Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When he finally falls back into human form he aches. Every muscle, every bone, his skin feels raw like when ma- when Mrs. Barebone had whipped him with his belt.

His hands are shaking.

He doesn’t know where to go. The city looks immaculate, none of the destruction he’d wreaked visible. No trace of his anger or his sadness or his loss or his betrayal. He supposes the witches and wizards had done it, fixed it all.

He stumbles through streets, growing more and more sodden, trying to find his way home.

… except he doesn’t have a home any more. He’d destroyed it. He had. He’d killed Mo- Mrs. Barebone. He’d been disowned, been told he was a squib, been told he was an Obscurial, destroyed everything he’d ever known and now-

It was almost like nothing had ever happened.

His hands still shake.

Something had happened.

He huddles in the alley beside the church. It isn’t right to go in now - he’d killed her, destroyed it all - but … it’s home. It’s the only home he knows.

He’s not a Barebone anymore, but he doesn’t know what his surname was. Hell - language! Yells Mary-Lou Barebone in the echoes of memory - heck. He can’t remember what his name had been before Mary-Lou had called him Credence.

He had been Credence Barebone. He had been a… No-Maj. Except he wasn’t a No-Maj. He wasn’t a wizard either, though, wasn’t a… squib, magically descended but without magic. He wasn’t Credence Barebone either.

He has magic he just can’t use it. And he doesn’t know who he is any more.

It’s Modesty who finds him.

“Credence?” a voice asks. Small, quiet. He knows this voice. “Hey, Cre?”

Small pale hands grasp his. His hands are still shaking.

“Hey,” she says gently. “It’s just me. Modesty. Your sister? Remember?”

He remembers. He remembers her running from him.

“You ran,” he croaks out. “When Mo- when Mrs. Barebone-”

Modesty’s hands grow tight around his. “I don’t remember,” she says. “What happened.”

Oh.

“Come on,” she says, pulling at his hands insistently. “Let’s get inside. Get dry.” Her stomach rumbles. “Get food.”

His hands are still shaking but he lets her pull him inside.

It’s eerie, seeing it as pristine as before.

“I have to go out again,” Tina says within five seconds of getting in. “Newt says he might have seen Credence- the Obscurus- you know getting away over the rubble, in his Obscurus form.”

“But you were just reinstated!” Queenie gasps. “You can’t put that at risk-”

“Picquery’s given me a few day’s leave for… everything. And I can’t just do nothing, if Credence is alive-”

Memories flit across Tina’s mind, the poor boy, the Obscurial, huddled away after a beating, Tina trying to comfort him.

“Oh, Tina,” Queenie sighs. “Well at least take your coat. It’s still awfully wet out.”

Tina smiles, all sharp and about to get into trouble. “No hints? You musta saw into his head, right?”

She had but… just because she could see into a mind didn’t mean she should tell everyone what she saw. There was a responsibility with her power, rules to abide by, but at the same time, Tina-

“He’s a mess, Tina,” she says. “That poor boy. You can’t take him in, if you find him, if he even…” she trails off, her shoulders relax. “Home,” she says at last. “For him, everythin’ begins and ends with his home.”

Tina nods, flicks her collar up, pulls her hat down.

“Wish me luck,” she says, opening the door.

She’s outside - gone - before Queenie can reply. “Don’t you always need it,” she says fondly to the empty air.

Modesty finds the last of a pot of soup and Credence takes over reheating it when Modesty almost sets things aflame. He stays at the stove, stirring, while Modesty gleefully pushes leaflets off the table and into the fire.

“Chastity will-” he starts to say.

“Chastity Schmastity,” Modesty says. “She’s not here.”

No, Credence thinks. She ran. Probably all the way back to her old family. He keeps his eyes on the soup but he can feel Modesty’s gaze on his back.

“You came back,” he says eventually. “Why-”

Modesty’s voice is gentle. “You’re my brother,” she says. “I couldn’t’a let you be lost and alone any more’n I coulda let Mom-”

There’s a screech as a chair skids across the floor, as it thuds against the table. Credence screws his eyes shut (I don’t want to hurt Modesty, I don’t want to hurt Modesty) . His hands still shake.

