When the dust had settled and they'd extracted Graves from the reinforced cupboard where Grindelwald had kept him, he had been missing for almost six months. President Picquery had overseen his care in the wake of his captivity personally.
"He kept you remarkably well-fed for a man who wanted to hold you indefinitely, or so they tell me," she said from the other side of the privacy screen that had been erected in Graves's hospital room. Even though the room was windowless, Graves felt the press of the sun at its zenith, like an unfortunate itch behind his eyes.
He splashed cool water on his face and patted it down with a towel. The grime that had been ground into his skin had long since been scoured away, but the sensation lingered. Many sensations lingered (but he would not think about them). When it became apparent that Picquery expected a response, he shook his head. "I was more use to him in control of my faculties. He made the mistake of allowing the frenzy to take me once. It was enough."
He'd known Picquery long enough to know that she felt the weight and shape of things he was not saying. She would let him keep these "secrets" (she'd seen the reports, they were hardly hidden from her; she knew whose bones they'd found when they recovered him) if it meant his swift return to his post.
"That's a fair point," Seraphina conceded with her typical grace. "Are you certain you don't need someone to lend you a vein before you go home?" He saw her silhouette shift as she moved closer and slung a bundle of clothing over the top of the screen: a shirt, slacks, waistcoat. All in his usual style, but brand new. Untainted.
The thoughts rose unbidden then, like a crashing wave. Grindelwald, wearing his face. His fangs in an arm that looked like his own but which did not belong to him. His mind brushing up against Grindelwald's. The bond that formed from repeated feedings being used against him. Grindelwald pulling his emotions from it in twisted exchange for his blood.
Graves closed his eyes and draped the towel over the edge of the sink. His hands did not shake, nor did he reach to turn on the tap and try to scrub at stains that were not there. It wouldn't matter anyway; he could wash his body but there was nothing that could cleanse his mind of the feeling.
He shook his head. "I'm certain. Thank you, Madame President."
With rock-steady fingers, he pulled on the clothes that Seraphina had delivered. They hung oddly, having not been tailored, but they were serviceable enough. The fabric was coarser than he cared for; whatever poor apprentice Picquery had roped into the errand had likely done their best with a limited knowledge of cut and fit.
When he faced himself in the mirror, though, he was glad of it. His clothes were plainer (no topstitching, no cufflinks, no collar pins, no tie tacks), his hair was in disarray (when had he last had the chance to style it?), and he still had a handful of cuts on his cheek and forehead that had not yet healed (would not heal until he fed next).
It was a relief. Perhaps he was shabbier, but he bore less resemblance to himself now. And that was fine.
He stepped from behind the privacy screen and under the appraising eye of Seraphina Picquery. Moments ticked by, and finally she crossed her arms and sighed. "You look like hell, Graves. Go home. Owl me when you don't look like a stiff wind will knock you over."
Graves fussed with his collar. It was a useless gesture; the shirt was not made well enough for any amount of his fiddling to improve its state. But it was something to do, so he did it. "I'll go home if you lend me a handful of aurors to burn any piece of furniture in that house that has Grindelwald's stench on it," he said. The words sounded almost glib. He felt a little proud.
"They're yours. Whoever you want. It's the least any of us can do."
"Thank you, Madame President." He hesitated, unsure if he wanted an answer to the question he wanted to ask. Finally, "And my wand?"
"In impound. You'll get it back in a few days." She shook her head. "And before you ask, no, you may not have it any sooner."
He wasn't going to ask, but he played along. "All right. In that case, I'll be collecting my aurors now."
Graves professed only a vague understanding of who—and what—the Second Salem boy had been; he'd never met the boy himself, and he'd read the reports that had circulated the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the wake of his recovery. He gave no one a reason to suspect he was anything less than truthful. The less he had to consider the facts of his stay in Grindelwald's care, he assured himself, the better everyone would be.
Thankfully, no one thought to interrogate him about the subject. Doubly thankfully, no one thought to involve veritaserum. The concept that he had no knowledge of Credence Barebone prior to Grindelwald's capture was widely accepted as truth.
