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The last thing Harry expects to see when he walks through the doors of the Woolworth Building on a random Wednesday afternoon in June is a veritable stampede of witches and wizards in formal robes racing across the main lobby.
Some of them, he notes, have rather alarming trails of blood leaking from their ears, while others appear as if they’re about to vomit. This, he thinks as he stops cold, watching the chaos with a sinking feeling, is not what he signed up for.
Officially, his reason for visiting MACUSA is rather vague. Kingsley made a statement to the press about international relations, but that’s about where his cooperation ended.
Unofficially, Hagrid got a call from an old pen pal of his, some fellow named Newt, and after hearing him wax on about some “poor beasts” stuck so far away from home, Harry offered to transport (or smuggle, rather) whatever creatures the man has got his hands on this time back across the pond. Why the man can’t do it himself, he didn’t bother asking. While Harry likes to think he’s settled down on the rule breaking front since the end of the war, he can admit to being rather bored lately, and there’s nothing he’s better at than breaking some rules for a friend.
Deciding to ignore the panicking masses for now, he pulls the letter Hagrid gave him from his pocket. According to this letter, Newt and his suitcase are sure to be lurking somewhere in the Auror offices.
With one last look at the witches and wizards who’ve yet to get themselves in any sort of order, Harry sets off for the nearest lift, determined to get this errand done quickly. Maybe, if he’s quick enough, he’ll be in and out before he can get caught up in whatever nonsense has broken out this time.
It’s unlikely, but Ron is very big on positive thinking these days, and it’s started to rub off on him.
(Apparently, Ron is concerned that Harry’s been getting morbid lately. Harry isn’t so sure this is true. It’s far more likely that everyone else has just gotten a bit cheerier in the years since the war.)
Once he’s been directed to the proper floor by an elf who he thinks Hermione would very much like to meet, as he had plenty to tell Harry about the state of House Elf rights in America, he’s dismayed to find that he will not, in fact, be escaping without taking part in today’s shenanigans.
The Auror offices are in disarray.
Papers are strewn everywhere, shuffling about on the floor to avoid being stepped on but otherwise remaining out of order, and as the doors of the lift slide shut behind him, a nervous looking face peers out at him from behind an overturned desk.
In the distance, he can hear a strange slapping sound and the occasional bang of a misfired spell.
“Hello, there,” Harry greets the man. The man doesn’t reply. Now, Harry is used to people being speechless when they meet him, but usually it’s because of his role in the war. This man, he thinks, is nervous for an entirely different reason. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Another bang, this one louder than the others, goes off somewhere to their left, and a cacophony beyond description follows. In the aftermath, the silence feels too loud, and Harry stares blankly ahead, not quite managing to focus. Recovering quickly, he shakes the feeling off. He lifts his wand to cast a silencing ward, and the man on the floor finally stands on shaking legs, one hand pressed to his ear, which appears to be bleeding.
“It won’t work,” the man says just a bit too loud, as if he can’t hear his own voice. “None of the spells we’ve tried have managed to stop them. Even Director Graves couldn’t manage it.”
“…Right.”
He has a terrible feeling that those “poor beasts” Hagrid was telling him about are the cause of all this mess.
“What happened, then?”
“Well, the thing is-"
Before he can finish, another man storms into the room, looking exceptionally cross. This man, Harry knows. After all, anyone even remotely involved in law enforcement this side of the twentieth century has heard the story of Percival Graves.
“Jones,” Graves says, authority draped about him like a well-worn cloak, “Lacey wants your assistance clearing the temps from the building. Apparently, none of them have bothered to learn the procedure for emergency evacuations.”
“Yes, sir,” the nervous looking man, Jones, apparently, replies. With one last look Harry’s way, he hurries through the door Graves just came through, skirting around the man as if afraid to touch him.
That done, Graves turns his stern frown on Harry.
“And you, what do you think you’re doing here?” He doesn’t give Harry a chance to answer, which is just as well, really. It’s probably not a good idea to tell the head of MACUSA's Department of Magical Law Enforcement that he’s here to smuggle some magical creatures out of the country. “All visitors have been ordered to leave the building.”
