Scamp
Percival woke up as a cat; twitching tail, quivering whiskers, and sharp claws included. It wasn't the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, so he merely hopped off the bed – or tried to.
He landed in a puddle of limbs on the rug next to his bed. Merlin's balls. He wriggled on the floor, trying to get onto his feet, or rather, paws. His limbs didn't seem to want to agree with him and so Percival spent the first few minutes in his new body trying to work out how it fitted together.
Eventually, Percival managed to get some semblance of control and settled on his haunches. He glanced around – still in his flat, thankfully – and blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. It dawned on him that a cat's eyesight was far different from a human's. His surroundings were blurred at a distance but sharp immediately before him, the colours faded, but his eyes were able to pick out details he'd never seen before.
He sat for a whole minute staring at the whorls in the wooden floorboards of his bedroom before shaking his head, annoyed with himself.
Percival was a cat. How the hell had that happened?
The last thing he remembered was getting up to go to work, the sun already high in the sky, on what must have been the day before, because the day was dawning once more, grey light filtering through his half-open curtains.
He padded over to the door to his bedroom and faced his first true hurdle: the door handle. A shiny brass doorknob gleamed above him, taunting him as it twinkled in the early morning sunlight. Damn it all, but Percival missed opposable thumbs.
"Alohomora," he tried to say. Instead, he emitted a plaintive meow.
He promptly snapped his jaw shut, horrified. He hadn't truly expected to hear his own voice, however, he hadn't expected to hear that either. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Somehow, hearing the distinctly feline cry seemed to bring him into reality.
Percival was stuck in a cat's body and he had no idea how it had happened.
Worst of all, the damn door was still shut.
Percival yowled, crying as loudly as he could. If he was going to be stuck as a cat, he was going to be one of those bloody-minded and fiercely annoying ones. He'd yowl until his neighbours complained, until someone was forced to break into his flat and come to find him.
Only moments later, there was a click that sounded distinctively like the lock to his front door. Percival fell silent and tilted his head. That had been rather… quick.
The scent of grass and cinnamon wafted into his apartment.
Those smells were distinctive to Newt Scamander, who certainly wasn't one of his Muggle neighbours.
"Director Graves? Hello?" Scamander called. He stepped further in, mumbling to himself; "was that a cat? Sounded like one."
Percival's ears twitched. He curled his body back upon itself, tail flicking, and trotted toward his bed. He launched himself onto the bed and from there onto the top of the wardrobe and settled into a crouch, gaze fixed upon the door.
There was a rattle of doors opening and the pad of footsteps as Scamander inspected the house. "Director Graves?" he called again, voice uncertain. Finally, he stepped into the bedroom.
Percival launched himself at Scamander with a feral cry, claws digging into the lapels of his petrol peacoat.
"Bugger!" Scamander cried, staggered back. His heel caught on the rug and together they tumbled onto Percival's bed. With a growl, Percival scored his claws down Scamander's chest, hoping for blood.
It was to no avail. Percival meowed indignantly when he was abruptly collected by the scruff of his neck and removed from Scamander's person. He was held away from Scamander's body, dangling like a kitten.
"Well, you're a little devil," Scamander said, brushing his hair from his eyes as he sat up. He sounded fond. Scamander was always fond when it came to his creatures, or so Percival had noticed in the small amount of time they'd spent together.
Percival hissed. Little my arse. He glared at Scamander, hoping that he was conveying his disdain at being referred to as such. Scamander seemed unbothered.
"Do you belong to Director Graves? Who'd have thought?" Scamander chuckled to himself.
It was at that moment Percival knew that he could never reveal the truth. Scamander likely already thought him a fool, missing and having abandoned his cat. If Scamander, and by proxy, the British Government found out that Percival had actually been trapped as said cat, he'd never live it down.
Scamander gathered Percival close, wrapping him neatly in his arms in such a way that no matter how much Percival squirmed he couldn't free himself without injury. Then Scamander stood, walking rapidly out of the room.
