#percival graves x nb reader

[defectivevillain]

darling i do

pairing: Percival Graves/Reader

The reader experiences gender dysphoria and is implied to be transmasculine/nonbinary/gnc. no pronouns are used and race is ambiguous.

summary: You’re having a bad day, but you don’t want to burden Percival with the details. Unfortunately for you, he is rather perceptive.

word count: 1.4k | ao3 version

This is extremely self indulgent, but I hope my fellow transmasc/nb/gnc folks find solace in this piece. :)

also i'm using this gif again and no one can stop me.

warnings: gender dysphoria

You hear the exact moment Percival gets home—not because he’s loud, but because you’re sitting in the living room waiting for him. You greet him with a soft smile, pretending the gesture doesn’t take an unreasonable amount of effort. “Hi, Percival,” you remark. 

“Hello,” he remarks, the tension seeping from his shoulders as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. Percival takes his bag off and hangs it on the hook near the entrance, before doing the same with his coat. “How was your day?” He asks.

“Alright,” you remark, pushing past all the self-deprecating thoughts running through your mind. You don’t want to burden Percival with the details. “How about you?”

“It was good,” Percival replies, bending down to remove his shoes. “The department’s starting to get pretty busy—sorry I’ve been home late these past few days.” His lips are pressed in a thin line and there’s an apologetic look on his face. 

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” you’re quick to reassure him. Percival is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, after all. His work is important. “And don’t forget—we have leftovers from takeout the other night.”

“Oh, right,” he nods, taking a few steps forward. “Thank you.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead before walking to the fridge. You watch him for a moment, before settling back on the couch. The television is on, but you find it hard to focus. A maelstrom of apprehension, dejection, and dysphoria is swirling around you. 

You don’t want to acknowledge your feelings. Unfortunately for you, Percival is rather perceptive. He’s an Auror, after all. Not to mention, the man has high emotional intelligence. You’re not sure why you even bother trying to hide from him in the first place. 

For an immeasurable amount of time, you let the light from the television wash over you. At some point, you hear Percival get up from the table and wash his dishes. Before you can attempt to slip away, he’s standing before you. “Something wrong, love?” Percival asks, moving to sit next to you on the couch. His attentive gaze nearly makes you crumble right then and there. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“It’s nothing,” you murmur, looking down at your clasped hands. You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your thoughts hidden. Somehow, your feelings must show on your face regardless, because Percival frowns. 

The man places a hand on yours, prompting you to look over at him. “If it’s making you feel like this…” he breaks off, concern written all over his face, “It has to be something.” You still can’t find the words. Your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth; you can’t even begin to describe the confusing torrent of emotions rushing through you right now. 

Percival is stubborn, though. “What is it?” He implores. 

You inhale slowly, feeling as if a giant spotlight is searing through your skin. Sentiments of inadequacy and wrongness refuse to leave, clinging to your skin uncomfortably. You don’t feel right today. “I don’t like my hair,” you eventually answer. Indeed, you’d spent the better part of the walk home from work looking at the people passing you, wondering why you couldn’t look like them. 

“Why?” Percival asks. He doesn’t look disbelieving or skeptical—he simply wants to understand. 

“I don’t know,” you choke out. In reality, you do know. You love your hair, you really do, but for the past few days, you’ve been perceived as the opposite gender more times than you can count. While you’ve already taken steps to socially transition, it doesn’t feel like enough. Your hair seems like the easiest thing to change, and your dysphoria has narrowed in on it as the source of the problem. If your hair were shorter, you’d look better. If your hair were shorter, you wouldn’t be mistaken as someone you’re not. 

“You sure?” Percival continues. His hand remains on yours, providing a reassuring pressure. His gaze hasn’t wavered since he first sat down next to you. The recognition makes your eyes begin to burn. You stare at him, before silently leaning forward and embracing him. Percival is quick to reciprocate, tugging you closer until your head is nearly buried in his shoulder. 

“I’m not sure,” you whisper against his shoulder. It comes out muffled, but Percival seems to understand regardless (as he always does).

“What can I do to help?” He questions. That is just one of the many reasons why you love Percival. Rather than scrutinizing your feelings or trying too hard to understand your experiences, he focuses on assisting you above all. He doesn’t treat you like a puzzle that needs to be solved, doesn’t make you feel irrational or unreasonable for having bad days. 

