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Chapter Text

He’s distracted when it happens. His stomach is clenched in hunger, and Chastity won’t stop talking about pulling Modesty from school to help with the cause. He’s trying to drown her out, slowing his steps subtly to put some distance between the pair of them. But her words are echoing in his ears, and he’s just so damn hungry. Credence is so busy trying to clear his mind, he doesn’t catch the man coming straight for him until they’re chest to chest.

Credence takes in the man’s face briefly, then immediately bows his head and averts his eyes to stare down at the man’s shoes instead. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” he says emphatically.

The man says nothing at first. Credence gives himself permission to quickly glance up from the man’s expensive black leather shoes to his smooth, unreasonably handsome face. He tells himself it’s to assess how much offense he’s caused, but really it’s to look once more at the man’s lips. As soon as he takes in the man’s features—cold and impenetrable as they are—his gaze falls ground-ward again. But not before catching the curious glint in the man’s hard eyes.

“Nevermind it,” the man says brusquely. “The fault is mine. Have a nice afternoon.” Then he’s off, already brushing the metaphorical dust of the encounter off his shoulders, and Credence right along with it.

Credence watches him go, staring at the stranger’s face as he crosses the street quickly. Purposefully. Gracefully. It’s the kind of stride Credence knows he’ll never muster. He watches until the man is out of sight, his breathing quick.

It’s one of those moments, those fleeting moments, that plague Credence. A flicker in time when a life Credence knows he can’t have flashes quickly before him, taunting and teasing. See what you’ll never be? these moments whisper from the darkest recesses of his mind. See what you don’t deserve? What you’ll never earn?

But of course, once the man is gone from his view, the moment passes. Credence turns his gaze back to his intended path and begins walking. He has more flyers to pass out before he’s allowed to come home. He’s already wasted precious time. He thinks of the man one more time before carefully locking the image of him safely into a mental box to be considered later in private. Then he goes on his way. Chastity has gone far enough ahead he’s in actual danger of losing her, which won’t go over well with Mother.

It doesn’t. Chastity beats Credence home, all her flyers gone while Credence still clings to a small handful, and tells Mother it’s because he was distracted by a man. He wants to be angry at her, and a small part of him is. It was none of her business, and he hadn’t done anything overtly inappropriate. But mostly, Credence is indifferent. It was wrong to be so taken by the stranger. He knows this. It was ungodly. He’s not looking forward to the beating that’s sure to come, but he takes it as a logical consequence for the part of him that’s broken.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he murmurs. “It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” she agrees. “Belt.”

Credence doesn’t even consider hesitating.

Later, when his hand is bleeding and singing with pain, Credence lies in bed and delicately takes the key to the box he had locked his encounter away in, and despite the sharp lesson delivered for it, he replays the short moment over and over. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But he doesn’t stop.

Credence understands on one level that not every church is like the New Salem Philanthropic Society. That there are men and women of God who carry the same perversion as Credence inside them, but without the shame and guilt. He understands this objectively, but he can’t fathom it. Can’t wrap his head around what it would feel like to wake up every morning and not feel so corrupted. It seems like such a fantasy.

Sometimes Credence lets himself daydream about having been adopted by some other family when he was young. About being raised outside the church, with a normal parent. Maybe even two parents. He wonders if maybe a different family would have responded a different way to Credence’s issues. His anger. His filth. He doesn’t know if Mother’s approach to faith and child-rearing has helped Credence’s condition or harmed it. Would things have gone differently his freshman year in high school if he’d had a different mother? Or would they have gone much much worse?

When Credence thinks too long about it, though, he gets depressed. What’s the use in thinking on such a thing? The reality is that it happened, and he was expelled for it. The role another family may have played in this alternate reality is moot. Besides, Credence knows he’s really rather lucky. At least he has a family and a home and food reliably on the table, however little there is. Not everyone can say the same.

