Chapter Text
Wednesday 1st of February, 6:53pm
Percival was in the middle of wrapping his scarf around his neck when a subtle, almost inaudible creak of the stairs outside the door of the tiny apartment he'd inhabited for the past twenty-four hours made him pause. Slowly, mechanically, his right hand fell to his side, caressing the grip of the Glock 18 he was carrying in its holster, which would be hidden to anyone's sight once he would have put his long coat on.
Completely still, Percival listened intently, staring at the front door as if he could see through the thick panel, but no sound reached his ears. The building didn't qualify as brand new, old wood would creak from time to time, nothing abnormal in that. Allowing himself a short exhale, the man balled his hand into a fist before releasing it, in order to retrieve his coat from the narrow closet in the hallway, only a few meters away from the door.
He heard a second creak, less discreet than the first one.
This time, Percival's hand flew to grab his gun, aiming instantly at the entrance of the apartment. Silence again. He would not be fooled though. And it was time for him to leave anyway: he had a mission to complete.
Percival slowly knelt, still aiming for the door as he blindly reached for the black case at the bottom of the closet. There, got it. There was a whisper outside, soft, but not enough to pass unnoticed. Tightening his grip on the case handle, Percival stood up straight and stepped back in a smooth, almost graceful move, right as the door was kicked down in a furious roar and splintered wood flew around, giving way to his attackers.
He would have pushed the trigger without a hint of hesitation, released a deadly shot, if he hadn't recognised, at the very last second, the woman standing in the poorly-lit doorway, in the not-so pleasant company of three... No, four other officers of the CIA - all dressed up in their gear and aiming their guns at his chest. What the...
"Tina?" he asked, conveying all the obvious questions through his voice, never dropping his Glock since the men in front of him weren't lowering their weapons either.
Why? Why were they here, interrupting his mission, sneaking up on him, their colleague, and ready to shoot him like one of their usual targets?
"Percival Graves," Tina began instead of explaining herself, her voice clear and sharp in a stark contrast with the regret on her face, "You are under arrest for treason against the United States of America, premeditation of murder, terrorist activities and unauthorised sharing of confidential intelligence. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answ..."
"What?" he barked, baffled, "Tina, what the hell is this all about? Treason?"
"What, do you need me to be clearer?" the woman, whom he would have called his friend two minutes ago, asked sternly. "Weren't you leaving to go and kill Albus Dumbledore?"
Percival took an unsteady step back, eyes wide with surprise. This was supposed to be a secret mission, how could she know about...
"Don't move," one of the agents growled, "Drop the gun, Graves."
"Who?" Percival asked instead of complying, his hand almost cramping around the Glock as a shiver of nervousness ran down his spine. "Who told you? Who gave you the order to arrest me?"
"Grindelwald."
The name struck him like thunder would have, a harsh slap to the face, cold water freezing him to the bone.
"No," he stammered, "It's... it's impossible."
Thirty hours earlier
"Come in," a voice, low but commanding, enjoined him after three soft knocks on the door.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Grindelwald?" Percival asked, entering Gellert Grindelwald's office with perfectly masked curiosity.
"Ah, Graves, yes," the blond man in front of him said, standing up briefly to indicate the chair facing his desk, "Please, take a seat."
Percival complied, wondering why on earth the head of CIA's Department of Security would want to see him in his office hardly thirty minutes after they'd both left a meeting with the whole department. What was it that he could not say back then?
"Graves, I have a mission for you," the man stated without even sparing him a glance, never adverting his eyes from the file he was reading.
"I'm listening, Sir."
"This is top priority and also, top secret," Grindelwald added. "This is a one-person mission requiring the most absolute discretion, stealth and skills, which means that you're the only one I would trust with this, Graves."
"Thank you, Sir," Percival could only utter, a bit taken aback by this compliment.
While he was aware of the usual approval his services got from his superiors (obtained through hard work, strict discipline and sometimes a bit of luck and audacity that Tina would qualify as foolish courage), it was unexpected to hear Grindelwald acknowledge aloud a job well done. If he did so now, it meant that he really, really needed Graves for this.
"The CIA needs you to... take care of a threat to the United States of America," Grindelwald explained softly, his fingertips stroking a picture on his file, "All you need to know about that man is in this folder."
