Palette

He has his good days and bad days, of course. Like every other person. On his good days he can remember everything and everyone. He is smart, witty and effortlessly charming in that elegant way that makes nurses blush involuntarily. On his good days he is almost the man he used to be, and he looks a little bit odd without his smart suits and cufflinks. His plain shirts and light coloured trousers don’t suit him, and the lack of luxurious perfume doesn’t suit him either. He shaves clean and neat, he combs his hair and styles it. He takes his orange juice in the morning and demands his coffee vigorously because there is no need in babying him. When refused, he asks “Do you know who I am?!” in a very intimidating way, gets his coffee and smiles. Then he reads his morning newspaper and starts writing letters. On his good days he limps energetically leaning on his new and very fancy cane and dismisses nurses who are trying to persuade him to give himself some rest. He says he’s not a porcelain figurine to be that careful. He says he’ll need all his agility when he’s finally out of these walls, and that training to walk like a normal person is one of the things that bring him joy nowadays. Nurses try to protest but it is very difficult to argue with this patient. On his bad days he is quiet and thoughtful. He spends most of the morning in the wheelchair facing the window that shows the tranquil scenery from far away. The scenery changes every day but it never shows any cities or towns, and the only man made objects there are picturesque ruins of ancient castles, mills and stone farmhouses, forlorn and covered with ivy. Once the window showed Stonehenge, and he smiled distantly as if remembering something, but there was no one in the room to see this smile. On his bad days he doesn’t shave and puts no effort into taking care of his hair. He brushes it absentmindedly and that’s it. He doesn’t take a contrast shower but he takes a bath, long and hot. He puts on his clothes and lets one of the nurses push his wheelchair while he’s looking at his hands as if he’s seeing his own long and neatly manicured fingers for the first time in his life. He has that thousand-mile stare that makes nurses feel uneasy around him. On his bad days he genuinely asks “Do you know who I am?” and his grey eyes are sad and lost. And when he hears the answer, he always repeats the name that somehow sounds very wrong coming from him — Percival Graves. He picks up one of his business cards from the desk and reads it to himself over and over again: the Director of Magical Security, the Head of MACUSA’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement P. Graves. There are more bad days for him than good ones. The letter comes with the morning mail. It stays on top of the newspapers, and Graves picks his correspondence on the way to breakfast. He finishes off his bacon and eggs, washes the food down with orange juice and gets his coffee after the ritual lighthearted argument with the nurse. This is a small victory but victory nonetheless, and he makes his first sip of coffee, smiles and opens up the envelope. The nurses realise that his good day switched to his bad one only half an hour later. Mister Graves doesn’t respond when they call for him, and he hasn’t finished his coffee either. He doesn’t ask if they know who he is. He doesn’t ask anything. Percival Graves has his thousand-mile stare and he’s clutching the letter in his fingers. The letter is short. It has only one line. It says: “You don’t know how much I love you, Percy.” And it’s signed: Gellert Grindelwald.