The fact, however, was this:
A vampire, in feeding from any sort of human, committed to a small amount of psychic contact. It was a well-documented truth that a meal could be rendered more willing and pliant with the proper application of pleasure. The mechanism of such had been hotly debated among practitioners of dark arts, but the common consensus held that this was accomplished through an empathic link with the intended victim. It was instinctual; vampires who could not perform this basic preternatural rapport tended not to survive long after turning. Repeated feedings would only make that connection deeper. Less ephemeral.
What Graves knew of Credence Barebone included almost everything that Grindelwald himself thought, near the end. (He'd mourned the boy, when he read the reports. Quietly. In private. How could he hope to explain why he was mourning someone he'd never met?)
This knowledge pressed down on him with the weight of a mountain as Graves stood stiffly in President Picquery's office. He held his chin high, his shoulders back, and his spine straight as she met his gaze. Seraphina was every inch the manicured, composed, serene figure that her portrait hanging in the hall implied she would be. But her expression was pinched, her lips pressed together in a tight line. "Thank you for your prompt response, Graves," she said. Her voice held an undercurrent of agitation and exhaustion.
"Of course, Madame President." The response was automatic. "But if I may ask, why call me here when sunset is hours away?"
"I won't take any more of your time that I need to, given the hour," she said, "but I have a problem that I feel you are… uniquely equipped to handle." She rubbed the bridge of her nose as if that would do anything to relieve what was surely the nightmarish administrative headache she was about to dump in Graves's lap. He waited. "Not to belabor the point, but what do you know about Credence Barebone, really?"
"Enough," Graves hedged after a moment. "He was Grindelwald's true target in New York, and he used my position to gain access to him before he was exposed."
Rather than let the facts go unspoken, Picquery nodded, "Yes, before I ordered that the the boy be executed. A decision that no small number of individuals—whether they were involved or not—have expressed their disagreement with."
Graves shrugged. He had never declared his position, but he suspected Seraphina knew. The reports had stated Goldstein was calming the boy down. Graves would not have let his aurors fire.
But, like Picquery had said, they were not here to belabor any points. "You're a very busy woman, Madame President. Please, let me know what I can do for you so you can get on with your day."
Picquery smirked. "No need to be so formal, Percival," she said. "You're welcome to tell me to spit it out and stop wasting your time on frivolous pleasantries." At the arch of his eyebrow, she laughed. "Here's the situation I find myself in: I gave the order to have a boy executed, and to all appearances it was carried out."
The world trembled for a moment. A surge of something that Graves couldn't quite name rose in his chest. Something delicate hung in the air, anchored by the words that Picquery had not yet spoken. Graves shifted his weight and said nothing.
"Percival, I know that I'm in no position to be asking personal favors of you," Seraphina said, the mantle of her position falling by the wayside as she let her shoulders droop. "I've failed you. I've failed the witches and wizards of this city. I very nearly failed all of wizardkind. You would have every right to refuse to do this for me."
Graves swallowed. He was not a stupid man. He could see in which direction the conversation was now hurtling. "What do you need, Seraphina?"
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. He could hear her heartbeat across the distance between them: quick, but slowing as she worked to reclaim her calm. Once her pulse was regular again, she opened her eyes. "I have, in one of the holding cells downstairs, an individual who is not, strictly speaking, supposed to be alive."
"The Barebone boy." It was not a question. The world seemed to hold its breath.
"Percival, this boy is dangerous, but fate has given me the chance to do right by him. You're the only person I can think of who has a chance of standing up to him if… Well, if things go poorly. This has to be unofficial, at least until things have settled down and the inquiry is done."
A hundred objections rose in his mind, but he voiced none of them. Credence Barebone, against all odds, had survived. And Seraphina was giving Graves the chance to help him after his position of power had been used to do so much harm.
There were so many reasons why this was a horrible idea. But Graves couldn't find it in himself to refuse. "I'll be extremely discreet."
Seraphina nodded. "Thank you. I'll make sure he's ready to be transported once you've made any preparations for having a houseguest."