Modesty stays pointedly quiet before, “Is it done yet? I’m hungry.”

Credence ladles out bowls for them, cuts hunks of bread, finds the butter. By the time he sits, Modesty’s already raced through Grace and is wolfing hers down.

His hands shake as he clasps them.

Lord, he thinks. Thank you for…

Thank you for what. He doesn’t know what to say. For this food? It was Mo-. Mary-L-, Mrs. Barebone’s, for the street kids. For a roof over their heads? He’d destroyed it, only hours before. His hands are still shaking.

Lord, he thinks. I’m thankful for being alive.

When he opens his eyes, Modesty is staring at him, spoon of soup halfway to her mouth.

“You gonna eat?” she asks.

They eat in silence.

Tina finds the church-cum-Barebone’s-house easily. She knows it well, after all, after talking to Credence so many times.

Forbidden to be friends, she thinks. To be kind . She doubts everyone everywhere in America abides by the rules. How could they? Only if they were as heartless as that Warlock from Beedle’s tales, she imagines.

The door is slightly ajar and she raps her knuckles on it lightly before pushing it open. It creaks.

“Credence?” she calls.

Modesty has hidden herself under the table, bowl in hand, before the door even creaks.

Then Tina’s voice calls out.

She steps through carefully. The room is pristine, as though an Obscurial never lost control here, as though an Obscurus was never loosed, as though Credence - sat shaking at the table - hadn’t finally killed the woman who beat him.

Credence is alive.

Credence has to swallow twice before he can speak. “Modesty,” he says, voice soft. “You can c-come out. It’s only Tina.”

Modesty’s head pokes up like a wary rodent’s before she settles in her chair again.

“Hey,” Tina says softly, shock and relief writ clear on her face. She swallows visibly. “You’re alive.”

Modesty finishes her soup and bread and bolts upstairs. Tina sits, slowly, in her vacated seat. Before him, Credence’s soup cools.

“Have you come to arrest me?”

“No!” There is nothing in Tina’s face but shock. “No. MACUSA doesn’t even know you’re alive. I only… Newt thought he saw you escape.”

Something, some tense feeling in Credence’s stomach uncurls and relaxes. “Why-”

“Because you’re my friend,” Tina says. “Because I was worried about you.”

“How did you-”

“Queenie,” Tina says. He frowns. “My sister. She’s a Legilimens - she can read minds. She got a sense of yours when-”

The subway. The pale witch with golden hair, the pink coat. Watching him as he’d warped and destroyed and almost was destroyed-

“She said that if you survived you’d go home,” Tina says, looking around the room. “That, for you, everything begins and ends here, in this place.”

Credence sleeps in his old bed. The sheets smell of his blood, his sweat, his fear. He twitches at every creak as though Mo-. Mary-L-. Mrs. Barebone is going to come in and use the belt on him at any moment.

His hands have stopped shaking though.

(“I’ll have to go,” Tina had said. “Tomorrow I’ll bring my sister, see if we can help you and…” her eyes had darted upstairs.

(“Modesty.” Was it fear that had made his voice shake?

(“Modesty,” Tina’s voice was gentle, her hands reaching to him but pulling back when he flinched. “We’ll help you,” she had said, almost a promise. Credence doesn’t know if he can believe promises anymore. “We won’t let you get hurt again.”)

Credence sleeps and dreams of terrible things.

Ascetic is what Queenie thinks when she steps into the building. Efficient, effective, but without an ounce of affection.

Utilitarian. Almost cruel.

“Well,” she says. “If we’re stayin’ here we’ll have to make it more homely.”

Tina’s glance to her is as much a question as her every thought.

“We can’t help him from home,” she says simply. “And we can’t let him stay with us. Leave the paperwork to me, Teeny, we’re moving in.”

Credence, a shadow at the foot of the stairs, finally speaks. “Won’t that be dangerous?”

