Harsh Reality

The last person Percival expects to see in the gardening shop that morning is a British wizard with a too-blue coat for the grays of New York City.

It’s early. Much too early for anyone else to be awake looking for gardening supplies in a bustling city that barely has trees. It’s not the fact that the man is obviously British, with the way his voice lilts, nor is it the coat that seems particularly strange, or even the large suitcase he’s carrying with him as if it was no lighter than a feather. No, what catches his attention is his magic.

Percival has sensed and seen all kinds of magic in his line of work. Many of them were hostile. Some of them were gentle, like the quiet thrum of the healing magic in the hospital. Even more of them were unpracticed, as if the user had never even held a wand before or had ever attended wizarding school a day in their life. But this man’s magic was nothing like he’d felt in the field.

It felt electric, like a current washing over him after being struck by lightning.

He took a step forward and froze when the other wizard turned to look at him. Recognition bloomed over his face, and for a few seconds, it seemed as if the other couldn’t look away from him. Then he was ducking his head away quickly, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“Got everything weeded out?” the gruff voice of the shop owner rang out.

Taking his own eyes away from the other wizard, he nods at the shopkeeper and clasps his hands in front of him.

“Gimme a minute and I’ll help you out then.”

Percival tried not to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t everyday a wizard came into a No-Maj shop. A gardening shop, no less.

“I can have ‘em ordered in by the end of the week, but I’m afraid since they’re not local to here, it might cost extra.”

The man is already shaking his head. “No, no, that’s quite alright. I can pay in full right now, actually.”

The shopkeeper looks surprised, but tamps it down with an appreciative nod. The man—who Percival catches glancing at him a couple of times—gives the man No-Maj money and Percival barely catches himself from raising his eyebrows in utmost surprise. He supposes it wasn’t uncommon for wizards to have No-Maj money, especially if they were traveling and wanted to blend into different cities. Percival himself carried a sum on him most of the time in cases such as these where he wanted to actually buy something. However, the price left little to be desired, and he had plentiful amounts of cash to pay the shopkeeper.

At this point, he was getting more and more suspicious of the other man. It didn’t help that the wizard looked nervous by his mere presence.

The other just looked suspicious by default, but there wasn’t much he could do. He was off duty. Even if he did apprehend the man, he had no proof that the other was dealing in anything particularly suspicious. He didn’t even know what the other had come here for.

Just as the other accepts his pocket change, Percival steps forward to clear the entryway. Eyes dart up to his moving figure, but he pretends to pay the other no mind. The shopkeeper looks at him appraisingly instead.

“You mentioned planting flowers last time in your garden. Have you thought about putting in a tree?”

The door creaks to a close behind him and Percival nods, ignoring the urge to ask about the strange man from before.

“I don’t want to plant any trees just yet,” he confides. He had thought about finding a young sapling to put in the vastly empty garden, but the timing didn’t seem right. How could he take care of a tree when he didn’t know yet how to plant the seed? He didn’t want to put one in his backyard only to unintentionally neglect it.

He knows he’d neglect it.

The shop owner nods along, coming around the counter to stand before a row of seeds in brown paper bags. Percival remembers seeing them the first time he’d come around, growing curious by the common flowers and even vegetables. There were less common ones that had caught his attention before, but now they seemed to be eons above what he could afford to take care of as the owner began explaining levels of care for each of them.

“Flowers that bloom for months usually gotta be planted around this time of the year. Coneflowers grow in bunches and most folks like to plant them near fences. It doesn’t always work out for them because the fence puts them in shade. Here, measure out a good handful of them. Make sure to plant them in places where they’ll get lots of sunlight throughout the day. Take some of those poppy seeds next to ‘em too. Same thing for them, but they look better in the open.”

“What about sunflowers?” he asks, surprising himself by his own interest looking at the seeds.

The shopkeeper shakes his head. “Sunflowers grow tall. Taller than you. And they grow like crazy. Plant one and you’ll find a hundred after a few years. Pick up the susans instead.”

“Susans” turned out to be brown-eyed susans. He stops himself from interjecting, but can’t help but wonder why these specific flowers. The owner doesn’t look like he wants to explain, so he doesn’t ask. He grabs a handful of them from the bag and places it in a separate one from the others. The owner lets him pick out a couple of already potted plants, both of which he plans to place outside by the backdoor. The owner weighs the seeds and rings him up when he thinks to ask.

“What did the man before want that was so expensive?” he asks casually, handing the money over the counter. He pockets the seeds, the bags small enough to fit in the pockets of his coat. He’ll apparate the plants as soon as he’s in a good location, feeling too sore to carry them all the way back to his home.

“Wanted some potted oleanders and oleander seeds, but I don’t carry them here,” the man explains. Percival raises an eyebrow, but there isn’t much else he can ask on the situation without seeming too interested.

Aren't oleanders poisonous? he kept to himself.

“Alright, here’s your change.” He pauses and Percival does as well until the owner flashes him an unexpected smile. “Come back when you want to talk about that tree.”

—

Thoughts of the man and oleanders vanished from his mind as he got to work.