Credence forces himself to refocus on his encounter from the afternoon. He doesn’t know why he’s so fixated on the man he ran into. It’s not like he’s seen him before, and he isn’t likely to see him again. But it’s a much more pleasant thought than his pained hand or his stark living conditions. Because his day has already felt soiled by his indecency, Credence lets himself take it a step further. With his good hand, he takes the thin pillow beneath his head and quietly positions it between his legs so its pressing into his groin. He turns on his side, away from the women he shares this cramped living space with, and thrusts his hips slowly, so slowly, against the material.

The drag of his cock through his underwear and sleep pants and against the pillow is tortuous. This is what I deserve , Credence tells himself as he silently shifts his hips another centimeter forward. It’s a painful compromise he’s made with himself—indulge in his sinful thoughts but deny himself the pleasure of his own physical touch. If he’s going to do this, it isn’t going to be easy. You don’t deserve easy.

He thinks of the man whose features he’s un-consentingly using for his own release, and bites into his uninjured knuckles to keep from crying out. He laves pathetically at his own skin and wonders how it would feel to have that man inside of him. If it would hurt. If he wants it too. If he would finally feel whole, or if it would only leave him feeling more empty. If he would just feel guilty, as he feels right now rutting against his linens while his sisters sleep only a few feet away. This , he thinks, is why God won’t let you leave here. If you’ll do this in His house, what can you be trusted to do outside of it?

Credence thinks of letting an endless parade of men fuck him into the mattress while the stranger from the afternoon watches, and knows he’s fundamentally unwell. But in for a penny, in for a pound. So he lets his mind run wild as he thrusts with such controlled, silent precision it’s a wonder he ever manages to cum at all.

His seed, when release arrives, scalds his skin where it touches, burning as hot as his shame. Carefully, so very carefully, Credence stands from his cot, takes off the pillow case, and slowly walks to his dresser. He grabs a clean pair of underwear and sleeping pants as quietly as he can, then heads for the bathroom where he shoves his soiled items to the  bottom of the laundry bin. It’s his day to do the laundry tomorrow, which is the only reason Credence let himself indulge that night. It was his best chance to do so without being found out.

As he’s closing the hamper, Credence finds the tip of his index finger is cold and tacky with a small smear of cum. He doesn’t let himself think too much about it when he draws it to his lips and sucks the top of the digit into his mouth. It’s not the first time he’s tasted himself, but as with every other instance, Credence promises himself it will be his last. He closes his eyes, savoring the moment.

And then, like the afternoon, the moment is over. His finger is wiped hastily dry against his pajama bottoms, and then Credence is climbing back under the covers, head resting against his un-covered pillow, and tucking himself into bed. He puts the encounter out of his mind and locks the box up once more.

Chapter Text

The next morning Credence wakes up early to start the washing—his still-healing hand burning in the morning chill and the icy water—and makes lunch for Modesty to take to school. Mother won’t do it, leaving her to eat whatever is provided, but Credence doesn’t mind. If it’s one less part of Modesty’s day when she’s miserable, when she can be reminded that she is loved by someone, then he’s happy to take the time. In all honesty, the lunch he makes for her isn’t much better than the school’s, which she qualifies to receive for free and eats alongside the handmade ones from Credence, but at least this way he can write her little notes. Sometimes he sends her with encouraging bible verses. Sometimes he just sends little hearts. But she gets something every day from him, no matter what.

When they’re both up and walking to school, Credence has Modesty recite her vocabulary words and the steps to whatever math strategy she’s working on. Credence can’t help her as much with her homework—third grade math looks differently for her than it did for him—but he can help her like this. Besides, the walk is long, and it helps pass the time. Mother believes walking builds character, but that doesn’t stop the pair of them looking wistfully at the passing yellow school bus as it whirs by them on the street.

“Let’s review your sight words,” he says to Modesty as they walk.

She sighs, already tired of the activity though it’s barely started. “Fine, fine.”

“Spell though .”

Modesty does so perfectly.

“Very nice,” Credence says. “Now, spell through .”

