Newt Scamander might not know a lot about a lot of things, but he knows damn well how to spot someone disguising their wings and Percival Graves is disguising his wings.
They’re black, the wings in question, tucked neatly in against his spine. Too neatly. And too black, actually; very few black feathers are so completely, flatly black - even Tina’s dark grey wings show their blue tint in the sunlight. But Percival Graves’ wings are black. Distractingly so; they don’t look quite right, don’t reflect properly under the harshly artificial light in the interrogation room. When Graves leans forwards to press his questions, his wings lean with him at the same precise angle, held in exactly the same neatly tucked position against his spine.
Newt’s own wings shuffle and fluff behind him, the mottled brown-white feathers ruffling up as he frowns in concentration. He’s not known for keeping them still, and he knows a lot of people move their wings a lot less than he does - but even so, surely the rigid control Graves is exerting over his own would be uncomfortable? Everyone’s wings move. At least a bit. The way Graves holds his, it reminds Newt of some of the soldiers back in the war, the careful, painful way they kept them stiff and unmoving when their wings were injured.
He doesn’t think Graves’ wings are injured. He also, when Graves gets frustrated with his distracted answers and leans further forward into the light, doesn’t think the way the shadows fall on his feathers is natural.
But clearly, clearly, Newt doesn’t think at all when he raises a finger in triumph at solving the puzzle. “Ah,” he says, interrupting Graves’ latest threat. “You’ve not used enough layers. It’s why your scattering’s off.”
Silence. Even Tina’s anxious fidgeting behind him cuts off.
“I beg your pardon?” Graves rumbles, something in his tone that wasn’t there before. His wings though, they don’t move, and Newt showcases yet more of his lacking self preservation by pointing at them.
“There, see,” he says. “Your illusion’s too flat, it’s stopping you from moving them. They’re dark enough that you can get away without proper shading when you hold them still, but if you moved them it’d be obvious that they aren’t real. You need more layers for the light to reflect otherwise it won’t look right.”
Graves leans back, eyebrow raised. “Clever,” he says, half to himself. “And what does a… magizoologist know about illusions?” He pronounces magizoologist carefully, delicately. It means something, the way he says it, but Newt’s always been better at reading wings than people. Tina is frighteningly still behind him, and if Graves’ gaze were any less intent Newt would turn around to check on her.
He has the sudden feeling that he’s made a mistake.
“Only some,” he says around a suddenly dry mouth. “I, uh, I use them sometimes. For my creatures. Their habitats, the environments - um.” He shrugs. His feathers are floofed up in the beginnings of alarm. He wishes for a moment that he had an illusion running on them; Graves doesn’t seem the sort of man he wants to show weakness in front of. “I don’t know much,” he finishes.
“Enough to call a lie when you see it,” Graves says, eyes falling to half lidded. There’s something almost smug in the curve of his mouth, like one of the dragons closing in on an unsuspecting prey.
Newt is suspecting. He can’t say for certain that he isn’t prey but he’s very, very suspecting. He wants, desperately, to look behind him and check on Tina because she’s been too quiet now for too long, but he can’t look away.
“I wonder,” Graves purrs. “Tell me, Newt, what other lies can you see through?”
The feeling of magic in the air is getting thicker. It presses down on Newt, trying to force his wings back in submission, and it’s only years of practice being stubborn that keep him in place.
“I don’t know what you’re asking,” he says as carefully as he can. If anything, his defiance makes the magic coil tighter around him. Horrifyingly, it seems pleased.
“No?” Graves asks. The illusion on his back flickers; for a second, his wings are huge, arched over his head and casting Newt into shadow. “How about the lie that certain magical creatures are a danger to society and must be exterminated? You’ve been quite vocal about that one in the past.” The wings flicker again; they aren’t black. Newt can’t tell what colour they are, but they aren’t black, and they aren’t neatly held against his spine. “Or the lie that muggles take priority in territory disputes? That magical society has to draw further and further back to make space for their greed - how many magical species are at risk now because of that?”
Gold, Newt thinks. Jagged, gold feathers, bleached almost white under the interrogation room lights.
Tina, he also thinks, where the fuck is Tina.
“Or the lie,” Graves says, except it isn’t Graves, there’s only one person with wings like that and it isn’t Percival Graves, “that it’s a wizard’s responsibility to hide, to sit back and do nothing when so much of the magical world depends on us, all because we’re too afraid of being seen.”
Grindelwald’s magic is heavy against his skin, holding him in place and sliding over his neck, gentle and languid and coaxing and dangerous. His pulse thunders against it. He’s pretty sure that he and Grindelwald are the only ones left in the room, and Grindelwald’s wings are curled so far towards him that Newt is almost completely encircled by the reaching feathers. His own wings, tucked in close and bristling in fear, feel small in comparison.
“You’ve such a collection in that case of yours,” Grindelwald says, two-toned stare hot and almost possessive as it flicks over Newt. “And you’re so good at seeing through society’s lies. I hardly think you’re the sort of man to sit back and do nothing, are you?”
Newt shivers. The magic around his throat doesn’t tighten, but would it, what would it do if he said no. Yes. No? Which one means - there are too many double negatives, Newt’s not sure what the right answer is, and Grindelwald’s wings and magic are too close for him to risk giving the wrong one.
“I…” He licks his lips, but that doesn’t help the way his voice stutters. Grindelwald leans forward on his elbows, indulgent, patient. His left wing trails up to Newt’s shoulder, the feathers brushing against his chin. Newt’s creatures are relying on him and if he dies here, if Grindelwald twists his magic and Newt chokes on it, then they’re as good as lost - MACUSA won’t hesitate to destroy them.
“Hm?” Grindelwald prompts.
Newt’s creatures need him. The only answer is the one that saves them.
He tilts his head back and lets his wings fall open in submission, and Grindelwald laughs.
“Such a clever little thing,” the Dark Lord calls him, and Newt closes his eyes and hopes he made the right choice.
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