“Three seeds in each hole. About a foot or two apart for each hole,” the owner had said. He uses the trowel to dig out holes along the perimeter of his fence before he remembers they need sunlight. He covers all the holes up and paces them a foot away from the fence, hoping it’s enough to give them sunlight while also hoping there’s room for more in the future.

He doesn’t want bushes or shrubs the more he thinks about it. There’s too much upkeep for them and, if he was being completely honest to himself, he didn’t want the bulkiness of them in his garden. He’d spend years trimming and shaping them, and then he’d grow bored of them, that much he knew.

The flowers would grow tall, and perhaps one day, sunflowers wouldn’t be as intimidating as the owner had painted them to be and he can fill the gap with them.

When he’s satisfied with the array, he begins with the coneflowers, covering up the holes as he goes. The sun rises high until it’s at its highest point, and Percival feels good about his progress enough to eat something in his kitchen, to drink a glass of water and take his time with it all.

But of course, he wants to get the poppy seeds out of the way. He still has the susans as well, but decides after washing the dishes that he can do those tomorrow.

When he’s putting the dishes up, a memory flickers to life bright and immediate in his mind. He opens up the cabinet above the sink. The ground coffee that he’d bought right before his capture is still there, fragrant and alive when he opens the door. It almost feels ironic to him that it’s still there, just a month away from expiring. Even though it’s no longer morning, he can’t help the familiar routine of fixing a cup, the motions of scooping the grounds into a mug and then scooping them out when the coffee’s dark and intimidating. When he takes a sip from it, the taste bitter and welcoming on his tongue, he can’t help but feel at peace.

It’s almost strange to him how a cup of coffee can lighten his mood more than anything else now.

He takes his time sipping away at the coffee. Then he washes the cup and puts everything back in place as if it’d never moved. Then he’s stepping into the garden once more.

After Percival plants the remaining poppy seeds that evening, he finds himself tired. More tired than he’s been in a very long time. Where he’d been exhausted days before, he now felt pleasant, as if he could have a good night’s rest for once. Maybe not enough to sleep in his own bed, but well enough to sleep through the entire night in full.

The sun is still high, and he wonders if he can sleep through the evening and the entirety of the night when a knock comes to his door, quiet and gentle, but firm and friendly, and it doesn’t take a lot of thought for him to already know who’s on the other side of the door before he even opens it.

Tina Goldstein had not forgotten about him, it would seem.

She smiles up at him, a drastic change from the last time she’d been on his doorstep. The awkward and hesitant woman is nowhere in sight as she steps up to the top step.

“Evening, Mr. Graves,” she begins. He replies in kind and asks if she wants to go inside, but she shakes her head. “I actually came to ask if you’d like to come by for dinner tomorrow.”

He leans against the doorframe, his shoulders relaxing. Perhaps he’s too tired to be making informed decisions, but before he really thinks about it, he nods. Goldstein is just short of ecstatic by his answer and he fights his own tired grin from surfacing.

“If it’s alright with you, Newt would like to join us.”

Newt. The name was hardly forgettable, but he couldn’t put a finger on the name. Goldstein, who seemed to have seen his confusion, rushed to explain.

“He’s the one who realized you were being impersonated…” As she trailed off, Percival blinked, contemplating what to say. In the end, he couldn’t find the right words, or any words at all, and only nodded. Goldstein practically beamed.

“I’ll come over and apparate us tomorrow,” she says, but after a second, something seems to catch her attention. “Sir, you have a little something on your…” She gestures to her face to mirror of his own. Surprised, and a little confused, he reaches up to the area she’d waved at, rubbing away something grainy on his temple. When he looks at his fingers, there’s dirt, and immediately he stiffens.

“Thank you, Goldstein. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says hurriedly. He only catches a glimpse of her face as he closes the door. Her eyebrows were knit together in obvious worry. The frown on her face was prominent and she looked about to say something.

An invisible fist clutches his heart. He doesn’t think about it for more than a moment, turning to look into his empty home, dark shadows hanging around every corner now that night has begun to fall.

Almost as if he forgot, the exhaustion rushes up to him, but there’s something about his quick conversation with Goldstein that hangs heavy in his mind, keeping his mind and eyes wide open. Wide awake. He presses his back to the closed door and resists the urge to slide down to the floor. He sighs. What am I doing?

None of this is like him. If it had been up to him, if he was a braver man, he’d floo Madam Picquery and demand to at least take some paperwork home. He’d sit in his office, which he’s only entered once since he’s arrived home. He’d look over each document until he had them practically memorized. Until he was sure they were all in correct order, waiting for his approval. He’d be at the Woolworth building in no time, passing by fellow witches and wizards and working alongside them, instead of pulling weeds from his garden he’d paid no mind to before. He’d be in the field after proving himself stable. After proving to everyone else that he was real and worth being there.

Now he was agreeing to attend dinners with coworkers, watching things unfold before him beyond what MACUSA stood for. Uprooting weeds. Planting flowers. Thinking about saplings and ordering gnome pastries and doing everything so slowly.

The healer before had been wrong; he was wasting away here. 