He isn’t entirely sure if there’s anything he can say to explain without incriminating himself, but he’s certainly going to try.
“Well, actually-”
He’s interrupted by a strange squawking sound, and Graves’ dark gaze shifts from Harry’s face to the doorway behind him, his wand arm tensing. Harry looks to the ceiling and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he turns on his heel to finally get an eye on whatever’s got everyone so rattled.
It’s…
“A duck?”
Honestly. He’s feeling a little let down, here. After all the fuss these things have caused, he was hoping to see something a little bit more impressive.
“I assure you, Mr. Potter,” the man at his back says. He feels it when Graves steps closer, the weight of his magic pressing against his skin and making him shiver, though he hopes the other man doesn’t notice. “That creature is more than what it seems.”
“What’s it called?” Harry asks, keeping his eyes on the creature as it waddles forward, though it doesn’t seem to pay them any mind.
“I wish I could tell you. Unfortunately, our resident expert is out of reach at the moment.”
Graves is almost near enough to touch, now, and he scolds himself for the thrill he feels at the rasp of the man’s voice. After all, now really isn’t the time.
“I assume it’s capable of some sound based magic,” Harry says, recalling the vomiting and bleeding ears from the lobby as he focuses on the task at hand. “What have you tried to combat it so far?”
Although he’s not really here in any official capacity, he’s spent enough of these past few years working with Hagrid to resettle the many magical creatures disrupted by the war that he feels he has a duty to at least try to help. He’s certainly no expert, but Hagrid’s never had any complaints, and even Kingsley has caught on. Over the past year or so, Harry has become the first choice for any teams being sent out on cases dealing with magical creatures, whether they're dark or not.
“They’re almost entirely resistant to magic,” Graves says gruffly. “Just as non-magical ducks are waterproof, we believe these creatures secrete some sort of magic-resistant substance that coats their feathers.”
Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they?
“Why are these things never easy?” Harry asks absently.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Graves grin. Trick of the light, he tells himself as he fights a grin of his own. After all, according to the stories his unfortunate colleagues who've had to work with the man in the past have shared, Director Graves is as severe as they come.
Before Graves can answer, the duck lets out another quack, this one a bit louder. Harry tightens his grip on his wand.
He tries to imagine what Ron would think if his friend could see them now, the defeater of Voldemort and Percival fucking Graves standing helpless before a creature not even two feet tall. It’s enough to make him snort, and he has to press a hand to his mouth to keep himself from laughing.
Unfortunately, the sound is enough to draw the creature’s attention, and instead of continuing to waddle aimlessly, it stops and turns its beady, surprisingly intelligent eyes on them.
Oops.
As the duck comes nearer, he can practically feel Graves' disapproving glare aimed his way.
Instead of scolding him, however, Graves aims his wand at the creature, and it makes another sound. This time, there’s something in it that makes Harry’s eyes start to water. Deciding to go with his gut, Harry reaches over and pulls at Graves’ arm until the man’s wand is aimed at the ground again. The creature stops advancing, waddling in place as it repeatedly slaps its webbed feet against the floor in what feels almost like approval.
“What are you doing?” Graves asks, though he doesn’t fight Harry’s hold. Thankfully, he doesn’t even sound that annoyed with him. Mostly, he seems mystified by the creature’s behavior.
“I’m not sure.” He tucks his wand into its holster. Somewhere else on the floor, he hears shouting and a faint crash. “But magic obviously doesn’t work, so there’s no use provoking it by pointing your wand at it.”
“Alright,” Graves says evenly, “If it does attack, we’ve found that solid rather than magical barriers work best.”
“Noted,” Harry replies.
He feels Graves take a step back, and the duck makes another sound, somewhere between a chirp and a crackling purr. It’s rather unnerving, and Harry has to hold back a grimace.
With no other warning, the duck-like creature spreads its wings and flings itself into the air, aimed straight for Harry’s chest. Although Graves lets out an alarmed shout, probably worried about how relations with the British Ministry would be irrevocably damaged should Harry be taken out on his watch, Harry does his best to keep still. This creature seems reasonably intelligent, after all, and it hadn’t appeared to be making any threat displays.
