he's handsome in a british kind of way

Scraped Knees, Torn Dresses, and Messy Kisses, Part 1 (Percival/Reader)

Percival Graves had known you for his entire life, ever since your chubby, three-year-old-self wandered into his yard looking for pillywiggins.

(Every time he told this story, you accused him of omitting the fact that he was just as chubby.)

According to his mother, it was love at first sight. Looking back on it, he didn’t find it that hard to believe.


You were six years old when he first made you cry.

(Sadly, it wouldn’t be the last time.)

He’d been playing with some of the boys down the street when you came meandering into his yard.

You were dressed in a pretty green tea gown with a matching bonnet and leather boots and his heart sank at the sight of you.

(If the two of you had been older, his heart probably would’ve stuttered instead of dropped.)

He could still remember the way your face had scrunched up when he told you to go away and the tears that cascaded down your cheeks when the other boys mocked your dress and gender.

(To this day, the memory still made him cringe in guilt.)


You kissed him on his tenth birthday.

It had been the beginning of May and the peonies were in full bloom. The two of you were sprawled out on the grass, your hair fanning out like a halo. Frosting smudged your face and you suddenly sat up, balancing on your elbows as you leaned over him, effectively blocking out the sun.

He raised an eyebrow, but all you did was smirk and bend down until your noses were brushing.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“I’m giving you your birthday present, idiot.”

“‘M not an idiot and you already gave me my-” Your lips were soft but slightly chapped (probably from too many broom rides with your father) and you tasted like chocolate cake and honeyed tea.

Even then, before he had any idea what love or lust was, you left him breathless.


He wasn’t surprised when the wings on the carving started to beat.

(Most of his life was spent chasing after your riding skirts as you went crashing through woods and splashing through creeks for whatever mythical beast had caught your attention at the time after all.)

Nor were you surprised when the carving started to roar for him.

(He’d knocked down quite a few of your childhood bullies at this point and he would knock down quite a few more in the future.)

The Wampus and the Thunderbird, the warrior and the adventurer; Ilvermorny didn’t know what was going to hit it.


He got his first detention for busting Travis McDonner’s lip after he grabbed your ass in fifth year.

He could still remember the shock on Professor Tanner’s face when she pulled him off of the boy. His knuckles were bruised and Travis’ face was already starting to turn purple.

Afterward (once everyone got over the fact that Perfect Percival had detention), you’d given him a quick peck on the cheek while wrapping his hands.

“Thanks, Perce. You’re the best.”


Christmas at the Grave’s house was always festive, almost as festive as your dress. Your boots were edged with silver and your dress was a rather scandalous shade of red. The tinsel in your hair was fetching as well, a pretty shade of green that caught the light whenever you laughed.

“Percy~!” You sang; looping your arms around his neck.

“What do you want, (Y/n)?” He did his best to ignore the slight pout on your lip, focusing instead on the clock behind you.

“Dance with me? You’re the only one who hasn’t.” It was true, everyone else at the party had taken great pleasure in twirling you around in a half drunken waltz while he watched (glowered) from the corner.

He cast a quick glance around the room, noting the fact that the majority of the people had already left. With a sigh, he reached up and pried one of your hands off his neck and laid a gentle hand on your waist.

“Alright.” He muttered and your squeal of delight drew the eyes of the few remaining party goers in the room.

He ignored them; content to hold you as you lead them through a series of complicated steps and twirls.

(Afterwards, when he was heading up to his room, you caught him by the lapels of his suit and dragged him into one of the unused guest rooms, kissing him the entire time.)


You go your separate ways after graduation. He went off into law enforcement and you, with all your natural charm and grace, are sent off as an ambassador to Britain.

Letters are far and few in between, but they’re always long and filled with a warmth and affection that neither of you ever addressed. And why should you? What you had was familiar and comfortable and while he knew the full extent of his feelings for you, he always assumed he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t.


His name was Charlus Potter and rumor had it he was looking to make you his wife.

Everyone knew the Potters. They were the respectable sort, wealthy with a long and decent history, and so it was quite the shock when people started hearing whispers about the family’s sole heir’s plan on taking an American bride.

He was handsome, Percival had noted with distaste, with messy black hair and kind hazel eyes. He was also absolutely smitten with you if the way he watched you the entire time at the gala was any indication.

According to you, as soon as you crossed the Pacific, you’d been saddled with Potter as your guide to British culture.

What a load of shit, he thought bitterly. Your father had had a hand in your deployment, after all, and it was common knowledge that the Potter’s preferred to marry new blood. He probably had this planned from the start.

The worst part, though, was the fact that the two of you worked well together.

When you showed up on his arm, dressed to the nine’s in gold silk and white lace, the entire party turned to stare. You were an attractive duo, oozing with charisma and smelling like old money. You worked the crowd and when you finally, finally made your way to him, he thought his heart was going to break.

It doesn’t.

Because when you saw him, you squealed, abandoning all social graces when you threw yourself at him. He caught you with ease, hands automatically falling onto your waist and while you stood there, chattering about this, that and the other thing, he sent a triumphant smirk at the downtrodden Charlus.

Percival asked you to marry him the very next day.