"Who else—"
She did not give him room to finish his question. "The Goldsteins, because Porpentina found him, and what she knows, Queenie knows. Myself, obviously. The two house elves that have been tending to him. And now, you."
After a moment, Graves asked, "Does he know?"
Seraphina, again, did not shy away, did not leave things unspoken. "About Grindelwald impersonating you? Yes. About his potential wardship under your care? No. About your… delicate relationship with daylight? Also no. I wouldn't dare speak on your behalf."
He nodded. These were as he expected. "I'd like to meet him now, if it's not too much of a bother."
"Of course," Seraphina said. She rolled her shoulders and once more became President Picquery.
To his surprise, Picquery led him to the Barebone boy (Credence) herself. She waved her wand at one of the bookcases lining the back wall of her office and it slid obligingly to one side. The narrow staircase behind it lit up as they entered, and the lights doused themselves behind them as they passed. Eventually, they reached the bottom, and Picquery tapped the wall in front of them to open the brickwork.
Graves was familiar with most of the holding cells in MACUSA's headquarters, having imprisoned and interrogated no small number of criminals in his tenure with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. This gray, door-lined hallway was unfamiliar. Every inch of the stonework had been ensorcelled with containment charms, anti-magic enchantments, and other, older things that Graves's instincts told him had involved bloodshed. The sum of it all made his skin want to crawl off his bones.
Picquery gave him an apologetic look. "I had to be sure that he couldn't cause any trouble. These halls are the most heavily warded in the entire building. You could set all of Scamander's beasts loose ten times over and not scratch a single stone here."
Picquery stopped outside one door halfway down the hall. It had a small window set into it, through which Graves could see a dull gray room, sparsely furnished with only a handful of utilitarian items: a chair, a cot, a cramped desk. And, on that cot, sat a boy (young man). Credence.
He looked so much more haggard than he had in the impressions Graves had skimmed from Grindelwald's mind. He was so painfully thin under the loose shirt and pants he had been given, and he sported a multitude of tiny cuts and bruises on what little skin he could see.
The parts of him that Grindelwald had touched still saw prey. A broken tool.
Graves refused those thoughts so vehemently that he almost snarled. "Seraphina, please open this door."
She tapped it three times in quick succession, and the door swung open. Credence's head jerked up, and he skittered backward on the cot until his back was against the wall behind him. Graves somehow managed not to flinch in sympathy, but only just.
He approached slowly, coming a few steps over the threshold. "Mister Barebone," he said as gently as he could.
Credence looked up at him. Cast his eyes at the floor. Looked up at him again. Based on the dark circles under his eyes, Graves guessed he hadn't slept more than a handful of hours in the past few days. "I know who you are." His voice cracked as if he hadn't used it in a while. "Miss Picquery told me. That you aren't Him."
Graves nodded. "That's right. Gellert Grindelwald used my face and my position of power to cause a lot of harm. To the city, and to you."
Credence kept his gaze steady. The fear ebbed away, leaving mostly exhaustion and a thread of curiosity. "Why are you here, Mister Graves?"
"To make you an offer. And, perhaps, make amends."
That piqued the boy's interest, and he was too tired to keep it off his face. "Amends for what? You've never met me. I haven't met you. Before right now, I mean."
"Someone used my face to hurt you," Graves said. "I feel that it is my duty to try to right the wrongs Grindelwald committed while using my name."
"What are you offering?" Credence asked.
"A warm bed. Regular meals. Clothing, books, an education, if you want them."
The boy narrowed his eyes as he considered Graves's words. Skepticism warred with plain wanting, but the circumstances that had shaped Credence and brought him to this place tipped the balance. Skepticism won. "What price do I have to pay for all that, Mister Graves?"
"You will have to look at my face the whole time," Graves said. He glanced over his shoulder; Picquery had drifted away (left him to his own devices), and he'd been too focused on Credence to notice it. He took a few more steps to cross the distance between the door and the cot to give himself more of a sense of privacy. Voice low, he continued, "I know some of what Grindelwald told you. What he did while he looked like me. You have no reason to trust me, but I promise I will not let you come to harm. Ever. If you can live with that, live with me, then my home is as good as yours."