“Wait,” he commands, and Graves actually listens, though his magic hangs in the air like a gathering storm, ready to be released should the creature do any harm.
Thankfully, Harry’s hunch was right, and as he holds his arms out, the creature drops into them with a flutter of wings. It’s heavier than it looks, Harry notes as he pulls the creature against his chest. With a bright quack, the creature adjusts its wings before falling still, seemingly content to be held. Not sure what to do now that the situation is resolved, Harry turns to see if Graves might have anything to say.
The man is watching him with wide eyes.
When he takes a step forward, the duck tenses and snaps at him, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth that Harry honestly felt better not knowing about.
Graves stumbles back.
“What,” he says flatly, apparently at a loss for words.
“I have no idea,” Harry tells him, shrugging helplessly. “Sometimes these things just happen.”
Before anything else can be said, a series of loud honks sound nearby.
Both Harry and Graves look down at the creature in his arms before looking back at each other.
“Do you think-“ Graves starts.
“It’s worth a shot,” Harry answers, and with the duck still clutched to his chest, making sure he doesn’t walk too close to the other man lest the creature lash out again, they head for the nearest disturbance.
Just over an hour later, Harry still has the duck-like creature cradled against his chest, and about fifteen more are clustered around his feet. Although none of them seem to like him as much as the first, one loud quack from the creature in his arms was enough to get them to fall in line with little to no fuss.
The creature still refuses to let anyone get too near, so Graves hovers at arm’s-length, keeping watch.
Doing his best to ignore the weight of the man’s gaze and the gawking of the other Aurors, Harry has spent the last fifteen minutes cooing at the creature and running his fingers across it’s silky feathers, straightening them out as needed. In turn, the creature, who he’s decided to call Poppy (though he’s resolved to never inform Madam Pomfrey of this decision), is preening at the strands of his hair that it can reach, gentle enough that all he feels is a slight pull with each pass of its beak.
Finally, with the arrival of a man who, judging by his anxious demeanor and the suitcase he carries that almost reeks of magic, can only be Newt Scamander, Graves leaves his side to stalk toward the man who’s supposedly behind this mess. When Harry stops his petting to watch the man go, Poppy quacks in offense and tugs sharply at his robes.
Once Scamander is released, after being thoroughly scolded of course, Harry makes his way over, trusting the other Aurors will keep Graves busy long enough for Harry to check in on the smuggling plan he’s supposed to be carrying out.
When Scamander catches sight of him, as well as the creatures that are waddling after him, he smiles, though he doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes.
“You must be Mr. Scamander,” Harry says.
“Newt, please,” the man says, not offering his hand to shake. Harry wonders if it’s because of the creature in his arms of if he just doesn’t like touch.
“Alright, then. Call me Harry.”
Newt smiles again.
“Tina told me about how you got the flock under control,” he says once Harry’s walked a bit closer. Unlike with Graves, Poppy doesn’t seem at all bothered by his presence. “Thank you for keeping them from harm.”
“Of course. I was happy to help,” Harry says, and he means it, too. The duck-like creature in his arms has been entertaining enough that it’s almost worth the hassle. He runs his hand down Poppy’s neck. “I suppose I’m lucky this one took a liking to me.”
“Yes, well.” Newt frowns at the floor. “The breeder who was keeping her had just taken her babies away, so she’s been quite upset. I suppose you could say she’s adopted you.”
As if in agreement, Poppy presses her head against Harry’s chest and lets out a chirp-like sound. Harry isn’t quite sure what to say.
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Luckily, Newt barrels right over his awkwardness.
“Do you have much experience with magical creatures?” he asks.
“Actually, I’ve been doing a bit of work with Hagrid since the war,” Harry says, finally seeing the opportunity to address the task he was actually sent here to complete. “He told me all about how these little beasts are native to the Isles. He probably mentioned me in his latest letter.”
“Oh!” Newt looks up at him, meeting his gaze this time, though his eyes flit away quickly, darting about as if to make sure no one is paying them any attention. “That’s lovely to hear.”
His eyes land on something behind Harry, then, and they widen in momentary panic. When Harry feels a familiar press of magic coming nearer, he realizes why. Conjuring a bit of paper, Newt scribbles out a date and time along with an address.