She’s pale as her sister, Queenie, but fairhaired where her sister is dark. There’s something warmer about her too, and the light from the window hits her hair and makes it shine. He barely notices her crossing to him, her fingers reaching to touch his cheek until he feels it.

For the first time, he doesn’t flinch.

Her eyes are searching, bright and watchful, darting around him as though she can see his thoughts, read his very soul. Her face is so kind, her fingers so gentle, her hair like a halo-

“I’m not an angel, silly,” she says, but it’s gentle, warm, almost teasing and her smile seems almost fond. “I’m just as human as you are.”

He. He who has a monster living under his skin.

“Not a monster,” Queenie says. “Just your magic.” She says it so plainly, as though there’s nothing wrong with how he can’t control it. “We’re goin’ to teach you,” she says, glancing back to Tina. “We’re goin’ to help you as best we can.”

He’s not afraid of Queenie and … it's such a relief. He doesn’t seem to mind her dipping into his head, responding to unspoken thoughts. If anything he seems to welcome it.

“He can’t find the words,” Queenie quietly tells her as they’re moving in, dancing objects around with their wands until the whole building feels warm and welcoming. With Modesty here they really shouldn’t but she’s refusing to leave and with Credence around she’s going to see accidental magic at least. They might as well pretend she’s a squib and teach her to keep the secret with them.

“He can’t find the words, or he can but he doesn’t know if he should say them, or how.” She glances to Credence then. He’s stood in a corner, back to the wall, palms pressed flat to the wood, watching their things dance. “Would you like to try?” she calls, and Credence starts as if from reverie. “Here,” she says, offering her wand. “It’s not too hard.”

Credence takes the wand carefully - it’s such a beautiful thing with it’s delicate handle and he dares not break it. Queenie’s hand wraps gently over his.

“You move the wand like this,” she says, moving his hand with a gentle swish-and-flick motion. “The incantation-” she pauses, as though thinking better of it all. Credence begins to let go of the wand.

“No, sweetie,” she says, smiling. “Just try to cast with no spell. Swish and flick and make the plate fly.”  She steps back, tugs Tina back gently, the dance of objects stilling. She nods at him. “You can do it.”

His hands are shaking.

“Queenie, I don’t think-” Tina starts, but Queenie shushes her.

“You can do it, Credence. Swish and flick and want it to fly.”

He looks at the wand, shaking in his hand. The plate on the table. Upstairs, Modesty is watching. He fixes his eyes on the plate, imagines it rising, swish and flick and-

The plate wobbles into the air.

“No incantation,” Tina tells Queenie later. “ No incantation? How did he do that?”

Queenie’s shrug is graceful, her smile beatific. “Magic.”

“Queenie, I swear-”

“It was magic,” Queenie repeats. “He’s never used a spell for magic before - just like I’ve never used a spell for my Legilimency. Why should he start now?”

“Because everyone does? You knew the spell, you still know the spell, he-”

“Knows how his magic feels. It’s not a- a force that’s only his, that has to obey him like ours is to us. He’s an Obscurial, Tina. His magic is all wild, it’s not tied to words.”

Tina pauses, nods slowly. “Like a horse. Our magic is like a carriage horse, it knows what to do when it hears walk or trot or canter. His is wild and all he can do is hold on and try to guide it by touch.”

Queenie beams. “ Exactly.”

Credence wakes shaking from a nightmare to find Queenie at the doorway. In her hands is a mug. She sets it down on the crate that serves as a bedside cabinet.

“Tina always made me cocoa after my nightmares,” she says softly. Her slippers scuff gently over the wooden floor until she kicks them off and digs her toes into the rag-rug in the middle of the room.

The mug is steaming, the ceramic warm as he reaches for it.

“Tina used to get me to talk about my nightmares,” Queenie says. “Its how we learned that half of my nightmares were hers, and that with training I could be one of a very few Master Legilimens.”

The cocoa is warm and sweet as he drinks. More sweet than he thought cocoa would be.

“I added honey,” Queenie says. “And a little mint and powdered valerian - it helps with sleep. In Potions it can make a Dreamless Sleep Potion.”

