more than a minor inconvenience.

"—that can easily be fixed."

…what.

The boy smiled-smirked. "As I've said. The thought of Grindelwald being hunted amuses me so."

"Entertainment—"

"And really, Mister Director, it's not really your time and I do tend to have the final say in matters like yours."

The air quivered again though this time it seemed to convey unhappiness and something almost like when a child was sulking. And it was just heavy there in the air. But even without the pressure, Graves thought he wouldn't be able to speak. The air was just out of his lungs.

Because that means—

There was a chance—

"So the question now Mister Director," And the boy read him and was smug, like he didn't just imply—

"Is if you want to go back?" He ends it with one hand extended towards Graves.

He looks on, patiently but not exactly expectant. And Graves is left in the mess that was his thoughts once more. That. Going back means a lot of things, a hell lot of implications. But the things he could get done. Things he needed to do. Things he wanted to do, had to do. Grindelwald won't know what hit him.

"Is that—Is that even a question worth asking?" He practically spat at the boy, glee and spite warring in him at his chance and he grabbed the offered hand.

"You'd be surprised how many people say no." There was the slightest bit of shoulder shrugging from the boy after he pulled Graves up. "Be sure to tell Mister Scamander, ah," he pauses when Graves jerked at the familiar name, "Newton, that is, the younger one, that it has been a while, which is good. And that I do so hope it will be decades before I see him again." He finished with an innocent smile, moving to the side.

And suddenly.

It seems like that eerie archway with the raggedy curtains loomed over both of them.

In all of it's pale, chipping, cold glory.

It was like someone was calling to him. Calling his name.

A step.

Then two on aching legs. The-the strips of rags suddenly stopped its dance, instead, it was blowing forward to beckon and caress him, tempting him to crossover to the other side.

Back to life.

Another step forward.

But.

Before he steps through the Veil he can't help but turn back to the boy and ask, because as unsettling this entire ordeal may be, Grave's curious.

"Are you Death?" He whispered, not sure if he was scared about the answer.

The boy blinked slowly again and, slowly as well, an amused smile stole across the boyish features. With something wry dancing his tone, just as an invisible wind suddenly rushed forward, surrounding and pushing him towards the maw of the Veil, as verdant eyes suddenly glowed and radiated in the dark that sent a jolt through him because they suddenly reminded him of the Killing Curse he answered.

"Not yet."

Graves woke up again, and this time to the sun beaming down his face, practically scorching his poor eyes, cheek cushioned by mud. He lay there, on his left side this time, his mind muddled again. The sun's warm beams became too much eventually and he turned to lie on his stomach, the scent of the cool, fresh earth.

He breathed it in.

And was throwing himself to his feet, failing and ultimately ending on his shaking knees. Grass. Green, green grass greeted him as he tried to control his breathing, as he tried to get enough strength to get up.

He pushed himself up and tucked his legs beneath him and though his hands were still shaking as he put his weight on them, trusting himself that they were strong enough to support him. He allowed his gaze to roam.

Green trees and grass and the great blue sky with streaks of white clouds greeted him. His eyes stung as he breathed in deeply.

Freedom.

He let out the breath he was holding. He was free.

But...

'This is just the beginning. There's work to be done.' Distantly, he's aware that he didn't ask what the catch was.

There was always a catch. Was he meant to just live on borrowed time from now on? In fear of when the reaper will come knocking to his door.

Will it be peaceful in sleep? Or, one day, will be home to find Death waiting in his home?

He was pulling at the grass and only became aware of it thanks to the sting of the cuts on his palms. He let go of it and turned his palm to observe the cuts. His hand was muddy, dirty and bleeding.

It stung.

It was real.

Then again, he could die happily knowing Grindelwald was gone from the face of the Earth as well. It was a good enough of a tradeoff. Freedom and life, even if it had a ticking time limit he's not aware of, to hunt and hopefully ruin that man.

The sight of his cut palm captivated him enough that he was startled out of the trance by a shout.

"DIRECTOR GRAVES!"

Immediately it was followed by even more shouts and cracks and the multiple feet pounding closer to where he sat.