“My hair,” you choke out. “Can you help me cut it?” 

Percival blinks. “Of course,” he responds without hesitation. He places a hand on your shoulder briefly. “Let’s move to the bathroom.” Percival says, eyes flitting to the door down the hall. You get up from your seat and walk over there, knowing he’ll follow you. 

Moments later, you find yourself sitting on the nearby chair with Percival standing over you. His gaze wanders your face before settling on your hair. “What length are you thinking?” He asks. You’re briefly overwhelmed by appreciation, at the way he immediately moved to help you in whatever way he knew how. You forget that he’s waiting for an answer until he repeats himself.

“Short,” you say, avoiding his eyes. 

“Very helpful,” Percival smiles mirthfully. You huff past the tightness in your chest. “How short?” 

“I don’t know,” you respond helplessly. “Just… really short. Almost a buzzcut.” 

The air is quiet for a few seconds. “Are you sure?” Percival asks. You know he’s not questioning your decision; rather, he’s clarifying that you want him to be the one to do it. 

“Yeah,” you say, your throat feeling tight. There’s no one I trust more than you, you think. 

“Alright,” he says. “Ready?” Percival stills and holds his wand up towards you. You nod silently and he takes a deep breath. “Crinus Muto.” You close your eyes and ignore the strange chilling sensation that runs up your spine, knowing it to be a mere side effect of the spell. It should only take a few seconds, but you keep your eyes closed for a few moments after. For some reason, you’re scared to look. Fear strikes through you as you imagine how horrible you could look. What if you don’t have the right face shape? What if this haircut just makes everything worse? What if-?

“You can look now,” Percival says gently. 

You stand up and slowly open your eyes. For a moment, the light assaults your eyes and you’re squinting. Your vision clears soon enough, leaving you to take in your new haircut. “I-” You break off, feeling your lips pulling at the edges as you stare at yourself in the mirror, “I love it.” You’re smiling now. You bring a hand up to your hair and continue looking in the mirror. Your reflection looks… like you. You look more comfortable, more confident. You can’t hide the grin on your face. For a minute or two, you simply stare at your reflection in awe. As you’re looking in the mirror, you accidentally make eye contact with Percival, who is looking at you with an unreadable expression.  “What?” You ask self consciously. 

He blinks for a moment, as if waking from a trance. A smile grows on his face. “You look wonderful,” Percival admits, reaching out to run a thumb along your temple and across your new short hair. You don’t say anything, but your skepticism must show on your face, because Percival is quick to continue. 

“I’m serious,” he maintains. Percival brings his hands to your face again, turning your head to the side to get a better look at your new haircut. He brings you back with a delicate hand on your jaw and you feel flames race across your skin as you see the expression on his face. Percival looks absolutely lovestruck. Smitten. Surely that isn’t for you—surely that look isn’t because of you. “You look… incredibly handsome.” He confesses. At first, you suspect that he just said that to make you feel better. But the way he’s looking at you—the way he’s holding you—convinces you that the compliment is entirely genuine. 

“...Thanks,” you remark hesitantly. And you’re sure Percival knows that you’re thanking him for more than just the haircut. You’re thanking him for understanding you, in a way few others have even bothered to. You’re thanking him for his endless compassion, his determination, and his unwavering faith in you. 

Percival smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Any time, love.” He promises. You take comfort in the unshakeable knowledge that he truly means it.

Me: *includes pet names a total of two times in this story* Also me: this feels like too much.

grAHHHHHHHH where is Percival Graves. I need him like SpongeBob needs water.

anyway, thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian

[defectivevillain]

watching you (watching me)

pairing: Percival Graves/Reader

the reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: Just as you begin to think you’re getting to know Percival, he starts acting strange. When you come across him in the hall, he doesn’t return your small smiles; when he meets with Seraphina, he walks right by you as if you aren’t even there. You don’t want to read into those minute gestures too much, so, at first, you don’t. But the fact that he pivoted from purposefully stopping by your desk to inquire about your day…to walking past you without so much as a lingering gaze… is concerning. Plus, his rumored treatment of his employees seems uncharacteristic. While you've never worked under Director Graves, you’ve heard from several different people in multiple departments that he’s a great person to work for. So why is he so different all of a sudden? What changed?

word count: 4.5k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence, abduction, unconsciousness, hospitals, implied malnourishment & injury

Sometimes, you think you can never truly leave your life as an Auror behind. 