His voice is quiet as he says, “I may need that.”

They’re quiet for a while. Credence focusses on the cocoa - that thing that is so opposite to nightmares - and starts to relax. When he glances up at her Queenie’s head is tilted to one side, watching him, attentive and polite. Her hands cup her elbows through her dressing-gown.

She doesn’t say a word until he finishes.

“We could teach you, if you’d like,” she says. “How to make dreamless sleep.”

Credence sets the empty mug down on the crate, tucks himself under his covers, tilts his head to look at Queenie. She waves her wand - that she’d lent to him , of all people, earlier - and the mug floats up. He can’t think how to say how grateful he is, but -

“Oh sweetie,” she says, fingertips reaching out, gently stroking his cheek. He leans into the affection and does not see Queenie’s soft smile turn sad. “We’ll teach you in the morning,” she says, before her fingertips withdraw. “Sweetest dreams, Credence.”

As he falls into the fuzzy arms of sleep he thinks, But I don’t know if I am Credence any more.

“Poor boy,” Queenie sighs as they wait for the kettle to boil in the morning. They could do it with magic, of course, but first thing in the morning, that seems dangerous. “He’s so-”

She trails off. Tina knows why - some things she sees in minds Queenie will never share, and other things she simply can’t, even if she wanted to. Some things there aren’t words for.

“I know,” Tina says, pouring the kettle. “It’s why I wanted your help.”

Chapter Text

It’s not too much effort for Queenie to manage all of the required paperwork for things - the building in Credence’s name, some careful handling of Mary-Lou’s will (and a death certificate). A squib certificate falsified for Modesty after it was clear she was never going to leave and on the understanding that she wasn’t allowed to tell her birth family about her brother’s magic. And Queenie procured - even Tina did not know how - a wizarding birth certificate for the state of New York for one Beaufort Credence Dunmore.

Credence holds it with trembling fingers.

“We don’t know who you were,” Queenie says. “We probably never will. But you don’t have to be a Barebone anymore.”

Credence’s sight blurs with tears.

In the air around them soft golden lights shimmer and sparkle.

Before long Tina has to go back to work. Madam Picquery and the rest of the Auror Corps have been grilling Grindelwald but someone had to search for Mr. Graves.

“Might as well be me,” Tina says, flicking her collar up, pulling her hat down. “Drove him mad often enough. ‘Bout time I proved myself worthwhile, right?”

“Graves w-was real?” Credence asks once Tina’s left. Modesty had left for school at the same time and Queenie’s making use of her long-accumulated paid vacation days. Queenie’s puzzled frown tells him she’s picked up a lot more from his mind and he scurries to hide it.

“Percival Graves ’s been a part of the Auror office for almost twenty years,” Queenie says. “I’ve seen him myself on days Grindelwald was active. Merlin, he was ahead’a me at Ilvermorny, head of the Duelling Club the year I arrived. Very handsome man. Thought very politely about everyone, even if he was kinda strict with the rules.”

There’s something about how she says handsome that makes him certain she knows.

Her fingertips gently touch his chin. “Credence?”

Concentration broken, a flurry of thoughts cascade across his mind. The sound of Graves’ voice, the smell of his cologne, how he looked in his coat, and-

“Credence,” Queenie says, smiling. “You’re not the first young wizard to have a crush on Mr. Graves. Salem’s First, I think everyone at Ilvermorny did at some point.”

He unsticks his jaw. “B-but-”

“Oh Credence,” Queenie says, voice gentle. “It’s not a sin. Not any more than your magic is.”

She hops off the table - polished smooth and to a mirror shine with one flick of Queenie’s wand - and crosses to the kitchen. After a few moments she turns back to him. “Do you want to learn how to make Dreamless Sleep, still?”

“What is that?” Queenie asks, when Tina returns covered in some bizarre morphing shell of… butterflies?

“I have no idea,” says Tina, foul mood clearly already well begun. “Someone was trafficking them.”

“Wimpy Abbott?”

