Chapter Text
Part IV
In the trials of the present, no matter how low,
You bring me such peace, and you won't let me go.
For when you are laughing, like silver, like rain—
You cool me, you soothe me, and love me again.
For a few perfect hours, the world lets me be,
You know how to break down—
The panic in me.
The Panic in Me – Elton John
Credence sank to his knees before his sister’s corpse, a hollow wail rising steadily from his throat. Tendrils of smoke and dark flesh began swirling around his head, slow and predatory.
‘Credence,’ Percival whispered, taking a step back despite himself.
Modesty’s body dissolved into the air, promptly replaced by Queenie’s thin figure, a halo of honey blonde curls spread around her head.
‘Credence—it’s not real.’
The young man didn’t look up. His pupils were blown, fixed on the bodies morphing endlessly before him.
Jacob. Tina. Newt.
Soon, Percival found himself staring at his own corpse. On the side of his face, the skin was blemished and shattered—the mark of an Obscurus.
Credence – or rather, the thing inside him – let out a howl of pain.
Graves could only watch, transfixed, as the boy dragged himself to the corpse that wasn’t one, cupping the side of its head with trembling fingers, pressing his forehead against its brow.
Credence’s head snapped up suddenly, and when he glared at Percival, there was raw hatred simmering in his eyes, just under the surface of his tears.
He had seen all of this before, Graves realised with dread.
The boy kept on staring at him in silence, waiting for Grindelwald to stare back.
‘Credence,’ he tried again, as softly as he could muster.
The boy’s body was growing less substantial by the minute, retracting behind the dark volutes of smoke slowly closing in on him.
Percival realised he was afraid—not of Credence, but for him. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest and, for a moment, he remembered why it had always been easier not to care.
(In any case, it was certainly too late for that now.)
He crouched down before the remnants of Credence’s corporeal form, unsure of which course of action to adopt. He who had always taken pride in his proficiency under pressure, now found himself at an utter and undeniable loss.
He fought the urge to move closer, Newt’s distant words echoing in his mind.
Stay away. Don’t let him see you as a threat.
Percival complied.
Words help, Tina had mentioned one night, as he pressed her for more information on the months Grindelwald had taken from him. He listens.
Percival had never been a man of many words, that much he knew. However, the stakes were too high for him not to try.
‘Credence,’ Graves said once more, the name starting to sound foreign as it rolled off his tongue. ‘This isn’t real. None of it is.’
To prove his point, he discarded the boggart with a flick of his wand. The boy’s eyes only narrowed further.
‘Everyone is safe, Credence,’ Graves insisted. ‘Modesty, Newt, Tina—they’re all safe. You didn’t hurt anyone.’
At these words, the low growl of the Obscurus seemed to halt, just for a second.
‘You didn’t hurt anyone,’ Percival repeated, softer still. ‘It’s alright, Credence—you’re alright. I’ve got you.’
Credence remained silent, curling a little tighter upon himself. His Obscurus had grown to fill the entire room.
‘The pain won’t last, I promise. Just keep breathing,’ Percival lulled. ‘I’m right here with you—I’ve got you.’
In the back of his mind, Graves couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t doing more harm than good. No matter how gentle and soothing he wished his words to be—when they left his mouth, they all rang like orders.
Even then, he kept on trying.
‘You’re strong, Credence; don’t let it take you.’
Did he sound like him?
(What would he have said?)
Graves wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Something warm and wet rolled along his cheek, taking him aback slightly.
The only other time he could remember crying had been with Grindelwald, after the curses – and the words – had become too much to endure.
Suddenly, Credence let out a sound that was halfway between a sob and a groan, snapping Percival out of his trance.
There had to be something more he could do.
_____
Wittingly refusing to think of the many ways this could possibly go wrong, he reached for Credence – or rather, what was left of him – his hands coming to cup the boy’s sharp cheekbones with infinite care.
There was very little flesh left to grasp, Graves noted with apprehension. However, the mere contact of Credence’s skin against his own was enough to make him wince with pain.
His first instinct was to recoil; he only resisted with great effort, tightening his jaw to keep himself from crying out. Instead, he pulled Credence in closer.
It felt as though liquid fire was pouring through his veins. The skin at the back of his hands was taut to the point of breaking, threatening to crack open at any given moment.
Yet he refused to let go.
The pressure of his fingers upon Credence’s temples appeared to have momentarily halted the growth of the Obscurus, so Percival decided to keep following his gut instinct.
He leaned forward to press his forehead against the boy’s, ignoring yet another sharp burst of pain as their brows came into contact.
He knew it was of prime importance to keep talking to Credence, and so he did. Perhaps, if he found the right words, he could remind him of who he was—anchor him back into reality.
In any case, it was worth a shot.
Percival took a deep, slow breath, and closed his eyes.
‘You’re Credence Barebone,’ he said, firm yet gentle. ‘You’re a wizard.’
The pain pulsing through his forehead seemed to dull slightly, although he couldn’t say for sure.
‘You have a younger sister. Her name is Modesty, and you care about her very much.’
The dark tendrils obscuring Credence’s face appeared to be shrinking—or thinning, perhaps.