He handed the beige file to Percival, who took it without a word and opened it to read the first page. Taking care of a threat, in their business, meant elimination, death. It wouldn't be Percival's first kill on the job, not after eleven years of missions, but he still liked to know what he was getting into.
The file explained the situation clearly enough: a Brit, arriving in the States the next day in the evening to meet with terrorist groups and scheme the ruin of America, needed to be taken down. Percival found pictures of the target speaking to known leaders of criminal organisations during earlier meetings and transcriptions of recordings that did not help the guy's case.
"He doesn't look dangerous," Percival commented as he saw a close-up photograph of the man, smile soft and eyes crinkling under his half-moon glasses. "But then again, they never do."
"Do not underestimate Albus Dumbledore," Grindelwald warned him, "Do that and you're a dead man."
"Yes, Sir."
"Dumbledore's plane will land tomorrow at JFK," his superior told him, "at 1914 hours. He shall arrive at his hotel - the Grand Hyatt - at 2000 precisely. Don't let him live any longer than that."
"Yes, Sir," Percival repeated as he listened carefully to his instructions.
While Grindelwald explained a few more details about the mission, including the number of the room Dumbledore had booked and where he would wait for the Brit to arrive, Percival stared at the picture, engraving the man's features in his memory. This wouldn't be too hard. A piece of cake, certainly, unless there was an unplanned change in the schedule - and even so, he would manage.
"Questions?" Grindelwald asked at the end oh his detailed explanation.
"No, Sir," Percival answered, shaking his head as he stood. "Everything is perfectly clear."
"Good. Then you're free to go. Don't breathe a word about this to anyone."
Percival nodded and turned around to leave, taking even steps towards the door, but as he rested his hand on the doorknob, Grindelwald's voice held him back.
"Graves," his superior boomed at the last second, "Officially, we never talked about this. You never received the order to kill Albus Dumbledore, just as the CIA has never wished for his death. If the mission goes south, you're on your own."
"Understood, Sir."
Wednesday 1st of February, 6:59pm
Grindelwald had betrayed him. Percival could only think of that possibility to explain why Tina would be aware of his mission. But why would he do that? Why give him the order him to kill Dumbledore only to charge someone else - his friend, of all people! - with his arrest? It didn't make any sense.
"Tina..." he started, hoping she would see the sincerity in his dark eyes. "This is a mistake, whatever he told you..."
"He told me enough," the young woman interrupted him as she took a few steps forward, at the same time as the armed agents, slowly but steadily coaxing him into backing away. "How could you? You, our best asset, gone rogue, and to kill an agent from the MI6 no less?"
Percival felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, even though his heart was beating fast, too fast. He didn't understand. Dumbledore, from the MI6? That never figured in the file!
"Goldstein, we've lost enough time," one of the guys behind Tina chimed in, before he addressed Percival directly, "Drop the gun, Graves, and if you still have shreds of dignity, accept your fate and don't make more of a mess."
Percival hesitated. He knew what awaited him if he let them take him in: a trial, a sentence, the end of his career, his life. Shame. All of that, unfairly. He was guilty of nothing but following the orders... Orders coming from a man who also wanted him behind bars, for a reason he had yet to discover. A reason that would prove his innocence.
You never received the order to kill Albus Dumbledore, just as the CIA has never wished for his death. If the mission goes south, you're on your own.
His hold tightened around the Glock.
"Fine," he relented, his shoulders sagging as he lifted a dejected face to stare at the agents in front of him. "I surrender."
Percival shared a look with Tina, who both appeared relieved and wary - she knew him well, damnit. She had seen him in missions before, the confident, powerful, clever and bold man, not likely to give up. She doubted his willingness to yield... And she was right to.
He moved fast, too fast for any of them to react: raising his arm, he shot the light bulbs above them, plunging the room in sudden darkness, and shot twice in the agent's feet, eliciting yelps of surprise. Gunshots echoed, bullets found nothing but thin air as Percival ran, clutching the case to his chest, to the wall facing the east.
"Graves!" Tina shouted above the tumult, but he didn't slow down to listen to her, "Stop!"
The window shattered into a million pieces when Percival jumped through.