Graves was still staring at Newt like he suspected that Newt's brain was entirely addled. Newt floundered for a second and then rallied.

"It's quite a comfortable cot." Graves still didn't look impressed. "It's only six days until we reach France," Newt tried. He glanced at Graves's face to gage his reaction and then looked away again. Maintaining eye contact was uncomfortable. Instead he focused on the pale smear of dust on the left shoulder of Graves's jacket.

"You want me to stay in a confined, magically-altered space… after being trapped in one against my will for three months," Graves stated slowly, his face entirely blank.

Ah. Newt hadn't thought of it like that.

"Well, you don't have to stay in there the entire time," he amended quickly, "and it's really quite spacious. I spend quite a lot of time down there. And all of the creatures are spelled to encourage them to stay in their habitats," he added as an afterthought. Some people got fussy about that sort of thing. Newt, personally, didn't mind waking up after a long night in his workshop with his hair full of bowtruckles.

"Encourage them to-" Graves started and then stopped as if he couldn't bring himself to discuss the matter further. He didn't quite sigh, but Newt got the impression that he wanted to. "Do you at least have a communication mirror so that I can let President Picquery know that I'm still alive?"

"…not anymore." Communication mirrors were expensive, and Newt had accidentally crushed his about four months ago when the erumpent had been ill. Speaking of the erumpent- Newt checked his pocket watch. He really ought to head down and feed everyone. He knelt down and popped the latches on his case. "Come on. I'll introduce you to everyone."

Newt climbed into his suitcase, absently tucking the now empty cigarette case he'd still been holding into his pocket as he did so. After a few long minutes, Graves reluctantly followed him.


Everywhere Percival Graves looked his brain kept pointing out things and categorizing them – illegal, less illegal, incredibly illegal, probably not illegal. It was easier than trying to come to terms with the fact that he had just spent several months trapped in a cigarette case while the darkest wizard of their age had impersonated him and nobody had noticed. It probably would have helped if Graves had had friends outside of work… friends in work… friends in general. He'd spent too much of his life holding everyone at a distance. It had made him far too easy a target.

He pushed that thought aside and focused on Newt who was happily receiving a tentacle hug from the baby graphorn. There, Graves's cynical brain decided, is a man who does not have his permits in order. Oh, he probably had some somewhere, but he looked like the type who would produce a wad of forms when asked and not be entirely certain which one was which. Normally, this sort of person annoyed Graves to the extreme. He was, by nature, organized and efficient, but there was something oddly charming about Newt. Perhaps it was his shear enthusiasm and obvious affection for the magical creatures he smuggled from country to country. Or their obvious affection for him.

The baby graphorn released Newt and went cantering off to join its parents. Newt smiled after it.

"They're really quite gentle if you approach them right." Somehow Graves doubted that. "Here." Newt handed him a bucket full of pellets. "Mooncalves next, and they're…" he trailed off for a moment and stared down at the bucket. The corner of his mouth twisted down ever so slightly. "They're very accepting of strangers if rather shy," he finally finished.

"You want me to feed to them," Graves stated, a touch disbelievingly.

Newt brightened up again at this.

"Of course. If you're going to be spending time here, it's best if everyone gets to know you."

"Right." He had been an auror for more than a decade. He could handle feeding a few bizarre, questionably-obtained, magical creatures if it would help him get back to America. He'd done much worse jobs.

A small herd of creatures was waiting for them by a rock outcropping under a moonlit sky. They had thin, delicate legs and massive nocturnal eyes that reminded Graves a bit of an owl. The tallest of them came up to about his waist. With a mental shrug, Graves grab a handful of pellets out of the bucket and tossed them to the mooncalves. The pellets floated instead of hitting the ground. The mooncalves stretched their necks and delicately plucked pellets from the air one by one. It was actually rather charming to watch. Graves felt something like a smile trying to pull at the corners of his mouth and squashed the urge.

Newt was down on his knees examining a mooncalf's foot.