When you graduate from Ilvermorny, you eagerly join the Auror training program—and pass years later with flying colors. You soon find yourself regularly participating in missions and tracking down Dark wizards. The job is incredibly fulfilling, but it’s also extremely exhausting. Your work follows you into your personal life, to the point that perpetrators invade your dreams and you can’t ever relax. You manage to push through for a while, but eventually, you find yourself experiencing too much burnout to enjoy the job anymore.

Then you’re approached by Seraphina Picquery with a one-of-a-kind proposition. The Chief of Staff position recently became available after the previous employee retired, and Picquery—Seraphina, she tells you to call her—is looking for a replacement. It’s a rather high-up position—an administrative aid to the President of the entire organization. The salary is nearly double what you’re making as an Auror and you’d still be handling important work. In fact, you might even be awarded more responsibility in that role than your position as an Auror. It doesn’t take you long to get back to her with a confirmation that you’ll accept the position; within a few weeks, you have a desk right outside Seraphina’s office. 

Through your new position, you gain exposure to much more of the organization—as you’re communicating with nearly every executive-level employee. You meet Emily Limus, the Federal Identity Commissioner; Malcolm Carneirus, Captain of the Aurors; and even Bernadette Williams, the executioner. (She’s a kind woman, but you sincerely hope you don’t have a reason to see her again.) You don’t exactly meet Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security. Rather, you sort of… crash into him.

You’re in a bit of a rush, power-walking down the hall, when you turn the corner and collide with someone. The stack of papers in your hands goes flying and you wince. “Sorry, sorry-” You quickly say, looking at the person you just bumped into. It’s none other than Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security. You’ve seen and heard plenty about him, but you’ve never actually met him before. He’s somehow even more handsome in person, with inky black hair styled back to reveal tinges of silver hair on the sides of his face. He has deep brown eyes and looks rather intimidating, what with the formal attire he’s wearing. 

“It’s alright,” the man responds with an understanding smile. “You must be the new Chief of Staff.” He introduces himself and extends a hand. You think the thought is rather nice. He could’ve easily just assumed that you’d heard of him, but he instead went through the effort of introducing himself to you in a friendly and personable manner. You immediately decide you like him. 

You introduce yourself in return, before shaking his extended hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Director Graves responds. “Can I help you with those?” He motions to the floor, where your paperwork rests in a disorganized pile. You grimace down at it, dreading the thought of organizing it all over again. 

“Ah, that’d be great, thanks,” you then say, crouching down to pick up the scattered papers. He crouches down too and collects a few papers, placing them in a neat pile and handing it to you. You thank him and get to your feet once all your papers are in order. 

For an awkward moment, you’re lingering silently in front of him. He doesn’t immediately dismiss you or move to depart. Rather, the man regards you with another look. “Seraphina isn’t running you too ragged, is she?” Director Graves asks. 

“No, no,” you’re quick to say. “She doesn’t know I’m doing this, actually.” You motion down to the papers and grimace, hoping the man can keep a secret. 

“My lips are sealed,” Director Graves says with a small smile. You feel a smile rising on your own lips at the sight. 

There’s that awkward silence again; this time, it doesn’t seem like the man is going to break through it. You take a deep breath and try to manifest some composure. “It was nice to meet you, sir,” You say. 

His brow furrows. “Please, call me Percival,” Director Graves responds. 

You blink for a moment, surprised at the invitation. “Okay,” you agree. “It was nice to meet you, Percival. Sorry, I have to get going…” You glance down the hallway behind him, praying Seraphina hasn’t gone into her meeting just yet. 

“No worries,” Percival responds easily. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.” The two of you part ways and you find yourself smiling as you pace down the hall, a new spring in your step. 

Indeed, you do begin to see Percival Graves rather frequently. You sit in on the meetings amongst the higher-level officials in the organization and he always has something to say about recent Dark wizard captures or other concerns. He’s pretty nice to you, too—always going out of his way to greet you when you enter the room. You feel like most of the other directors are keen to dismiss you, but Percival doesn’t. You hate to admit it, but he makes those stuffy weekly meetings infinitely more bearable. 