“T-h-r-o-u-g-h. Through.”

“Now, thorough .”

“T-h-o-r-o-u-g-h.”

Credence smiles at her. “What do they say in your class? Kiss your head?”

Modesty gives him a put-upon expression, eyes rolling. “Kiss your brain, you’re so smart.”

“Ah, yes,” says Credence. “Well, little sis, get ready to kiss your brain, because you’re so smart.”

For a moment, Credence thinks Modesty won’t do it. That she’s too cool, as the kids say. But then her small hand snakes out from her pocket. She kisses her finger tips and quickly pats herself on the forehead.

“That’s my girl,” Credence says. “Smarter than I was in third grade, that’s for sure.”

Modesty snorts. “Yeah, right, brother.”

Credence pretends not to notice the way Modesty looks furtively around her after she makes the comment, as if Mother could be right behind her. They only talk like this because Mother isn’t around to chastise them for being impolite, and it’s easily Credence’s favorite part of his daily routine. But still, the fear hovers for both of them.

Mother doesn’t really want Modesty in public school at all, but she can’t afford private and hasn’t the time to teach Modesty at home. She was going to simply let her go without any formal education, like she had managed with Credence after he’d been expelled. It had been hard on Mother to have both Credence and Chastity, who was four years younger, away at school at the same time, but Modesty’s social worker caught on to the ruse and had a fit. Modesty had been begrudgingly enrolled into kindergarten at a local public school, where she had amassed a number of  tardies and absences so great that the school sent a truancy officer out to the church. Finally, Credence had gently reminded his mother how useless he had become in spreading God’s message through a lack of education, and Mother had quit fighting it.

“Modesty is much smarter than me,” he had said carefully. “She has a lot more potential than I do.”

Mother had considered this. “God did gift her with graces he deems you unworthy of. She takes much more after her sister.”

Credence had nodded, even though the words stung.

Mother had put a hand to her chest. “She’ll be able to serve Him better if those graces are cultivated. Of course! I don’t know why I didn’t understand this sooner.”

Now Modesty went off to school each day with a handwritten note from Credence in her lunch bag.

“Try your best,” Credence says as he kisses the top of her head in front of the school building. “Learn as much as you can.” It’s his daily prayer for her. Learn so that you can escape .

His sister pulls a face, but still she smiles, so Credence knows it’s all right.

He watches her walk up the steps and through the double doors, hands in his pockets to fight against the autumn chill cutting into his wounds. The Barebones aren’t ready for winter. They never are. But Credence will have to think of something if he wants to put Modesty in a warm coat for the season. He frowns, depressed about their situation and already feeling a little hopeless.

“You’re a good brother,” a voice says from behind him. Credence turns and sees the handsome man from the day before standing barely a foot away. Though Credence is deeply ashamed of having thoughts of this man while pleasuring himself, he can’t quite bring himself to drop his gaze this time.

“Excuse me?” he says tentatively.

“Am I being presumptuous? I do that sometimes. I assumed that was your sister, and I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to her. Sorry if I’m being too forward—it was a nice moment to see, that’s all.”

Credence deepens his frown and finally averts his eyes. He isn’t a good brother at all. The man looks uncomfortable when Credence lets himself peek at him again.

The stranger raises his hands. “Sorry. I’ve clearly made a mistake. Have a nice day.” He pats Credence on the arm as he turns and leaves, giving Credence an embarrassing jolt. Then the man is walking quickly away, his stride still as elegant as Credence had remembered it.

Caught in a strange mood after his unexpected second encounter, Credence finds himself taking the long route home. He has time before Mother returns from the orphanage where she ladles out beige-colored slop in the mornings, and Credence needs to get his head on straight before he sees her again.