—

He had slept through the night and woke to the morning sun breaking through the curtains of his sitting room. Maybe it’s because he didn’t do much other than planting seeds, but he’s not as sore as he had been the last few days. He’s able to get up and enjoy the crack in his neck and spine as he goes. He gets ready for the day and fixes a much desired cup of coffee before he makes headway on the susans.

It doesn’t take him long. The motions and process have already been ingrained in his muscles from the day before. After only an hour, everything had been planted and watered, and now he only had the bareness of his backyard to appreciate.

The fresh soil he’d dug up sits fresh against the waning green of the grass. It smells earthly for a change and he wishes he had more to do.

He’s hungry that morning, but he hasn’t shopped for anything other than the pastries from the other day. The thought of freshly scrambled eggs and toast has his stomach rumbling in hunger he didn’t know he had, and he doesn’t give it much protest when his feet begin to carry him to the door. Before he can grab his coat and step out, he remembers Goldstein’s comment from the other day and looks down at his hands to make sure there’s no dirt on them. Then he runs one over his face, hoping there’s nothing there either before finally opening the door.

The view from his front doorstep has always been lovely. He’s never had much time to appreciate it in the morning, always running out the door and apparating to work before he can stop to enjoy the view. Now, he hesitates, just to look over the golden hue the rising sun casts on the houses nearby. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Just moments before he’d been in a rush to get to work, to do something. But now he can’t seem to move from the stillness that calms him.

Only when he’s stared long enough at the landscape does he move. Much slower than he’d been before, he walks to the store rather than apparates, set on enjoying the quiet morning in his neighborhood. When he makes it to the streets, he doesn’t look away from those who pass him, and smiles politely when they look his way too. Maybe it’s because he truly doesn’t have anything else to do other than make himself a proper breakfast. Maybe it’s because the morning is pleasant for once in his life. Maybe it’s both, and maybe he’s changed too much in the past few days to have to enjoy the simple things such as these in life.

He buys enough food for breakfast and light lunches. He isn’t sure what he’ll fix for dinners throughout the week. Doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to stomach meals big enough to constitute as dinners.

Breakfast goes by smoothly. The scent that fills the air along with the steady hum of his magic is enough to put him at ease. He pulls a book from one of his shelves and rereads the material once more. Not that he hasn’t already memorized every detail in his days as an auror-in-training, but there’s nothing else to do. He sits by the window closest to the garden and reads. He has a sandwich at lunch and pulls another book off the shelf. Goes back to the window and stares outside when the words on the page begin to blur, until he hears a sharp crack! of apparition outside his door. He closes the book quietly and contently as he rises from his chair.

Goldstein grins nervously up at him when he answers the door. They don’t spend much time with small talk, and all too soon, she’s offering her arm for a side-along.

“Unfortunately my building doesn’t allow men inside…” she admits sheepishly. Percival gives her a look—one raised eyebrow, a twitch of the lips, and she smiles in response to his expression. “We’ll appear outside the building, but we can get you up the stairs no problem if you remain quiet. Ready?”

He supposes he has no choice. He takes her arm and they appear in front of a quaint apartment building. Golden hues splash the interior of curtains hanging in the windows, lamps ready for the dark evening.

Getting upstairs is no problem, but the damn stairs are louder than if they had simply apparated. He tells Goldstein as such when they reach the top.

She chuckles. “You might be right about that, Mr. Graves. Oh! Here we are. This is us.” She stands in front of a door and immediately Percival can hear commotion inside. Even though he knows he appears confused, his companion doesn’t seem worried in the slightest. In fact, a rather fond smile curves her lips, and Percival briefly wonders what horror he’s about to walk into when Goldstein opens the door and gestures for him to enter first.

“We’re here Queenie!” she calls out from behind him.

However, there isn’t much Percival can think of when he walks through the door, because there’s a particularly furry creature clinging to a plate that flies right in front of him. He makes eye contact with the worried creature for no more than two seconds before he catches the eye of someone much more familiar to him who snatches the plate right in front of him.

“I’m terribly sorry…” the man begins with a pleasant lilt to his voice. Percival thinks it’s lovely for a split second before the identity of the man becomes apparent to him.

By the way the other’s eyes widen, it seems he’s also realized this.

“Mr. Graves,” he whispers.

Oleanders, Percival thinks. The man who wanted the oleanders.

The creature falls from the plate in the man’s hands just as he hears Queenie gasp from somewhere to their right.

“Mr. Graves! Newt! Don’t just stand there, and don’t drop my plate!”

He feels more than acknowledges his jaw dropping.

Mercy Lewis, he thinks, what have I walked into.

— — —

Several thousands of miles away, a wizard hums to himself as he reads one Newt Scamander’s letter. The past student is quite the wild card, indeed. What he hadn’t imagined was that so many others would become so attached to Newt in New York, or rather, Newt would harbor such a connection with them all.

At the very least, he’s glad Newt has rescued another creature. He wonders if oleanders will be enough for the eccentric creature, and decides to write him just about that in his own letter.

He gently lays the letter on his desk, wondering what trouble will come for his former student in the days to come.