It was highly disconcerting, being bundled and transported in such a way. It was for that reason that Percival didn't object when Scamander dropped him into the suitcase he always carried about his person. He spun in midair and landed on his feet, hissing up at the entrance above.
"Look after him, Dougal," Scamander called. "He's a bit of a scamp!"
Percival had been in Scamander's case for what seemed to have been three days, judging by the cycle of light, and he thought he might just about be going crazy.
Firstly, Scamander insisted on petting him. He received a swipe of Percival's claws for that, but surprisingly, or perhaps not, Scamander was excellent at removing his hand just quickly enough to avoid a scratch.
Then, Scamander talked to him. He talked to all his creatures; telling them about his day, nattering on about the latest fascinating discovery he'd made, but he spent most of his time rambling on about 'where on earth could Director Graves possibly be?' and it drove Percival mad. Right here! he thought, but obviously couldn't say. Being trapped in a cat's body had become more and more frustrating and he'd still not worked out what on earth had happened, nor how to turn back.
The worst, however, was the food. Each day Scamander tried something different. The live mice Percival had allowed to escape, at least until the occamy had found them. The birds he'd then been offered had been dead, but Percival disliked the idea of feathers even more than fur. The fish had been slimy and unappetising and Percival had taken to eating the grass instead, giving up on food deemed edible for a cat.
He was hungry, he was angry, and he was frustrated.
So, when Scamander stepped down the ladder with what looked to be a chicken sandwich in his hand, Percival knew he had no other choice.
He meowed loudly and then began to purr, giving up on trying to keep hold of his dignity. Scamander smiled, drawing closer, and Percival wound his way around the other man's legs.
"Someone's had a change of heart," Scamander murmured. He sprawled on the ground next to Percival, stroking his hand along Percival's spine.
It did, admittedly, feel good.
Percival, however, had other things on his mind. He trampled across Scamander's lap and lunged for the sandwich, pouncing on Scamander's arm. Scamander released the sandwich in shock and Percival fell on it, nudging aside the bread and scoffing down the chicken. It was delicious – the more so for not being vegetation.
"Scamp!" Scamander cried, sounding both outraged and amused.
Percival twitched at the noise and moved so that he could glare at Scamander, keeping a beady eye in case he tried to steal his sandwich back. Thankfully, Scamander seemed to have given it up as a lost cause.
"I suppose that explains why you wouldn't eat anything else," Scamander said. "A diet of cooked chicken is hardly healthy for a cat, even one as a handsome as you."
Flattery would get him nowhere, but when Percival had finished with Scamander's dinner, he did allow the other man to stroke his ears in recompense.
Perhaps, if Scamander continued feeding him chicken, he'd allow it again.
Newt hummed to himself as he stood outside Queenie and Tina's door. Apparently, Queenie was making strudel again, in honour of the first time he'd met them.
The door was yanked open by a harried-looking Tina who ushered him inside quickly.
"Mustn't let Mrs. Esposito see you," she muttered, checking the corridor before slamming the door shut behind her.
"Ah, of course not," Newt said. He placed his case down by the door and was quite startled when Queenie rushed out of the kitchen.
"You've found him!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. There was flour all down her pinafore as if she'd been surprised into dropping her spell.
"I – what?" Newt asked, bewildered. "I found – me?"
"Director Graves," Queenie exclaimed. She glanced around until her gaze settled upon Newt's suitcase. "Why's he in your case?"
"What?" Newt said, echoed by Tina. He'd been assisting in the search for Graves of course – every wand able witch or wizard had been.
Queenie ignored him, snapping open the latches and immediately racing down the ladder. Newt followed, never having been more confused in his life.
On Newt's bed lay Scamp, curled into a ball and undoubtedly shedding black fur on his coverlet.
"Oh, Percival!" Queenie cried, and she stroked a hand across Scamp's fur.
Newt exchanged a look with Tina. She bit her lip, a frown creasing her brow.
Scamp hissed upon waking and seeing the three of them, then tilted his head, gazing straight up at Queenie.