‘You enjoy tending to Scamander’s occamies, and baking apple strudels with Queenie Goldstein.’
Behind the thick screen of smoke, Credence’s shoulderline was beginning to take shape.
‘Your favourite book is a leather-bound copy of The Scarlet Letter. It was a present from Tina.’
The shadows around Credence looked to be retracting slowly, curling inward in a familiar motion; one Graves had witnessed in the boy’s shoulders many times before.
‘You purchased your wand from Ollivander’s, in London. Thirteen inches, hawthorn and phoenix feather, I believe.’
The pale veil over Credence’s pupils was melting away, replaced by the glimmer of heavy tears. They brushed lightly against Percival’s fingers as they rolled off his cheeks, whilst the boy waged an ongoing battle against himself.
‘The first spell you mastered was Episkey. You always wanted to be able to heal people,’ Graves added with fondness.
Graves felt relief wash over him as Credence eventually appeared to revert to his body. His hands were still ghosting lightly over the young man’s temples, fingers sweeping slowly against them.
‘I care about you,’ he concluded, his voice a breathless rasp.
After a few suspended moments of respite, Credence’s eyes flew open, and he pulled away from Graves’s touch with unmistakable urgency.
‘Credence—hello,’ the Auror whispered quietly, another rare smile softening his harsh features. ‘How do you feel?’
A wave of fear and panic seemed to wash over Credence’s face as he slowly began piecing things together.
‘What happened? Are you—did I hurt you?’
In his hurry to assess the damage he had caused, Credence all but stumbled gracelessly towards the older man. The strain on his body was almost enough for it to finally cave in, and he was forced to clutch at the lapels of Percival’s coat not to collapse.
He reached for the Auror’s face with unsteady fingers, cupping his jaw, his cheekbones, his temples. His fingertips ghosted lightly over the sides of the man’s neck before carefully running through his slick hair, dreading to stumble across dried blood or wounded flesh.
He looked almost stunned to find neither.
Be that as it may, Credence refused to let the other man pull away just yet, keeping a featherlight thumb hooked just below his chin.
‘I’m okay, Credence,’ Percival assured with a soft chuckle. ‘I’m alright.’
The boy kept on staring at him in bewilderment.
‘You did it—you came back,’ he added, his voice vibrant with equal parts pride and relief.
As he spoke, Credence’s eyes dropped to his scarred palms; he took in a sharp breath at the sight. Too late, Graves curled his fingers over the damaged patches of skin, in an attempt to hide them.
‘I hurt you,’ Credence stated flatly.
‘It’s just a few burn marks—nothing I haven’t seen before,’ Percival replied without a beat.
Still, it was enough for Credence to remove his fingers from the other man’s jaw, a stricken look upon his face.
He moved to fold his hands away, before deciding to wrap them around Percival’s wrists instead, in a touch so gentle the latter barely felt anything.
Credence tugged forward, just a little, until he could bring their joined hands to rest together into his lap.
Without a word, he ran the tip of his fingers against Percival’s injured palms several times, the motions slow and careful.
Graves could only watch, mesmerised, as his skin slowly began to mend. By the time Credence lifted his hands away, the scars upon the tissue were scarcely visible at all.
Wandless, voiceless magic.
(He had never taught him that.)
'Thank you,' he whispered.
Still gazing down at their entwined hands, Credence spoke next.
'You did this for me—the first time I met you.' He paused. 'The real you. Do you remember?'
Graves gave a silent nod, his fingers brushing lightly against Credence's chapped knuckles, revelling at the feeling of returned warmth.
'There's not a day go by that I don't think of it.'
He wanted to do something—he wanted to pull Credence flush against him, he wanted to wrap his arms around him, he wanted to thread his fingers through his enticing curls.
He wanted to kiss him.
He wanted. He wanted.
He didn’t dare.
In the end, it was Credence who took the lead. His hands returned to Percival's cheekbones, tracing soothing yet insistent circles against the skin.
Graves's eyes met Credence's—they now seemed browner, softer. He was surprised to find a question simmering in them; one he had never dared hope to be asked.
'May I?' Credence asked tentatively.
Graves eyed him intently, remaining utterly silent until he finally, finally beckoned Credence with a single, pointed nod.
The moment after, Credence's lips were on him- soft, pliant, beguiling. Fleeting.
Far too early, they were gone, leaving both men wanting.
Graves looked up, and something in his chest twisted painfully when he caught a brief hint of doubt in Credence's eyes.
He still didn’t think he was good enough.
(How wrong he was.)
‘Would you let me?' Percival asked in turn, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it be before. Gently, he hooked two fingers to the dip just below Credence’s ear, resisting the urge to pull him back in just yet.
Credence nodded, and Percival barely had the time to catch the corner of his smile before returning his mouth to his lips, brushing against them time and again with infinite carefulness.
He felt Credence sigh against him, releasing an emotion long caught in his throat.
Percival smiled into the kiss. He could feel every hesitant press of Credence’s tongue against the barrier of his lips, making him lightheaded.
For a moment, he allowed himself to stop thinking.
_____
This, at least, was something Grindelwald would never take from them.