If Theseus has woolomancy and Newt has dangermancy, what kind of obscure, ridiculous magic does Graves have?
(In relation to this post and this one)
Graves? Obscure and ridiculous magic? Nonsense. He wouldn’t. Never.
On the other hand, sometimes in the middle of a particularly pressing duel, he’ll do this little fancy bit of footwork, you know? A bit of a sidestep, a half turn, hip jutting out to the side and weight shifting onto his front foot, and the curse that should have flambéd him just kinda… fizzles out. When it’s his turn to fire the offensive spells, he could fire them the usual way but then again, he could go for a one-and-two lockstep and that extra flare to his wrist, and bam that’s an overpowered stunner right there that no one’s getting up from any time soon.
Not that Graves is doing anything unusual to power it up, of course not. Wand movements are an inherent part of magic. Ask anyone. Dancing? Fuck no, don’t be ridiculous. Graves doesn’t dance. Ever. Haven’t you noticed? He stalks around MACUSA’s annual ball messing with the wards or skulking near the food and if anyone tries to get him to take a turn on the floor he glares them into submission. No dancing.
(One time when he was out celebrating the end of a particularly hard case with his aurors he maybe had a bit too much to drink and maybe forgot the no dancing rule. And, given that we’re talking about maybes, he maybe got up on the table did something completely sinful with his hips that maybe transfigured every liquid in a two mile radius into single malt scotch and given that this included the water mains, the gas in the nomajs’ cars, the various medicines and fluids in the local hospital - yeah. That, uh, that wasn’t Graves’ finest moment.)
But if you’ve ever wandered by the Graves property in the evening, ever peered in through the lead-paned windows to the crackle of firelight inside, you might see Graves leading his mother through a lively foxtrot while his father stamps the time. The tiny space between the sofas and the coffee tables is taken up by a grand hall, white marble pillars, vaulted ceilings painted with triumphant angels and magic-wielding saints; Graves’ tartan pyjamas fade into an old fashioned suit and when he spins his mother her jewel-studded silk skirts flare around her feet. The fire is replaced by wide open doors, a balcony, the golden light of an Italian evening; his father’s stomping forms parts of the orchestra his mother remembers from her childhood. The notes hang in the air for long moments after the dance ends and the grandeur fades back into their cramped sitting room.
And if you’ve ever seen Graves while his aurors are in the hospital, you’ll know that he can’t keep still. He fidgets, foot tapping, fingers twitching; leave him alone for a minute and he’s likely to pace, rhythmically, with sharp turns and heels ringing against the floor. Tina swears he once moonwalked a circle around her to stop her bleeding out in the field but, as Graves pointed out, she’d lost a lot of blood and was probably hallucinating. She hadn’t lost a lot of blood when she caught him checking the perimeter of their temporary camp and sneaking in a touch of Irish line dancing to strengthen the wards. Graves freezes for a moment when he notices her watching and then continues in perfectly normal strides as though he’d never been doing anything else, and Tina rolls his eyes and lets him keep his secrets.