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Percival sat in a crisp, white quiet room and he burned with shame. Every visitor hammered another nail to the very core of his with their mingled pity, mistrust and guilt. The eyes of his Aurors, pinned firmly to their shoes. Seraphina’s voice - her tone remaining at all times business like with none of the familiarity and warmth she would usually employ. The conspicuous absence of those… Those whom he had been certain would notice, whom should have missed him more than anyone…
Could he blame them though..?
Fury and outrage mingled with despair and self-doubt. He had always tried to be warm, to be fair… But also to be perennially paternal. Somewhat distant, somewhat removed. A good port in a storm, perhaps… But maybe not quite a friend. And yet he railed against it - he had trained his Aurors to a man, hand picked them, held them when they’d cried and pushed them forward and they could not - or would not - realise the traitor in their midst!
But the worst feeling - that came, unbidden, unwanted and unwelcome - like something dark, dank, dirty and dead washed up by the waves was not how they had let him down - but how he had let them down. It was something, to be sure - that against the howling agony of the success of Gellert’s deception - that the thought that remained was worse. Where one could argue back and forth about who was to blame for the relationship rifts rife within Percival’s life…
His capture.
His capture was all his own and that - that shamed him more than anything else.
Those who envisioned Graves a hero - duelling with Gellert fiercely - fighting until he was bested - never relenting - could not have been more wrong. Percival had been taken - asleep and unaware. Gellert had captured him without a shred of honour (Although the irony of thinking he might have any was almost comedic and hardly something Percival could attempt to reconcile with his image of a man who murdered and slaughtered countless no maj’s for his cause, imprisoned his opposition). He had stolen in like a thief instead and found Percival - face down in his pillow, completely prone and defenceless - his resistance eradicated and much to Percival’s mortification bested him without having to raise his wand.
Until he had been told, once he had been found and rescued - he had not known why he had been imprisoned, nor by whom. Percival had had to rob them of their fantasy and confess that he had taken a dreamless sleep potion and awoken to find himself imprisoned in his own home.
He did not share further details - if Gellert had left any sliver of Percival’s tattered reputation intact he would not take it to the shredder himself. Not confess that the worst parts of his confinement had been the fact that once he had finished the bottle of potion in his nightstand he had come to realise exactly how dependent upon the potion he was now he could no longer indulge and once that was done… Being so utterly alone. That was his punishment. Being alone.
He had not realized upon waking that he had been imprisoned in his home. There was no sign of anything amiss, no whisper of disquiet until he attempted to leave his own apartment and found he could not. He could not apparate, could not open his door, could not climb out his window. He had been robbed of his wand (one's magic was always strongest when using one's wand and he went for it, suddenly on high alarm to find it missing) - but not of his magic, he was still able to throw reducto curses at his door, and then, when they rebounded, clear up the mess they made of his belongings. His portkeys failed to work, floo powder was as ineffectual as it would be in any no maj fire place. He could (with some difficulty given the situation) conjure his patronus, who merely prowled the perimeter uselessly before dissipating.
Time had taken on a strange consistency- he was still able to eat as he would normally, food replenishing itself - and at the start, sleep normally. But his potion supply depleted rapidly - and while he had been so good at tracking his time during the first few days - the line immediately became blurred once he could no longer get to sleep and has to rely on exhaustion to take him… Had he slept ten minutes? Or ten hours?
And then - he had realised the depths of his dependency. Painful cramps and shivers racked his body as he sweated through his clothes, vomited and the gaps between waking and sleeping were muddied further by delirium and hallucinations - plunging him deeper into confusion. He wept, begged wordlessly, forehead pressed into his pillow body arched and curling in agony like a rubber band set to snap, desperate for relief… For release.
It did not come… Not even when he… The thought brought a lump to his throat still and a prickling feeling in his eyes… Not even when he sought that relief for himself. He had awoken… He wasn’t sure how much later - alive and… Hardly well. But alive.
He had failed. He had failed everyone and now, even himself in ways he could not begin to articulate. His punishment for crimes he could not communicate. He had become coddled, weak, doubtful and he had failed.
His misery and anger had mingled and when he could find his feet again his fury was boiling within him - he had screamed, cursed, thrown precious ornaments into the silence just to hear the sound of something, anything…
When he had been rescued - the sight of people - their voices… The warmth of their bodies, the smell of them… He thought he had gone mad, finally. And laughing at the sight of them he must’ve seemed it. Perhaps they had thought he’d been tortured to insanity (and in some ways, perhaps he had…). And then at the hospital… After what he had experienced the last thing he’d expected to create this reaction in him would have been human contact - he could not quantify the amount of time he’d been alone - could not handle the silence - but the hands on him were smothering his touched starved body causing a panic he couldn’t conceal.
And now he sat in a crisp, white quiet room - burning with shame - desperately wishing to never see anyone again and also suffocating in loneliness and silence.
When Tina crept into his room - visiting hours long finished - he was immediately glad of the company. She had the look of a kicked puppy about her - but before he can fixate on it and long for privacy again - she explains why.
Credence Barebone.
