The thing is, a lot of [Newt Scamander’s] creatures had sort of luminescent color, and I wanted him to have a sense of being one with them, but not standing out, like he’s in some neon outfit in the middle of the street. I came to this blue with a lot of green in it, and it has a little bit of brown undertones. It’s an interesting blue because in different light, it photographs differently. I didn’t want it to pop too much, and I played with it a little bit.
We played with the shape of it a lot, that coat, because Eddie Redmayne squats down on his case a lot, does a lot of up and down movement and he has a sideways gait to him that he evolved for Newt. It’s almost like an animal walk, in a way. I really wanted something that served him, too, and we did a lot of rehearsals with it to make sure it all worked for him, with his acting. Colleen Atwood
Ok so heres the thing, if you have a show that I dont know have on this list I ask that you message me so that it can be spread and the love of the activity spread farther and wider. If you have videos of any show that isnt in here I would love to see that as well.
Percival Graves has been rescued from torture and
imprisonment at the hands of Gellert Grindelwald. And despite all claims to the
contrary, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement is most decidedly not okay.
Percival Graves is – empty. That’s the best description of his current
state of being. He goes to work. He does his paperwork. He leads his aurors,
stance firm and unfailing as he drags the scum of the Wizarding World to
justice. I am fine. Director Graves
tells himself, tells the world with every decisive footstep, every barked
order. I am fine.
It is his mantra, and he mutters it with all the conviction
of a convert hoping, desperately, that if he repeats it enough it might come
Percival Graves is not
He comes home in the evenings, and just – stops.
Sometimes he manages to make himself a cup of tea. More
often he doesn’t, and simply – sits. Stares into the distance, mind numb and hollow as memory drags him down like a
rip current. He sleeps very little. He
only eats when prompted. He just – stops.
Sometimes Graves is vaguely concerned that no one’s noticed
his slow decay, his subtle decline. But – it makes sense, doesn’t it? They
didn’t notice when he was replaced by a genocidal psychopath. They didn’t
notice when Grindelwald wore his face like a cheap suit. Why should they notice
Percival Graves sits in an empty house in a darkened room
There is very little left now.
He isn’t even curious when there’s a knock at his door. Or
at the muffled curses that echo through unlit hallways as footsteps shuffle
forward. He is indifferent to the tall body that blunders into his sitting room,
or the sharp inhale as unfamiliar eyes land on his still form.
There is a hand beneath his chin, tilting his head upwards
and Graves vaguely recognizes the individual in front of him. He’d arrested
them once, hadn’t he? The memory is vague and unimportant, but it’s vaguely
more interesting then the figure in front of him carefully calling him by name.
Yes – a know associate of the Dark Lord (the other Dark Lord, the one who didn’t like humans very much). Graves
had ended up releasing them; they’d committed no crime on American soil, and,
technically, committed no acts of Black Magic (for all that their aura screamed with the cold of the Dark).
Graves notes their identity absently before letting his mind
lapse back into perfect blankness.
There is an arm wrapping around his back, beneath his
shoulders, and a sharp curse as he’s levered upright; Graves follows passively
as the other magic-user urges them forward. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters,
not the squeeze of apparition as they clear the threshold, not the sick lurch
in his stomach as they rematerialize beneath an undimmed canopy of stars –
There is a fire, and there are dark figures discernible only
by the shape of their shadows lingering around the blaze. Heads turn as he is
urged forward with a surprising gentleness – again, Graves follows. What else
is he to do?
And there is a dark, dark figure sitting to one side of the
The magic-user who is half-carrying him sinks to their
knees, and Graves is forced to follow. He watches, vaguely curious, as they bow
their head. And then – their voice is a whisper, a scream, a memory –
“My lord. Please. Have
And this is the Dark Lord, this is the other Dark Lord, the one that Graves sank years of his life into finding, into hunting, into tracking without
ever so much as glimpsing the man’s shadow, and faint curiosity strengthens
into the first real emotion he’s felt
in months as he raises his head and stares head-on at the seated figure.
(Later on, there will be tears and recriminations and
explanations, there will be Newt practically diving off the log he was sitting
on as he stumbles to Percival’s side, desperately trying to find out where the
other man is hurt – he’d thought that the Director was bleeding out, that he’d
been horribly maimed, that something was
terribly, terribly wrong. There will be Newt sheepishly confessing how even
though he’d never so much as touched
black magic everyone still insisted on calling him a Dark Lord, there will be a
rusty laugh bellowing from Percival’s throat because only you, Scamander, only you…)
There is a Dark Lord, they say. A Dark Lord who is
terribly in his mercy, implacable in his fury. A Dark Lord, who has taken a consort,
who has bound the man’s shadow and supped wisdom from his sighs.