“Meet me here, and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.” Harry takes it, tucking it in his pocket. “Also, would you mind terribly if you had to keep this lovely lady with you? I’m not sure she’d let me take her without a fuss, and as I’m sure you’ve realized, it’s rather difficult to get these creatures to go anywhere they don’t want to.”
“Not at all,” Harry assures the man. “I’ll take care of her.”
At the very least, she should make the days before he can meet with Newt again more interesting.
“Glad to hear it,” Newt says. Then, pulling a brightly colored rattle out of his pocket, he says, “I’ll take the rest of them off your hands, now.”
With one last smile, which turns a bit nervous as Graves steps up to stand at Harry’s side, Newt whirls the rattle around, and a shower of sparks falls to the floor as it makes noise. With no hesitation, the flock of creatures at his feet follow the sound, and Newt leads them away to where a sharp looking woman is waiting with his open suitcase.
“What on earth did you say to him?” Graves asks him once Newt is out of earshot.
“What? Nothing.” He winces at how utterly not casual he just sounded. “Why do you ask?”
“He seemed a bit nervous, is all,” the man says, turning his gaze on Harry. Thankfully, he seems more amused than suspicious. “More so than usual, I mean.”
“Maybe it’s because he played a direct role in accidentally letting a flock of these things loose in MACUSA and was just scolded by the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Harry says dryly, petting at Poppy’s head to appease her when she ruffles her feathers.
Graves snorts.
“Speaking of those little beasts,” he says, “I see you’ve still got yours.”
“Ah. Well, you see, Newt asked if I would be willing to take her with me until she was ready to leave my side, as he didn’t want to cause any trouble by taking her by force.”
“Is that so? And is Mr. Scamander aware that he cannot just give those creatures of his away without getting approval first?”
“I’m sure he is. Whose approval does he need, anyway?” Harry asks, biting back a smile.
Graves raises an imperious brow and says, “Mine.”
“Well, Director Graves, if you’ll allow me to take you out to dinner tonight, I’m sure I'll be able to convince you that letting me keep her is in all of our best interests.”
Graves makes a somewhat convincing attempt at looking stern.
“Attempting to bribe an Auror, Mr. Potter? I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how illegal that is.” When Harry just smiles, Graves lets himself be reluctantly charmed. “Why don’t I get you the paperwork you need, and then we can meet for dinner after everything is settled?”
Harry laughs, delighted.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You know,” Percival says as he runs his fingers through Harry’s hair one morning, almost three years later, “you never did tell me why you were at MACUSA the day we met.”
Harry snorts. He can’t help it.
“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, a hint of mischief in his smile as he peers up at his lover. “It’s a bit scandalous.”
“Really,” Percival deadpans. His fingers catch on a snarl, and he tugs lightly at Harry’s hair. “Well, now I simply must know.”
Harry scoots himself up the bed, snickering when the man under him grunts when his elbow digs into his ribs. Once he’s near enough to whisper into Percival’s ear, he presses a kiss to his jaw before confessing, as seductively as he can while trying not to laugh, “I was there to smuggle a certain… flock of magical creatures back to England.”
“You what!”
With one move, Percival turns them so he’s straddling the younger man, looking down into laughing green eyes, half appalled and half enchanted.
“Oh, no,” Harry says, just barely holding it together, “Did I just ruin your perception of me forever?”
“That flock of yours caused thousands of galleons worth of damage.”
“Hey!” Harry protests as he finally gives in to laughter. “It wasn’t my flock. I was just there to transport them illegally.”
“Oh, of course.” Percival is doing his best to look stern, but Harry can see the way he’s struggling not to smile. “Because that’s so much better.”
“Do you still love me, even with my criminal past?” Harry asks.
He does his best to pout, though he doesn’t quite manage to get any tears pooling in his eyes.
Percival rolls his eyes, then, and that’s all the warning Harry gets before the man lets himself fall forward, making Harry groan in protest at the sudden weight. He presses a hand to the back of Percival’s neck, his thumb resting lightly against his pulse. His lover’s reply is muffled by the way his face is pressed against Harry’s neck, but Harry hears it anyway.
“Scourers take me, I do.”