So he meanders through a more winding journey than the one he’d walked with his sister, savoring the cold and the color of the dying leaves. Of course, there’s a self-flagellating element of this route back to the church, because it’s on this path that Credence must pass the university. New York University is the one place Credence wishes he could go above all others, and yet the one place completely barred from him. Even if he had finished high school or sat for his G.E.D., Mother would have never let him leave. That Chastity has no interest in higher education only makes his interest seem more laughable. And if he’d done so against her will, who would have looked after Modesty? Not Chastity certainly. Not the way Modesty deserves to be looked after, anyway.

Credence let’s himself stop to stare at the university buildings, students crowding the streets, coming and going from classes Credence will never have the pleasure of taking himself. It hurts in a dull, familiar, and comfortable sort of way, this pain. Like donning a favorite sweater, if Credence had ever been afforded such a luxury. He wonders if the stranger from earlier went to NYU when he was younger. What he studied, if he did. Something important, surely. The man had looked very important, with his nice clothes and clean-shaven face. Not a hair on his head out of place.

Credence makes himself stop thinking about it. About him . He was one man among many, and a stranger at that. It was a silly waste of time and energy to keep thinking about him, and about alternate worlds and futures that Credence knows he’s forbidden from entering. So he clears his head of such thoughts and continues on his way back to the church. It’s library day, and he wants to have his things ready so that they can leave as soon as Mother gets back from her morning obligations.

Credence is allowed two hours at the public library every week. He and Mother go for an hour on Monday and again on Thursday, and sometimes he gets an extra hour on Saturdays if Modesty needs to find a book for school. It’s his favorite part of his week by far, and he treats his time at the library almost as sacred as he treats Sunday service. He’s limited on what parts of the library he can explore and Mother forbids him from the computers and fastidiously looks over his books before he’s able to check them out. So Credence reads a lot of biographies and history texts with a little fiction thrown in for good measure. Though he must be careful when he braves the literature section.

He has, on occasion, considered checking out something Mother would deem inappropriate on those rare days when Chastity is his chaperone because she happens to be out of school and Mother has another engagement. She never looks over his books, so it would be easier to check out something dangerous and hide it away somewhere. But at the end of the day, there’s nowhere for him to hide anything at the church or outside of it, and it’s not really worth the risk. Plus, it’s embarrassing enough for Credence to be put in the care of his younger sister in the first place. He doesn’t see a reason in making his trustworthiness in Mother’s eyes any worse.

He loves reading, though. He always has. English was his favorite part of the day in school, and in the moments when Credence allows himself the indulgence of fantasizing about a different future where he was able to finish high school and attend college, he always sees himself studying literature. He’s good at reading, too, which he’s always grateful to God for. Credence isn’t good at much, but at least he can do this.

When he arrives home, Credence allows himself ten minutes to sit in the silence of the church, resting in one of the pews. Despite the difficult nature of his life here, Credence still finds the church very beautiful. It’s not the nicest church by any possible stretch, but Mother has always prioritized its upkeep, and its condition is good. The stained glass windows are professionally cleaned, and the pews are always dust-free. Mother’s sermons may be full of fire and brimstone, but Credence finds the church itself rather peaceful. He likes to snatch what moments he can to enjoy the place, and to make his personal prayers to God in private.

Moments after he rises from his solitary practice, Mother walks through the front doors.

“Credence, what are you doing?” she asks, clearly terrified that he’s been idle.

Credence thinks quickly. “I thought I saw a mouse, Mother. I was looking to see if I had.”

She frowns. “You can take one of the traps down from upstairs then. We can’t have the vermin chewing the bibles again. Now hurry, child. We’ve got to be back by 10:00 for a meeting with the newspaper.” She brushes past Credence, making her way to the stairs.

He lets out a sigh of relief, then feels a wave of guilt wash over him. Your skill at lying is one more reason why you’ve been damned to Hell . He feels bad enough he doesn’t find himself angry that Mother referred to him as a child , despite his being twenty-one years old. If you act like a child, lying like one, then that is exactly how people will see you.

“Credence!” Mother says again, voice growing angry. “Didn’t you hear me tell you to hurry?”

“Sorry, Mother!” Credence calls up to her, then he hurries upstairs himself to grab his bookbag.