Percival also greets you whenever he walks past your desk to enter Seraphina’s office. His short greetings may seem virtually insignificant, but they go a long way to making you feel more welcome in the workplace. You tell him as much one time, and have the honor of watching his cheeks flush ever so slightly pink. After that conversation, he starts stopping at your desk and asking you about your weekend, your work day, and anything else going on. It’s safe to say that Percival quickly becomes your favorite person to work with—other than your boss, of course. 

But just as you begin to think you’re getting to know Percival, he starts acting strange. When you come across him in the hall, he doesn’t return your small smiles; when he meets with Seraphina, he walks right by you as if you aren’t even there. You don’t want to read into those minute gestures too much, so, at first, you don’t. You write these occurrences off as flukes and continue as normal. 

The meetings amongst the executives are tenser than usual, though. Percival seems to be dominating the conversation, purposefully steering it in the directions he chooses. He possesses a self-importance that you didn’t seem to notice before. You have to wonder if you were wrong about him. In the past few weeks, he’s been acting entirely differently than when you first met him. If he’s showing his true colors, then… you’re not very happy about it.

It seems you aren’t the only one to notice his weird behavior, however. Seraphina repeatedly remarks that he seems a bit off, and she soon abandons their weekly meeting schedule in exchange for biweekly meetings. You also hear from the Aurors that the man is exhibiting a rather bad temper. He’s been lashing out at recruits for easy mistakes and working the senior Aurors to the bone. 

You soon find yourself growing wary. These changes in behavior are complete switches from what he exhibited previously. And the fact that he pivoted from purposefully stopping by your desk to inquire about your day…to walking past you without so much as a lingering gaze… is concerning. Plus, his rumored treatment of his employees seems uncharacteristic. While you never worked under Director Graves, you’ve heard from several different people in multiple departments that he’s a great person to work for. So why is he so different all of a sudden? What changed? 

You attempt to have another conversation with him in the coming days, only for him to brush off your questions and effectively dismiss you. You’re left wondering if you’re even speaking with the same person: if the Percival Graves from before was conjured by your imagination. The man you’ve interacted with recently is just far too different from the man you crashed into in the hallway all that time ago. 

A dark thought crosses your mind as you’re contemplating Percival’s strange behavior. What if… he is a different person? What if this Percival Graves, the one who mistreats his employees and seems completely uncaring of the feelings of those around him, is a different man? You immediately huff a laugh under your breath for even considering such a crazy idea. There has to be a rational explanation for his behavior. Maybe he’s going through something right now—a death in the family or a bad breakup. You dismiss your doppelgänger idea as nothing more than a desperate theory.

But that same desperate theory keeps you up later that night, tossing and turning restlessly. It’s a foolish thought, a crackpot theory. Who would possibly have the power, skill, and evasive ability to disguise themself as the Director of Magical Security? How would that even be possible? They would not only have to be capable enough to at least get by in Percival’s position, but they’d also have to overpower him somehow. Percival is the Head of the Aurors—he’s an extremely talented duelist and quick on his feet. No doubt there are only a select handful of people who would even be able to stay alive in a duel with him, let alone triumph and render him incapacitated. Who would even want to do something like that? What purpose would it serve? 

Well, if a person wanted to invade the Magical Congress and gain access to highly privileged information, you suppose that would be a clear-cut path to getting it. Percival is one of the highest-ranking officials at MACUSA, other than Seraphina herself. 

But you find yourself struggling with the practicality of such an act. Again, only an incredibly powerful wizard would be able to pull something like that off—someone like Albus Dumbledore or Gellert Grindelwald. Obviously, Dumbledore wouldn’t have any reason to do something like that. But Grindelwald, on the other hand… The Dark wizard’s whereabouts have been unknown for a while now, and everyone knows that he’s gathering strength and support. You suppose one of his more loyal followers would embark on such a mission for his benefit. 

After spending an hour thinking through the idea, you realize you can’t shake it off—and promise yourself to consider it more in the morning. 

In the morning, you do far more than merely consider the possibility of someone else being disguised as Percival Graves. Instead, you find yourself hatching a plan. You think that, if you can lure Percival into a conversation, you’ll be able to ask him questions that only he would know the answers to. From there, you can determine if he’s real or a disguise maintained by someone else. 

It sounds ridiculous and utterly inane. But what’s the worst that can happen? At worst, you’d just look foolish in front of the real Percival. That’s something you can deal with. You also get the sense that this disguise theory will weigh heavily on your mind until you try to establish or refute its validity. 