“Wimpy Abbott.” Tina slumps in a chair, the butterflies - no, moths - still fluttering around her, warping in odd ways almost like an Obscurus. “I’m gonna owl Newt,” Tina says. “See if he knows what these are.”

Queenie smiles and sets down a mug of coffee. Her sister’s grateful smile tells her as much as her thoughts. “Tell him about Credence, maybe?” she suggests. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear.”

Dearest Tina,

Newt’s letter began. ( See, I told you he likes you, Tina) (Shush, Queenie)

     I’ve been travelling through Asia (again) trying to find safe places to release the Occamies and Dougal, and was very surprised to get your letter. Your owl is astounding, I must say. I’d love to study him.
     With regards to the insects that have followed you home, they sound to me like Greater Eurasian Masked Moths. They’re very popular as decoration back home, kept in tanks that are usually far too small. You can lure them away with a mixture of 3 parts honey to 1 part pig’s blood - or human, if you’re not too squeamish - left in a large bowl or cauldron. If they like you, though, they can provide excellent camouflage. Of course, if you can’t get rid of them, I’d gladly take them off your hands. My last opportunity to study them was far too brief.
     That’s some wonderful news, about Credence, and I do hope you can help him. Those of us who are different often end up having a hard time of it, and those with powers such as his are especially at risk. Wish him luck from me.
     I hope the search for the real Percival Graves succeeds soon - I imagine his empty office must be frightfully odd - (more like a horrible reminder) (Queenie!) - for everyone at MACUSA.
     Please find attached my notes on some of my latest discoveries. I think they might just interest you.

          With the greatest of regards,

               Your friend,

(see, Queenie? Friend.) (“with the greatest of regards”) (Queenie!)

                    Newton Scamander
                    (Magizoologist)

P.S. That splatter was from Pickett. He fell in the inkpot.

“Pig’s blood?” Tina asks.

“There’s a goyische butchers down the road, we could-”

“Pig’s blood?!”

Queenie sighs. “‘Not in our house’ again, Tina?”

“Too damn right. We’re not givin' up who we are. We all know what hiding yourself can do.”

Queenie does not glance to Credence.

“We’re livin’ in a church, Tina,” she says instead.

Tina shrugs. “Its not a church now.”

Queenie smiles fondly at her sister. “I take it we’re keeping the moths, then?” she asks.

Tina smiles, all sharp and about to get into trouble. “Good camouflage, Newt says.”

Queenie likes Credence’s mind. Even his thoughts are quiet - even when they’re rioting - and there’s layers and layers to everything. Since she gave him his new-forged birth certificate the main recurring thought has been, Beaufort Credence Dunmore. Not Barebone. Not her son. ME.

He still has nightmares - and they still wake her long before they wake him - but Valerian Cocoa and a little conversation works wonders.

She still notices how he flinches.

And his hands still shake.

“I’m never going to be a proper wizard, am I?” Credences voice is small and scared and his hands shake as they hold Queenie’s wand. Queenie has never wished she could do more quite so much.

“Proper has nothing to do with it, Credence,” she says. “You’re an Obscurial. Your magic is different from everyone’s, like mine is. We don’t have to be proper. We can’t be proper, with how our magic is. We just hav’ta be polite.”

Modesty doesn’t run from him when his magic goes wild now.

His magic. It’s still bizarre to think about.

Modesty doesn’t run, now, not after seeing friendly Tina and glamourous Queenie and their wands and their magic. She had listened very solemnly as Tina had explained things. Now, when his magic reacts to fear or anger, Modesty wraps him in a hug.

“You’re my brother, Cre,” she says. “You’re not gonna hurt me.”

Somehow, despite the Obscurus, he never does.

Chapter Text

“We should try to get him a proper wand,” Queenie says to Tina as they watch Credence dance dried washing-up through the air and back onto the shelves with her wand. “My wand’ll work for him, but it’s my wand. He’d be better with his own.” She curls her hands closer around her mug, breathes in the steam.