"He woke as a cat that same morning you found him," Queenie said, a glazed look in her eyes. "And he's been trying to turn back into a human ever since. Oh – you silly thing!"
"Queenie… are you sure that's Percival Graves?" Tina said cautiously. Queenie turned on them, fire burning in her eyes.
"'Course I am, and you'd be too if you could hear him. Why, he's been trapped like this for three days and he's already complaining to me about how much Newt loves to talk."
Newt felt himself turning pink. If Queenie was right and this truly was Percival Graves, the stern man he'd only briefly met after they'd exposed Grindelwald and freed his prisoners, then Newt had embarrassed himself quite thoroughly. Graves had been missing for a few days, having been reported absent after not coming into work – the timeline fit, when he thought about it.
"Well, this'll be the proof in the pudding," Tina said, stepping forward, wand raised.
Scamp – Graves – flinched away in what seemed to be instinct, then stood proud, yellow eyes fixed upon Tina's wand.
"Finite Incantatem."
For a moment, nothing happened, then with a pop, a naked, furious Percival Graves appeared where Scamp had sat before.
"Merlin and Morgana," Newt muttered, certain he was going to live the rest of his life in a perpetual blush. Then, realising that ladies were present and getting an eyeful, he rushed to take off his coat and offer it to Graves.
"This damn coat," Graves grumbled but took it nonetheless. "I couldn't get a single claw through it."
"Err… protection spells woven into the wool," Newt offered, then cursed himself for opening his mouth. "Not that's, um, relevant. Uh, shall I, I mean, do you want, er, clothing?"
Graves fixed him with a flat stare.
"Yes?" Newt said. "That's a yes. Righty-ho."
Tina was snorting with laughter and even Queenie's eyes filled with mirth.
"We'll let you get dressed. Come up and join us for dinner, won't you, before you report to MACUSA?" Queenie asked.
Graves nodded stiffly. The ladies quickly ascended up the ladder.
"So," Newt began, busying himself with finding clothing that would be broad enough across Graves' shoulders and not too tight in the thigh. "Do you know why?"
"Why I got trapped as a cat?" Graves finished the question for him. There was a long pause, in which Newt wondered if Graves would even choose to tell him, even if he knew.
"I have… a theory," Graves finally admitted. Newt passed the clothes he'd managed to find across and turned his back. He tapped his foot, realised what he was doing and then clasped his hands together in order to stop himself from fidgeting.
"A theory?"
"Mmm. I may have, well, I suppose I can admit I've been trying my hand at the Animagus transformation."
That would do it. Transforming alone could lead to all sorts of nasty and unforeseen side effects.
"I tried not to admit that to myself when I was… stuck, as I knew only another could turn me back and I hardly expected someone to try," Graves continued. "Ah, well, it was a foolish idea anyway. I suppose I liked the thought of being able to transform into something small enough to escape handcuffs."
Graves had been chained to a wall in a safe house of Grindelwald's when he'd been found, barely clinging to life. Tina had been the one to find him and she'd been distraught the next time Newt had seen her, blaming herself for not noticing Grindelwald's impersonation.
"I think it's a good idea," Newt said, turning without a thought. Graves was dressed, sitting on the edge of Newt's bed and pinching the bridge of his nose. "If you want, I'll help you practise."
Graves looked up, brown eyes wary. "Yes," he murmured, half to himself. "You would, wouldn't you."
After another moment's consideration, Graves nodded decisively. "I might just take you up on that offer, Mr. Scamander," he said and offered his hand.
Newt shook it, offering a tentative smile in return. "My friends call me Newt," he said, hoping he wasn't being presumptuous. But he'd liked Graces as a cat and thought in turn, toward the end, Graves had rather liked him.
Graves arched a brow. "Friends? Very well, Newt, in that case, I believe that we shouldn't keep Ms. Goldstein's renowned strudel waiting. I dare say I'm ravenous."
With a shrug of his shoulders, Newt started up the ladder. "Fine, but this time you can get your own dinner, Scamp."
He heard Graves snort in startled amusement below him and Newt stepped out of his case smiling.
Word Count: 2387
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