When he hears that Percival Graves is dead, the first thing he does is laugh.
"Percival? My friend, my Percival, dead? A preposterous notion…" he starts and then he stutters, because the two MACUSA Aurors – accompanied by their British counterparts, one an older witch by the name of O'Mallay and the other Robert McGonagall, a former peer of his – are straight-faced and almost apologetic.
"Professor Dumbledore," the leading MACUSA Auror begins again, "Percival Graves is dead and has been for some time, unknown to the American Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Gellert Grindelwald was discovered to be impersonating him."
Gellert, Albus wilts in place, stumbling back to crash against his desk, heart constricting in his chest. Percival, he then thinks, no, no, no- and his chest aches for more than one reason. He can't draw breath, but there are people here, Dumbledore. Albus makes himself breath, makes himself expand his lungs and ribs to inhale. He swiftly steps forwards, regaining poise and control, wand coming to the dark chin of the MACUSA Auror in question.
"Tell me everything," he orders, regardless of the wands being pointed at him, now.
"Get your wand away from my face and I will," the Auror mutters. There are precious seconds that pass before Albus removes his wand, stepping backwards.
"Apologies for my actions," he says. Grief already soaks through him, his very bones feeling that persistent emptiness, that awful, horrid emptiness that Albus had thought he'd never feel again. Gellert forced my hand and my sister died, he wants to say, to explain his actions – but he doesn't say a word, just wanting to hear the truth of what happened to Percival, now.
My Percival.
The MACUSA Auror gives him a run-down of events. The escaped, fantastical beasts that plagued New York sound exactly the kind of creatures that Newt would keep in his lovely little suitcase habitat, but the Obscurial, oh, Albus was a fool as a child – a blind, ambitious boy who only ever saw what was laid out in front of him. Ariana was an Obscurial, too and Gellert saw first-hand what havoc she could wreak.
"We don't know how long Grindelwald was impersonating Mr Graves," the MACUSA Auror admits and only after a few moments does a frisson of fear run down Albus' spine, remembering the last three times he'd seen his dear Percival, kissed lips that hungered a different way – so different, he'd noticed.
"A long time," Albus replies quietly, tucking his wand in his pocket before running his hand down his face. No, he thinks, wanting to deny it ever happened. No, but yes. Percival blamed it on- blamed it on a mid-life crisis. He said we were both getting older. He was more alive, more on edge, more possessive. Percival was not Percival. He was Gellert.
Albus feels like he's going to be sick.
"Not to be rude, Professor, but how long, would you guess?" the other MACUSA Auror questions kindly, their voice gentler – kinder. As if she knows his grief.
"Two years, at least," Albus states, before bowing his head. "If you have no other business, I'll take my leave." He turns to go, but the MACUSA Aurors both make noises of protest.
"His Will, Professor," the lead MACUSA Auror starts and Albus freezes. "You are the executor of his estate."
…oh, Percival. Albus mourns his beloved with all the fire of the fieriest dragon.
He turns back to face the Aurors. There is a package in the hand of the second MACUSA Auror – he'd noticed it when they arrived – but he hadn't realised. He holds out his hand.
"If you would."
Poor, lost, dead Percival.