“How? We’d need a wand permit and even as Beaufort Credence Dunmore we can’t very easily… forge it, all the way through and get him one. Most wandmakers sell directly to Ilvermorny or the other schools.” Around Tina’s shoulders her swarm of Masked Moths shift uneasily.

“Yes we can,” Queenie says. “We say he didn’t go to Ilvermorny, or the other schools - which is why he won’t show up on the registers - because his family went south for a few years, across the border. He was homeschooled, mostly, didn’t go to Castelobruxo, and now he’s moved home he wants to get a new wand for a new start.” Queenie keeps on watching as Credence finishes putting things away and starts setting a sponge and cloth to cleaning and wiping down the surfaces. His smiles to them are tentative, still, but there, and growing warmer. She smiles back at him before glancing to Tina. “I think Credence would do well with a Beauvais wand, don’t you?”

Credence’s wand is 10” long and of swamp mayhaw wood, cored with a single dark Rougarou hair. “A bit on the stubby side,” Ms Beauvais said when the wand chose him, “But flexible, adaptable. It’ll serve you well, my boy.”

Queenie had paid for the wand, dug out the dragots, finished up the form and sent it to the office where Tina was to get it ready to be stamped through. Then she apparated them both home. Credence didn’t let go of his wand.

“It’s … warm,” he says. “Like. Like it’s alive.”

“Magical resonance,” Queenie says. “The way the wood and core interact with magic is on a level with your magic. It feeds back into you and feels like warmth.”

His hands aren’t shaking.

“Are you all right?” Queenie asks. “You haven’t been out much since we moved in.”

Since everything is the unspoken words and Credence appreciates how she doesn’t say them.

“I’m…,” he turns his wand in his hand, marvels at it’s warmth, at how the thistle design of his hand fits his grip perfectly. He’d barely noticed the design in the shop - the same thistle design as on his belt buckle, even, but… somehow it didn’t bother him. He’d left home. Spoken to a new person. In his hands he held a wand, his wand.

And his hands weren’t shaking.

“I’m all right,” he says. “I think.”

Queenie’s smile is bright and almost painfully lovely. Even with her words ( I’m as human as you are, silly! ) in his mind, some days he can’t help but compare her to an angel. She and Tina and Modesty together have saved him and… was that not what angels did?

“In our lore,” Queenie says, “Jewish lore, angels are His messengers. And they can be beautiful saviours, yes, but terrible creatures too, avenging or delivering brutal justice. This is why they always say Fear not.” She puts the kettle onto the hob to boil, pulls down mugs and the very small coffee press her sister and she had brought with them on moving in. She smiles over her shoulder to Credence, still painfully lovely but more grounded, more human. “By those rules,” she says, “You could be called an angel too.”

Credence shows Modesty his wand when she gets in from school, crouches before her and shows her the fine design of thistles that grow from the grip to the main stem of the wand. “And it’s mine, Modesty, it chose me,” he finishes, smiling. Around them the air is softly sparking with gold.

Modesty smiles and wraps her brother in a hug. “Can I get a new one, then?” she asks. “Given you’ve got an actual one.”

Credence laughs - laughs! - and waves his wand as soon as he is free. Into Modesty’s hand falls a wooden wand, exactly like the one Mary Lou Barebone had snapped.

Tina slides him his permit over the table at dinner and Credence slides her his wand so she can see it.

“Not bad,” she says, after swallowing a mouthful of potato. “Queenie and I were both chosen by wands from other wandmakers. Queenie’s is a Jonker, mine’s a Quintana. Don’t usually see that many Beauvais, they’re notoriously choosy. Good though,” she adds, when she sees Credence’s worried expression. “Powerful. Given how powerful you are, with your wand, it’d have to be a Beauvais or a Wolfe.”

She slides his wand back to him and there is something soothing in feeling its warmth against his palm.

“You can call yourself a real wizard now, if you want,” Tina says. “Wand and all.”

“Real,” Credence says quietly. “Maybe not proper, though.”

Queenie’s hand is gentle on his. “Polite, though,” she says. “And that’s the important part, when your magic is different. Don’t let it make you rude.”