"There we go. You just bruised it a bit – nothing's broken," he assured the creature softly. He produced a tin of salve from his pocket and began carefully massaging a dab of it into the mooncalf's sole. It made a very faint noise that sounded sort of like mrrrrrup and rubbed its head against his shoulder.

Graves looked away and tossed the rest of the herd another handful of pellets.

It took another hour to finish feeding all of the creatures in Newt's case, and if Graves never had to see another swooping evil eat its supper again, it would be too soon.

"Oh, here." Newt pulled a silver cigarette case from his vest pocket and offered it to Graves. "This is what I found you in, so you should probably have it."

Graves eyed the cigarette case for a moment before accepting it with only the barest outward signs of reluctance. If he'd had his wand handy, he would have been sorely tempted to melt the thing into slag right then and there, but he didn't have his wand and, besides, that would have been highly unprofessional. The thing was evidence after all. He slipped it into one of his inner coat pockets. It felt like a lead weight.

"Thank you."

"I'll, uh, just go and get us some supper then." Newt was looking uncomfortable again in that way that, Graves was starting to suspect, was reserved only for when he was dealing with humans. He scurried back up the ladder out of his workshop before Graves had time to respond.


Later that night, Graves was awoken by a slight weight leaning against his ribcage. His eyes popped open instantly. The niffler blinked back at him innocently as if it didn't have a familiar cigarette case clenched in one paw. Graves caught the creature by the back of its neck in a quick snap of reflexes and plucked the cigarette case out of its paw. The niffler widened its eyes and attempted to look as doleful as possible.

"This is evidence," Graves informed it seriously, and then felt ridiculous for talking to a creature as if it could understand him. The niffler widened its eyes even further. It reminded Graves of Walter Flitpenny, a petty thief and pickpocket he had arrested on numerous occasions in his younger years. Flitpenny had always tried to look innocent when caught red-handed, too. The niffler looked like a Walter.

They stared at each other for a few more minutes. Walter the niffler made a soft and incredibly pathetic noise that wasn't exactly a whine. Graves glanced at the hated cigarette case in his hand.

"Fine." It was far easier to hand over the cigarette case than it probably should have been. He knew where the niffler's nest was. He could always retrieve the case before he left. It wasn't like they were lacking evidence against Grindelwald. The man's actions in Europe weren't exactly what one could call subtle. Graves let go of Walter and handed it the cigarette case. Walter reached for the case slowly, watching Graves suspiciously the entire time, and then it snatched it and scuttled away. Graves watched it go and then turned his gaze to the workshop's ceiling.

Three months and nobody had noticed it wasn't him. Maybe that was why he wasn't as eager to get back as he might have been. Ever since he'd joined the ranks of the aurors right out of school, his entire life had revolved solely around his job. And he enjoyed his job. What he did was important. Why wasn't he more eager to return?

Graves rubbed a hand over his face, closed his eyes, and did his best to drift back to sleep.


When Graves woke up next, it was to the sound of Newt muttering to himself as he made notes at his desk. There were several warm, purring weights nestled on his chest. Graves blinked at the spherical balls of fluff. What had Newt called them yesterday? Oh, right – puffskeins. A long, thin, pink tongue darted out of one of the puffskeins and tried to lick Graves's nose. He sat up and the creatures rolled into his lap, still making contented purring sounds.

"Good morning," Newt looked up from his writing and smiled. He was holding something that looked suspiciously like the swooping evil's pocket-sized form. "I brought breakfast back for you, but it's up in the cabin. The puffskeins are terribly fond of jam and steal biscuits if you don't keep a close eye on them."

"Thank you." Graves stood and made a futile attempt to brush some of the wrinkle out of his shirt.

"You're welcome."

Graves headed up the ladder out of the workshop. His shoulders felt loose and relaxed in a way they hadn't felt in years. It was… pleasant. And, added a little part of his mind so quiet that it was almost subconscious, perhaps something he wouldn't mind getting used to.