Tom sent a thought inward and pulled Grindelwald's consciousness into the learning space, activating the shared vision link at the same time.
"Tell me who that is."
Grindelwald had been confused up until Tom's prompt drew his attention to the white-haired figure. He studied the old man for a moment, and then the furrow in his brow gradually smoothed out, replaced by something between recognition and speculation.
"Percival Graves?"
"The very same."
"Why are you at his... ah, right. His grandson provoked you." Grindelwald remembered partway through. The incident had been too minor for him to hold onto, though he hadn't imagined Tom's capacity for grievance would stretch quite this far, crossing an ocean to settle scores with a family over something so small.
Still, he thought to add: "Don't underestimate that old man. Watch yourself. He's not above playing dirty."
Coming from Grindelwald, "not simple" was extraordinarily high praise.
For reference, the four Heads of House at Hogwarts had never received that assessment. Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration, widely considered her finest quality, earned a "barely adequate" from Grindelwald on a generous day. The rest of the staff didn't merit commentary.
Tom had once attempted to advocate for his own Head of House, Snape's potion-making, after all, had drawn praise from both Dumbledore and Snape himself, but Grindelwald had dismissed it with barely concealed contempt.
"If I held my wand to his head, do you think he'd brew for me?"
The man was a complete and unconditional supremacist of power. Anything that couldn't be applied to combat and killing was, in his view, a sideshow. He barely valued his own prophetic gift.
The real question was: why had Grindelwald chosen Percival Graves as his target for impersonation all those years ago?
The first reason was position. At the time, Percival had been barely past thirty and already held the titles of Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, a combination of authority roughly equivalent to Amelia Bones and Rufus Scrimgeour rolled into one. Even President Picquery had given him room.
And why had he reached that height so young?
Because Percival was strong. Grindelwald had told Tom directly, subduing him had been a genuine effort, a duel worth remembering.
Impersonating someone with that level of power and that level of influence meant Grindelwald could act boldly without constantly managing suspicion. When he disarmed Newt and Tina bare-handed without a wand, no one in the room had blinked. When he was surrounded and captured by dozens of Aurors, and it was only Newt's suspicion that had forced Grindelwald out of his disguise, no one had guessed on their own, because they all believed Percival was capable of everything they had witnessed.
Decades had passed since then. Even if the old man had made no further progress, he still warranted serious attention.
Tom never underestimated anyone he stood against. Not even Ron Weasley warranted carelessness. So the moment he stepped into the room his Magical Sight had stayed open, not to threaten Percival, but to monitor him. If the old man's magic shifted even slightly, no wand, no incantation needed; the change in his magical output would be visible, and Tom would respond before the spell could form.
Through that sight, Percival's magical potency surpassed all four Heads of House outright. It even edged past Grindelwald's strongest known subordinate, Gunnar Grimmson.
Roughly comparable to Aberforth Dumbledore at his peak.
...
After a short silence, Tom dragged a chair over, dropped into it with complete ease, and smiled at the old man across from him.
"I've heard a great deal about you, Mr. Percival Graves. You were quite the spectacle back in your day."
Percival gave a self-deprecating smile. "A spectacle. Yes, I suppose. Among everyone Grindelwald has ever impersonated, I'm probably the most notable."
"That's its own kind of recognition." Tom turned the armrest idly under his fingers. "Shall we have a proper duel? You've already dealt with the younger generation, might as well try the older."
"I'll pass." Percival shook his head with genuine good humor. "These bones have had enough. I'd rather not die today. I still have unfinished business."
Tom tilted his head. "Old man, I just killed two of your family. You don't want revenge for them?"
Percival's expression didn't shift. "I watched the whole thing from up here. You didn't make a move to kill anyone right up until the end. It was Kahn who cast the Killing Curse first, accidentally hit Tracy himself. You killing him after that, no one else is to blame for that."
"Did you see the sign?" Tom gestured toward the window.
Percival remained completely unmoved. "I was treated worse than a dog by Grindelwald himself. You think a plank of wood rattles me?"
He paused.
"Young man, the grievance between you and Robert is something Robert will have to resolve himself. You should be thinking about the storm that's coming your way."
This old man was an absolute wall. No matter how Tom jabbed, nothing landed. Eventually he shut his eyes entirely and stopped responding.
"Fine," Tom said, rising from the chair. "I'll wait for the day you go to Grindelwald and get yourself killed."
That, finally, got a reaction. Percival's eyes cracked open, and something cold and quiet moved behind them like light on deep water.
Tom smiled, decided he'd gotten what he came for, and lost interest in the old man entirely. He stood, walked out of the bedroom, and didn't leave the manor.
Instead, he found the library and started browsing.
...
It was a long while after Tom had left the room before the young witches and wizards hiding behind the side door dared to emerge. One of them edged forward and asked in a small, careful voice:
"Great-great-grandfather... should I contact the Ministry for help?"
Percival shook his head slowly.
"Not yet. Write to your father and the others, call them back. The Graves family has had things go its way for a long time now. Perhaps it takes a humiliation like this to clear the head."
He looked out the window at the snow-blanketed grounds, at the figures lying scattered across them.
"In this world, influence is only ever a vessel, a reflection of real power. Without the power to back it up, no reputation in the world amounts to anything. When you meet someone who is genuinely stronger, everything you've built collapses at the first touch."