Fortunately, you get the chance to enact your plan later that same day. When Percival walks into your office a few minutes early, you manage to rope him into a conversation. He is very clearly fed up with you, despite the fact that you haven’t been talking for more than a few seconds. That’s your first clue. You also think that you see his eyes glimmer blue for a fraction of a second. His attire is the same as always, but his posture is different—perfectly straight and poised with an air of pretentiousness. 

You can’t keep yourself in suspense any longer. “How did we first meet?” You finally manage to ask. It doesn’t take you very long to recall how you first met—you crashed into Percival as you were walking down the hall; he helped you pick up the papers dropped and you eventually parted ways. If he says something along those lines, then you’ll know it’s him. If not… 

“We met here, of course,” the man responds. There’s hardly any emotion on his face. It feels like you’re looking into a void. Your heart begins to roar in your ears as you realize that he just tried to avoid the question. 

“I said how, not where,” you realize aloud, your suspicions confirmed. You point your wand at him. “ Revelio. ” You watch in mute horror as Percival’s face melts into an entirely different one. His right eye glows and morphs into a grey-blue color; his hair grows into a spiky white style. Gellert Grindelwald tilts his head and stares at you curiously. 

“Clever.” He remarks. Your heart races in your chest and you quickly remember Grindelwald’s reputation: his dueling prowess, his extremely strong grasp of nearly all branches of magic, his incredibly quick reflexes. He allowed you to cast that spell just now, but it’s clear he won’t allow any further opposition—judging from the malicious gleam in his eyes. 

Grindelwald’s gaze is piercing, sending shivers down your spine and goosebumps across your forearms. “But not clever enough.” He says, clicking his tongue and disarming you with a nonverbal spell. In the blink of an eye, his wand is pointed at your chest. “Avada-” 

The door bursts open and a veritable mass of Aurors infiltrates the space, surrounding Grindelwald. Seraphina walks in after them, a furious expression on her face that she quickly smooths into indifference. Suddenly, Grindelwald is immersed in battle. To your discomfort and fear, he seems to be overpowering the Aurors—despite the odds being nearly twenty to one. For a few awful moments, you’re entranced by his elegant movements. Then you remember everything he’s done and snap out of it, casting a Stunning spell on him. Somehow, by some trace of dumb luck, your spell ends up being the one to send him crumpling to the ground. Seraphina immediately places Admonitors on his wrists, before ordering the Aurors to take him away. You and your boss are left standing in Percival’s office in disbelief. 

“That was… anticlimactic,” you choke out.

Seraphina nods in agreement. You raise an eyebrow at her, silently asking her how she knew that Percival wasn’t himself. “Director Graves has never been late to a meeting, in the several years I’ve worked with him,” she explains. Seraphina then regards you for a long moment. “Nice work.”

“Thanks,” you respond blankly, still reeling from what just happened. Admittedly, you wanted to tell Seraphina about your plan, but Grindelwald would���ve been suspicious if Seraphina joined you for the conversation. You knew he would underestimate you—seeing you as a mere office assistant—and you decided to take advantage. You take a deep breath and try to refocus—you have more important things to be concerned with at the present moment. “Where do you think Director Graves is?” You ask. 

“I’m not sure,” Seraphina frowns. “We’ll get someone from Major Investigation to look around in here.”

You look around, an ugly feeling growing in your chest. You have the weirdest conviction that Percival is nearby, and you can’t explain why. “Actually… We may not have to.” You murmur in response to Seraphina’s remark. She looks at you questioningly, but you don’t think you can explain your reasoning. You instead study the room around you once more, eyes gliding across a lacquered armoire and past his desk. 

Wait. A lacquered armoire? You take a slow breath and step over to the misplaced piece of furniture. The more you look at it, the more you realize that it sticks out like a sore thumb in comparison with the rest of Percival’s unassuming office. You take a deep breath and tug at the handles, unsurprised to find that it’s locked. You cast Alohomora and try unlocking it again. It doesn’t work. You try once more, willing the cabinet to open. To your surprise, your effort works and the doors fall open with an exaggerated bang.

Seraphina gasps. You’re not as shocked as you should be—there’s something horribly ironic about Grindelwald concealing the real Percival Graves in his office, only a short distance from his disguised form. You stare at the magically expanded space, your stomach turning uneasily as you see Percival Graves stuffed into it—leaning against one of the interior walls with a dazed expression. His wrists and ankles are bound together and there’s a gag in his mouth. You quickly bend down and free him.