Chapter Text

It’s not until Credence returns to the library on Thursday that he runs into the stranger again.

“Hello, you.”

The voice is the friendliest it’s been. Credence turns slowly and sees him, the man’s face broken out into a handsome smile.

“Fancy this,” he continues. “What is this, the third time this week? Must be fated.”

Credence looks frantically around, but Mother is nowhere in sight. “Just a coincidence,” he says nervously. But personally he notes that it is rather strange.

“You keep odd hours,” says the stranger. “Are you a student?”

Alarm bells ring in Credence’s head. He’s accustomed to belligerence from strangers who don’t like what Mother has to say. He’s well-acquainted with rudeness and nastiness spit, sometimes literally, in his face. But Credence has little experience with friendly interest. His first thought, as a result, is that the man is following him. But the very idea is so ridiculous that he puts it aside immediately. Why would a man such as this follow someone like Credence ?

Maybe he desires you, whispers the voice in Credence’s head. That thought sends a strange thrill through him. Like being shocked and numbed all at once.

So he answers, dumbfounded and after far too long a pause, “No.”

The man steps forward, one small step. Credence watches the movement. Takes an equal step back.

“So then what do you do? I’ve seen you all over the city.”

Credence takes a breath. “My Mother does spiritual work for the underprivileged. I help her.”

The man’s smile seems sincere. Warm. Inviting. Credence looks at that smile and wants to spill what few secrets he has because he feels he’d be understood by this man. But his eyes set Credence on edge. They’re as cold and unkind as he remembers from their first encounter on Sunday. And where his mouth makes Credence want to come forward, his eyes make Credence want to run.

“Wow, very noble,” says the man. “So she’s a woman of God?”

“Yes,” Credence says with a nod. He takes another breath. He almost hates to say what organization she represents, but then he chastises himself. Mother is doing His work. “She’s the founder of the New Salem Philanthropic Society. The Second Salemers.”

The man frowns. “Never heard of them. New Salem ? That sounds...unconventional.”

Credence shrugs. “Surely you’ve noticed the rise in pagan practices. The growing interest in witchcraft, the Devil’s work? That’s what our church works to combat.”

Credence is so used to parroting the words, he usually doesn’t register he’s even really said them. But this time he feels his cheeks redden. The words sound so stupid as they sit between himself and the stranger. He has no conviction.

The man crosses one ankle over the other and rests and arm against the nearest bookshelf. “Sounds a little preachy, if you don’t mind me saying.”

At this Credence frowns. “We are a church.”

“Well yes, sure. Of course. But whatever happened to ‘live and let live,’ you know what I mean?”

“We’re trying to save the souls of the people in this city.”

“Based on your opinion.” He says it with a slight smile.

The man takes a step closer, and Credence just barely recognizes as he shifts from embarrassed to angry. He hasn’t suffered for God based on an opinion. He takes a matching step forward.

“It’s not just my opinion. I admit, everyone has their own truth, but this is mine . It’s not a matter of opinion—it’s a matter of faith.”

The man considers this. “So you agree with all the things your mother states in those flyers?”

Credence is too upset to properly register that the man knows about the flyers, and yet has insisted he’s never heard of the church.

“This is my truth. It’s not something to be agreed with or disagreed with.” His voice is firmer than it’s been before. He’s almost proud.

“And are you happy with your truth, Credence?”

In an instant, Credence is deflated. Exhausted. Bereft. Because he isn’t happy. He’s absolutely miserable.

He can’t quite believe Mother hasn’t appeared yet. She must have gotten caught up spreading the word to another library patron. She’d want Credence beside her. The family element generally helps when delivering the message.

“Have a nice afternoon, sir,” he says, ducking his eyes, all bravado gone.

The man doesn’t bother apologizing this time. “You too, Credence.”

It’s only later, when he’s walking home with Mother—who had indeed been speaking with another library-goer—that Credence fully processes the man’s knowledge of the flyers, and realizes he never gave the stranger his name.