Moments ticked by, measured in Credence's erratic heartbeats. He studied Graves's face as the silence stretched, and Graves did his best not to close himself off from the boy's scrutiny.
"You aren't like Him at all," Credence pronounced.
The statement startled a ghost of a smile out of Graves. "Thank you, Credence. That means more to me than you know."
He shook his head. "I think I understand just fine. When can we go home?"
A vampire of Graves's age and power could go as long as three weeks between feedings, under the proper circumstances. Of course, Graves's circumstances were less than ideal. He strained to move, but found his hands and legs shackled with silver-lined cuffs. The idea that silver could hold him on its own was laughable, but the cuffs themselves were ash wood, and charmed to Deliverance Day and back. Gods damn it all. Someone did not want him to move.
He shifted, tried to get at least a little more comfortable as he assessed the situation. The darkness was magical, of that he could be certain. Next to him, though he could not see it, he could sense the shape of a body. It was warm, but its pulse was thready and its breathing shallow. He could smell the tang of drying blood.
His own body hadn't fared much better. He had at least one cracked rib, and he was fairly certain neither his left ankle nor left knee would support him in their current state. He had a gash over one eye that had oozed sluggishly, but that was cosmetic damage. Maybe I'll develop a rakish scar, he thought. Of course, that would require making it out of this no more dead than he normally was.
Next to him, the body groaned. He recognized the voice; one of his junior aurors, Peter Galen. Memories rushed back in a flood. Galen had invited him for drinks, had been so earnest about it that Graves hadn't the heart to tell the boy that he was incapable of partaking (that the overture was flattering, but misplaced). Galen had taken him to a wizarding bar down on Gwydion Square and then gotten so blotto on gigglewater that Graves had shouldered most of his weight as he'd teased out Galen's address in between fits of raucous laughter. And then… Lord and Lady damn it all.
"Galen, can you hear me?" he whispered. Please, tell me you're all right. Please.
The boy groaned again, and Graves could hear him trying to shift into some other position. "Yessir," he slurred. Thank the gods.
"Do you remember what happened?" It was a long shot, but Graves had to ask.
Galen struggled, huffed, then stopped moving. "Nossir. Where're we? Can't see shit. Sir."
"I don't know," Graves admitted. "I can't see through the darkness, either. Are you hurt?"
"Gotta headache. Might be the gigglewater. Prob'ly took one to the head." Galen made a strangled sound that Graves realized was supposed to be a chuckle. "Wand arm's no good. Legs don't feel good either. Shit."
"All right, that's all right, don't worry." I'll do the worrying for the both of us. He tested the shackles at his wrists, tugging until he felt the chains go taut, then pulling beyond that. The enchantment sparked and sent a jolt of electricity through him. Graves hissed and let his arms go limp. So much for that. Their captor really did not want him to move.
"Sir?" Galen croaked.
"It's fine. Just testing my limits here."
"Don't sound fine. You hurt?"
"I'm fine," he lied through clenched teeth.
"Sir… I know I'm in a state but you didn't hire me 'cause I'm pretty. You ain't telling the truth and I know it." Galen huffed again as he squirmed on the floor, his breathing strained as he tried to move himself. Finally, Graves felt the warm press of Galen's abdomen against his knee. "Shit! That smarts."
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" Graves demanded. "If you're as injured as you say, you shouldn't be flopping around."
Galen scoffed. "What, you gonna demote me for it? Respectfully speaking, sir, but I'm no use in getting us outta this mess. But what do you reckon our chances are if I give you a vein, eh?"
The response was immediate and perhaps a little more vehement than Graves intended. "Absolutely not. I can't tell exactly what's wrong with you, but you're injured enough already. I am not going to add blood loss to that. Especially not when we don't even know what we're up against."
Silence. Hopefully Galen was considering the situation. Graves tested the reach of the bonds on his wrists again, this time seeing if he could try to lay a hand on Galen. For comfort, or solidarity, or restraint. The boy sighed. "We're up a creek, huh?"