“Percival,” you say, pulling him out of the armoire and to his feet. You state your name and remind him of your position, because he looks incredibly disoriented. The longer you look at him, the more worried you get. His hair is unkempt and messy; his eyes are bloodshot and bracketed with dark circles underneath. Percival looks gaunt—his skin stretched tight across his bones.  For a moment, you think he doesn’t recognize you—then, suddenly, he lurches forward and wraps his arms around you. You instinctually stiffen in surprise, before hesitantly returning his embrace. 

Seraphina sends a Patronus to the Healers, detailing where you are and requesting medical help. Within moments, a few Healers are running into the room. You try to break away from Percival, self-conscious that there are people watching, but he doesn’t seem to want to let you go. Eventually, the Healers manage to pull him off of you. They’re asking him questions, but his eyes look glazed over. Within moments, he’s slumping into their arms as he falls unconscious. You watch worriedly as the Healers exit the room. Seraphina takes one look at you and promptly tells you to follow after them. You try to protest, but you don’t get very far before she’s gently pushing you out of the room with the promise that the investigative team will wrap up any loose ends in the office. 

You manage to catch up to the Healers, who are now levitating Percival’s unconscious form as they rush to the Healing ward. When you arrive, Percival is whisked away into a room—and you’re left to haunt the waiting room. 

You’re not sure how much time you spend staring off into space on an uncomfortable sofa before there’s someone standing in front of you, proclaiming that you can visit Percival. As you follow after them, the Healer reassures you that he will make a full recovery—stating that they have him on all the necessary nutrient supplements that will help him regain his strength. 

“He isn’t awake just yet,” the Healer explains as they open the door to his room, revealing Percival reclined in a hospital bed. He looks uncharacteristically vulnerable now—his eyes closed as he evidently rests. There are bandages along his arms and wrists. You frown and take a seat in the chair situated in the corner of the room. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on him.” They promise. You thank the Healer and they leave with a sympathetic nod. 

In the wake of everything that just happened, you’re exhausted. You wouldn’t be surprised if your encounter with Grindelwald drained some of your magic temporarily. The stress of the entire affair coupled with your poor sleep last night makes your eyelids sting and burn with fatigue. You desperately try to keep awake but, at some point, you’re dozing off in the chair at Percival’s bedside. 

When there’s a gentle tap on your shoulder, you ignore it. But just as you’re about to drift off into sleep again, there’s another tap—slightly more insistent than the first time. You blearily open your eyes, your blurry vision slowly clearing to reveal Percival staring down at you. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he grimaces apologetically. You stare at him for a moment, still processing. Then you remember everything that just happened: Grindelwald disguising himself as Percival; Seraphina and you finding Percival bound and gagged in his office; Percival falling unconscious; you choosing to wait in his room for him to wake up. Now he’s awake—and he’s out of bed. 

“You shouldn’t be up-!” You quickly say, forcefully guiding him to return to his bed. He grasps your forearms as you lower him back onto the bed; the movement sends a shiver down your spine. Even once he is situated, he doesn’t seem keen to let you go—as his grasp momentarily tightens and he looks at you imploringly. 

“How’d you know?” Percival asks, his voice raspy from disuse. You don’t need him to elaborate further—you know what he’s referring to. His hands slip from your arms and you contemplate the question. It doesn’t take you long to find an answer. 

“Grindelwald was a convincing actor,” you admit. You stare at the wall behind him. Eye contact feels difficult right now, in the stuffy silence settling in the air of the hospital room. “...But he wasn’t you.” You break off, not trusting yourself to go into the details without slipping up and revealing something untoward. 

“I was worried no one would find me.” Your eyes snap back to Percival; the sincerity written all over his face is heartbreaking. Then a grimace rises on his lips. “I… apologize for the way I acted,” Percival then says. You stare at him in confusion. You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for, and he’s looking at you expectantly. Eventually he sighs. “It was unprofessional of me.”

“What?” You ask. Then it comes back to you: the relief written all over his face, the way he rushed to embrace you without hesitation. “Oh, when I found you? You were in captivity for months, don’t be so hard on yourself. I would’ve done the same thing.”

