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He’s running out of time. It’s been three days and there’s the equivalent of an hourglass continually behind Newt’s eyelids. Three days since they found the room that ought to have contained the real Director Graves, since five aurors had been all but shredded by something…other.
With all that has happened, MACUSA isn’t feeling much like quibbling over ethics. They want whatever had once been Graves - monster, monster, they all said - eliminated. No chances. No more risk. And it wouldn’t be long until they closed in - a crowded city was no place for a desperate creature to hide for long; bloodlust like that wouldn’t be so easily contained.
So Newt pushes on, keeping to the shadows of derelict buildings, breath calm and measured and hopefully utterly silent. He had tracked some signs of unusual behaviour - no bodies, not yet; that last meal ought to have sustained Graves until now - disturbances among the city’s usual animal inhabitants, signs of fleeing and odd magical residue combined with some random thefts (clothing, newspapers, scraps). If he was right, if he was in time, whatever Graves was now was somewhere nearby, and there was still something human there.
As it turns out, he isn’t silent enough.
He hears footsteps, the growling breath first. When he turns the shape moves from the shadow of the alley into a patch of yellow lamplight. The eyes are pools of black pierced with gold, and decidedly not human. A predator’s stance. He’s barefoot. Filthy, ragged pants and an ugly brown coat that hangs too loosely on a frame that appears starved. Starved, but no less strong. Yet no beard, no hair growth. Interesting. The creature takes a step forward, unblinking, a snarl showing elongated teeth. Newt freezes carefully, knees bent and eyes focused, softening his stance and heartbeat. The body in front of him is caked in dried blood as much as dirt, but a fresh rivulet runs from the open mouth to drop onto the shadowed ground. It’s followed by another, but not blood. There is a trail of wetness running down one cheek, only noticeable in the light. Tears.
“Hello,” he keeps his voice soft.
He receives a snarl in response, but the creature comes no further, makes no real move to attack, though he could in a moment.
“Mr Graves-” Anger. “Percival,” he tries. A blink. Better.
“I’m here to help you, Percival.” There’s something like disbelief on the face in front of him, but Newt’s still alive, and he’s not giving up. Not this time.
“I can take you somewhere safe, somewhere no one will get hurt.”
There is a rumbling sound. It reminds him of the nundu.
“And if I want them to hurt?” The voice is deep and soft, croaking from lack of use. Human, but not entirely. That’s it.
“I don’t think you really mean that Percival, though it would be understandable.”
In a second he finds himself backed up against the alley wall, hot breath on his face and a clawed hand at his throat. He’s still not dead.
He goes limp, breathes. Eyes like magic, like night, stare back at him, and he holds the man’s gaze.
Graves - Percival - releases him.
“Understandable, he says.”
“I’m Newt, Newt Scamander. I’d like to help you Percival.”
“You can’t.” The dark form steps back, moves to make off once more into the shadows.
“Forgive me, but actually, I really do think I can.” He taps his trusty case, raises his voice just enough to make the man pause. Glance back.
Curiosity. Got you.
Newt smiles.
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