Credence wonders what rude would look like with his magic. He remembers warping swirling anger, twisting through the city in a cloud of anger and loss and no small amount of hate, the dark fingers of his magic devouring and spitting out everything he came across.

Fear not, pushes gently against his mind in a voice like Queenie’s.

“What… what point is there,” he asks, “in being rude? They’ll just… just try to kill me again and fix everything. Make it like I was never angry or grieving or lost or hateful or… or anything. Like I’m nothing.” He uncurls his hand from his wand, can feel the imprints of the carved thistles on his palm. “A reparo could undo everything I do like. Like it was nothing.”

There’s silence for a while before Modesty goes, “But isn’t that rude, too?”

“Ye-es,” Tina says slowly. At her shoulders the moths shift restlessly. “But it’s necessary. We have to remain hidden from the No-Maj’s. It is rude. It isn’t fair. But we have to protect a whole world and-”

There’s tears in Queenie’s eyes as she says what her sister can’t bring herself to say. “Sometimes the many have to outweigh the few.”

Tina wakes late that night. It’s dark out and yet still bright - the way of the city, she’s known that for years but she still misses Ilvermorny for the true darkness and the pale pinpricks of the stars. Her slippers are coolly warm on her feet, warming more as she shuffles down the corridor with a lumos -bright wand.

Under Credence’s door, shadows shift.

Lethifold . They may be possibly fictional, but Newt had something that resembled the depiction and they could kill people.

She opens the door quietly but quickly, expecting to see a dark cloak attempting to devour Credence but there’s nothing. Just shadows warping over the wall like an Obscurus.

Credence is fast asleep, his forehead creased in a frown.

He’s shaken from his nightmare not by his own fear but by another’s hands. Tina’s worried face looking down at him, framed by dark hair.

“You were having a nightmare,” she says. “Are you all right?”

Credence shrugs. Slowly, he reaches for his wand.

“Come on,” Tina says with a sigh, offering him her hand. “Let’s get some cocoa.”

It’s quiet downstairs and Tina bustles around with milk and a saucepan and cocoa powder, adds a spoonful of honey and a pinch of powdered valerian from the potions cupboard.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks brusquely, stirring the pan.

Credence, sat at the table, shrugs.

“Credence,” she says softly, gentle in her own bright way. “I’m not Queenie, I won’t magically know what’s goin’ on for you always. But I do wanna help you, if you’ll let me.”

Credence is quiet, fingers tapping patterns over the tabletop.

“What's the point?” He asks eventually. “I’m an Obscurial because … because my magic needed to express itself or to… to do something, right? To express anger and loss and everything I was …. Hiding along with it. But when I let it out -” he snaps his fingers “- ‘s fixed. Like. Like nothing ever happened.”

At the stove top Tina pours the cocoa into mugs and silently spells the saucepan to the sink and sponge. She slides a mug to Credence. He wraps his fingers carefully around the warmth.

“After. When I. Fell back into myself it was like. Like all my anger had been a dream. Like it had all been a dream. Because everything was fixed. And it was like when Mo- Mrs Barebone would change what she said or Grav-”

“Grindelwald,” Tina says softly.

“See! Even his name was a lie.” He pauses, takes a sip of his cocoa. “I landed back in my body, in the rain, and it was like everything had been a dream. Vague memories, and nothing to prove any of them except that-”

“You could feel your magic.”

Credence nods. “It’s like... .” He swallows. “It’s like the whole world was - is - lying to me. I was rude with my magic-” (the words still feel odd in his mouth, my magic ) “-but it’s like nothing happened. Like I dreamed it all. And. If I can’t trust my own magic, my own mind... what can I trust? What is real? And then if it is real... what’s the point? I feel like I could destroy the city and when - if - I woke at the end of it there'd still be nothing to show for it. Like my anger never happened. Like my anger isn’t real.”

“Like your anger is a lie,” Tina whispers.

Credence looks up, meets her eyes. “But it isn’t,” he says. “I know it isn’t. Even if the world-”

“Tries to insist it is.”