Percival frowns at that. “If it had been you who Grindelwald took…” He trails off, before vigorously shaking his head. “I don’t even want to think about it.” You remain silent, unsure of what to say or how to say it. Fortunately, Percival is comfortable with keeping the conversation going. “What I mean to say is… thank you—for your determination, and… for seeing what no one else did.”

“There were a few others who were also suspicious,” you inform him, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the idea of taking all of the credit. Sure, you may have been the one to act first—but whispers of Percival’s uncharacteristic behavior had been spreading like wildfire. You’re certain someone would’ve figured it out, if you hadn’t acted. As to whether Percival had that much time left… you’re not sure. And you don’t really want to think about it. 

Somehow, this makes Percival frown again—as if he thinks you’re trying to brush off his gratitude. “Regardless, I appreciate it,” he maintains. “And I admire your courage and bravery. I’m sure it was difficult to stand up to a supervisor.”

“Ordinarily it wouldn’t be,” you admit before you can contemplate the consequences. Percival’s brows climb up his forehead. “I’m comfortable being honest with you.” You clarify, before breaking off so you can’t indict yourself further. You’ve already said far too much. 

“I appreciate that,” Percival responds. He looks a little lighter—the tension seems to have slowly slipped out of his shoulders. “And I echo the sentiment.” He says with a quick nod. There’s an appreciative smile on his face and your heart starts racing. If you don’t leave soon, you may do something you’ll soon regret. 

“I hope you recover quickly, sir,” you remark, taking a step back and turning towards the door. There had been a tense silence stretching across the space, indicating that the conversation was over, so you have no qualms about departing now. 

“Wait.” Percival says, just before you can leave. You freeze and turn around to face him once more. There’s a torn expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” You ask. 

“This is going to sound pathetic and selfish,” Percival admits, steadily avoiding your gaze. You raise a brow. From what you’ve seen, Percival is the furthest thing from pathetic or selfish. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of me being pathetic,” you deflect, a small smile on your face. Percival shakes his head with what can only be described as fond disagreement. You’re thrown back into the memory of your first meeting, into your hands shaking beneath your stack of papers and your heart thrumming steadily in your chest. 

“...Will you stay here a while longer?” Percival asks, breaking you from your thoughts. 

“Of course, sir,” you respond. The formal address is more for you to maintain your own boundaries and remind yourself that you don’t get to associate with Percival in anything more than a strictly professional sense. But he seems to react negatively to it—as his brows furrow and he studies you for a moment. You take mental note of that reaction and abandon the formality. Percival just went through hell and back—spending months slowly fading away in that armoire in his office, perfectly out of sight but so achingly close to freedom. If there’s anything you can do to make him feel better, you’ll do it. And not only does that include sitting at his bedside a while longer, but, apparently, it also includes negating to call him “sir.” You don’t think those are very tough tasks to undertake. 

You’ll end up accidentally spending the night in his hospital room, and you’ll wake up to another slight tap on your shoulder and a back ache. Percival will be looking down at you again; you’ll admonish him for getting out of bed; he’ll thank you again for keeping him company. Eventually, he’ll practically force you out of the room with a reassurance that he’ll be fine. Normally, you wouldn’t believe him—but the determined expression on his face suggests that he’ll bounce back just fine. 

Indeed, within a few weeks, Percival will be back at work. He’ll continue to stop by your desk and talk to you—to the point where you’ll have to ignore Seraphina’s relentless teasing about it. He’ll maintain that he owes you something—to which you’ll consistently remind him that he would do the same for you. 

And Percival does end up doing the same for you. At some point in the foreseeable future, when you’re injured in an Auror mission, Percival will be the one waiting at your bedside. You’ll jokingly point out how worried he looks and he’ll only frown more, before admitting that those few hours when you were unconscious were nearly unbearable. Percival will admit that his feelings for you “far surpass professionalism.” 

You’ll try to answer with your own confession, but Percival will quickly interject with the promise that you can give him an answer once you’re feeling better. When you finally get the chance to speak to your feelings, you’ll just barely finish speaking before Percival is pulling you into a kiss. His hands will slip down to your hips and you’ll feel sparks running up your skin and a smile rising on your lips.

“How long?” Percival will ask breathlessly when you first break apart. 

“Since you crashed into me,” you’ll admit. 

“Don’t you mean when you crashed into me? ” Percival will emphasize. 

And you’ll roll your eyes and lean closer to kiss him again.

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