Alive - but rather like Percival - not well. She discovered the boy some time ago. Gone for his mother in front of a church full of her followers… Remembering it now Percival could feel a headache forming. The Second Salemer’s were dangerous in more ways than one.The risk of exposure. As if they hadn’t hated witches enough before…
The breach she had created. She was lucky to be alive and at liberty.
Percival had done what he could for her given the circumstances and promised to keep an eye on the boy… Professionally, of course. The New Salem Society needed monitoring anyway and preferably by someone more… Controlled. Less emotional.
He had not attacked Mary-Lou Barebone - but perhaps. Perhaps his interest in Credence could have been more detached.
Although - perhaps - if it had not been for Grindelwald the careful relationship he was crafting with the younger man would have yielded to him the information that Tina was now sharing.
A suppression of natural talent that had lead to the manifestation of an Obscurus. An Obscurus that had killed and destroyed half the city. An Obscurus that Seraphina had ordered dead. An Obscurus that Grindlewald had looked to manipulate.
An Obscurial who had survived and needed protection.
It was a great risk telling him - he conceded. But a calculated one - that paid off. He felt it was partially his fault after all (why hadn’t he noticed? Why hadn’t he helped?) and he pledged his assistance.
But first…
They would have to meet once more because the damage done to the young man by the man who’d stolen his face needed mediation.
It had to be done carefully, of course… While it was doubtful anyone would recognise Credence - it was not something any of the parties involved were willing to leave up to chance.
Percival had dressed very carefully that morning and sat on a chair, instead of his bed, and spent the day with a sense of anxiety he could not shake and would never have suffered before.
Credence came in alone - Tina guarding their meeting - and he stood, trying to arrange his features into something pleasant - should Credence look up from his shoes. He can’t quite help the impulse, almost magnetic, stepping forward - to touch Credence - hand extended to… To… Shake Credence’s like a man.
Credence recoiled as if Percival had advanced to attack - with a fleeting glance of terror from beneath thick dark lashes.
Percival stopped dead, wordless for a moment arms swinging about his body awkwardly as if he had somehow forgotten how a gentleman acted. He tucked them behind his back, holding the wrist of his left hand in his right. Credence dared another furtive glance and he offered a tight smile that did not come within a square league of his eyes trying to offer comfort and encouragement.
“Credence,” He said softly. “You are looking-” He intended to say that the boy was looking well, however, upon closer inspection - it was an outright lie. While Credence was perhaps a little softer looking than he had been the last time the two men had met - his angles and points smoothed out with a few decent meals and his tragic hair cut seemed to be growing out slowly. And although his clothes were better and looked more fiting for this time of year… He was shivering all the same, practically trembling - looking like a stray breeze might knock him off his feet.
“Credence?” He questioned uncertainly, advancing cautiously upon him, hands out, ready to stead him or catch him should he fall to the floor in a dead faint.
Credence whimpered - audibly and with a sharp twist - whipped his body away appearing practically on the verge of tears.
Percival stopped dead for the second time in as many minutes, hands still hovering in the air, extended towards Credence who turned his dark, mistrustful gaze up towards him now openly crying, tears streaming down his face.
What had Grindelwald done to him to make him react like this?
“Credence…” He breathed, eyebrows twitching together - doubt and injury flittering across his face. “Are you afraid of me?”
-
He knew - he knew… He tried to tell himself he hadn’t- couldn’t have known- but the truth was the second Mr. Graves’ hand had lingered, white gloves against the pale shadow of his jaw - that this was not the man he knew.
Mr. Graves had never been so tactile - he had in fact - always been careful to keep his hands to himself and distance between them but this devil wearing his face and tempting him with every secret wish he’d held in his heart… It wasn’t quite right but God forgive him he hadn’t cared…
His Ma had often talked of the beguiling nature of evil and he truly had been bewitched…
It wasn’t right - Mr. Graves who had always been so proper - had never done anything like this before, had always been a paragon of propriety. Credence couldn’t understand the change - couldn’t fathom what it meant - couldn’t legitimise why Mr. Graves would want him - but those lingering fingertips opened up such a chasm of need in his chest that he had never felt before that that even though every fibre of his being was screaming that this was wrong somehow…
He tried desperately to ignore it.
It was wrong he reasoned because Mr. Graves is a wizard (which he has now revealed - which has no repulsed him but entrances him all the more). It is wrong because Mr. Graves should not be touching him in the darkness - not because there is anything wrong. That’s what he tells himself.
But that aching void of want and need - both disgusting and dirty - had blinded him and he had been led astray just as much by Mr. Graves’ pretty words as he had his pretty face… Until he been betrayed.
He knew the difference - had felt it in his soul long before Tina tried to explain - but the reaction that rears its head when he sees Mr. Graves again cannot be contained.
Percival watched horror struck as black ichor - black sand caught in the wind - began to seep from Credence, leaking out of him as if from his pores slowly. His eyes flashed white briefly before the mist began to recede - Credence fighting his fear, his anger, his emotions and his Obscurus for control.
Mr. Graves, who had come so close to touch him was looking at him, his emotions bare and unconcealed hand still suspended in mid-air.
“Are you afraid of me Mr. Graves?”