"Probably." Gods, this would be easier if he could remember who'd dragged them off to be locked up in darkness. "You said your wand arm is no good. I don't suppose you have your wand?"
"No sir. Wish we were so lucky." Graves could imagine the sour expression on Galen's face. "Not even gonna ask about yours."
They lapsed into silence. With his hand on Galen's chest, Graves felt the boy's breathing even out as he drifted in and out of a doze. He marked the time by the pressure of the sun and by the heartbeat of his companion. Graves had no doubt that he'd been the target of this mess, that poor Galen had just been collateral damage in this kidnapping.
After what he thought must have been about four hours, the darkness dissipated, replaced with a searing light that burned like sunlight but not quite so hot. He sucked in a breath out of reflex more than necessity and tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes. The chain snapped taut well short, sending another shock up his arm. Graves snarled, curled in on himself to protect his face from the brightness. Galen groaned beside him.
"Ah, Percy—may I call you Percy?—it's good to see you're awake. Did you know that you are a difficult man to get an appointment with?"
Cold dread washed over Graves. He did not have to uncurl himself to know who spoke.
"If you wanted an appointment, Gellert, you could have just introduced yourself to the doorman at the Woolworth," Graves said. He was proud of the fact that his words were even and did not waver. "I would have been happy to see you."
Grindelwald tutted. "Don't worry, I will see the inside of that place soon enough, Percy. But first, I have a proposition for you." Cold fingers gripped Graves's chin and forced his head up. The shock of Grindelwald's living spark thrummed in his ribcage like the beating of a massive drum and left a sickly metallic tang on the back of Graves's tongue.
Grindelwald's visage was backlit by the conjured pseudo-sunlight, but Graves could read his expression just fine: cold, dispassionate, hungry. The iron grip on his jaw kept Graves from turning away. He said nothing; if Grindelwald expected a response, Graves would not give it to him.
At his side, Galen made a strangled sort of whimper. Without looking down, without letting Graves look down, Grindelwald said, "Shh. Don't struggle. That will only make things worse." The aroma of fresh blood, hot and living, hit Graves's nostrils. His throat burned with the wanting.
As if Graves had spoken, Grindelwald smiled. "Yes, I imagine that your body is eager to heal the damage. Here is my proposition, Percy: you take blood from me, you give me the information I ask for. In exchange, I will let you and this pretty little thing live."
He brought his other hand into Graves's view. His fingers were slicked red. The smell overwhelmed everything else. Graves couldn't tear his gaze away from the contrast of Grindelwald's white skin and the crimson of the blood. Peter Galen's blood. Oh gods. He tried to pull away, but Grindelwald's grip was implacable.
Grindelwald's smile just grew wider. "Oh, Percy, don't struggle. It will only make things worse." He smeared the blood (Peter's blood, it was Peter's blood) over the wrist that was so very, very close to Graves's mouth. "Here, wouldn't it be easier to just have a taste?"
"Sir," Peter muttered, voice distant and garbled. But it was enough to make Graves recall that the heat at his knee was Peter's, that the thready pulse, the flicker of a spark belonged to his most junior auror. Graves bared his teeth in a snarl.
"I won't," he spat, wrenching his jaw out of Grindelwald's grip.
He locked eyes with Peter, poor Peter who had asked him out for a drink and was now lying on the floor with his right arm bent at an unnatural angle and a long, red gash running up the side of his face. The cut bled so freely, like most facial wounds do, but he would not.
Grindelwald tutted again. "Such a pity. But you will learn. I'll give you some time to consider my proposition." He snapped his fingers, the ones not coated in blood, and the light snuffed itself. "Oh, and one other thing for you to think on…"
His foot lashed out. Caught Graves in the ribs, right above the one he knew was cracked. The bone snapped. Graves collapsed. Grindelwald's heel hammered down on Graves's already injured knee. The toe of his shoe connected with Graves's jaw.
His vision swam. He could vaguely make out Peter's wide-eyed, terrified face. Then the magical darkness descended again and Grindelwald was gone.