It weighs on his mind for the rest of the day. His chores, mindless as they are, do nothing to distract him, and not even leaving with Mother to preach on the streets can take his thoughts off the realization. He mindlessly hands out flyers, ignoring when they’re thrown on the ground or back in his face, and barely hears a word that comes out of Mother’s mouth. How did he know my name? Credence can think of no reasonable answer.

It’s still on his mind when he’s helping Modesty with her homework that evening, though the growling hunger in his belly is succeeding in grabbing his attention more than anything else that day had.

“I can hear you all the way over here, Credence,” mutters Chastity from where she sits on her bed, her bible in one hand and her notebook in the other.

“Sorry,” he replies. The soup they had for dinner that night had been barely more than broth. He looks at Modesty, seated beside him on his own bed. “Where were we?”

She frowns at him and says nothing.

“Come on, Modesty. I’m all right. A little preoccupied. What are we working on next?”

Modesty’s frown changes from worried to skeptical. “I’m about to go ask Chastity for help,” she says.

From her bed, Chastity snorts. “Good luck with that.”

Chastity’s playful moods are rare, but Credence always enjoys when they make an appearance.

“You’d really rather have Chastity talk you through the dissociative property than me ?” asks Credence, an eyebrow raised.

“Ouch, big brother! You almost hurt my feelings that time.”

Credence’s first thought is to come back with, “What feelings?” But he catches himself. There’s no surer way to kill the good mood. So instead, he sticks his tongue out at Chastity quickly, making Modesty laugh in the process. Chasty sighs, pretending exasperation. Then, lighting-quick, her tongue peeks out at Credence, too.

“Okay, jitterbug,” Credence says as he turns his gaze back to Modesty, the both of them still laughing. “Seriously, what are we working on now?”

Finally she answers, “Spelling. My favorite!”

Spelling is one of Modesty’s few sore spots. Every week, her teacher provides a list of activities that the students can do to practice their spelling words. Many of the options are computer-based, but per Mother’s orders, there is no technology in the house besides an old landline that Credence can barely remember the number to, for how often he’s had to call it. For the most part, Modesty never questions how Mother runs the household, and she rarely complains or wishes that things were different. But the one thing Modesty can’t let go of is how badly she’d like to have, or even just have occasional access to, a computer.

“I know, sister,” Credence says. What he says next, however, Credence will come to regret for a long time after.

In hindsight, Credence won’t really understand why he said it. If it was because he was distracted by the stranger in the library. If it was the hunger making him lightheaded. If it was the rare jovial mood between himself and Chastity that cursed him to be careless. Whatever it was, in that moment Credence tilts his head and says, “Have you thought about asking to use one of the Chromebooks at school for homework?”

For the same reason Credence makes such a suggestion in the first place, he also doesn’t notice the way both Modesty and Chastity go still. He has his eyes on Modesty’s spelling activity menu instead of her face, so he doesn’t realize exactly what he’s given away in the presence of Chastity.

Because Mother doesn’t know about the computers Modesty is allowed to use at school. The school didn’t need to send home permission slips for use, and even if they had, Credence is generally the one who handles Modesty’s school business, and so there’s no way Mother would have seen it. It’s been Modesty’s one coup, the school’s computers, and one of the most heavily guarded secrets shared between her and Credence.

“I’ll be right back,” Chastity says breezily. She stands from her bed and makes her way downstairs casually enough that Credence doesn’t realize the danger.

He doesn’t understand until he looks up at Modesty a moment later. Her eyes are wide and shining.  

“What’s up, jitterbug? It was just a suggestion for next week.”

“What was a suggestion for next week?” says an icy voice from behind, and all at once Credence understands the mistake he’s made. His eyes grow as wide and as wet as Modesty’s.

“It’s okay,” he whispers to Modesty before he stands from the bed, turns towards Mother, and averts his eyes. “We were talking about homework, Mother,” he says quietly.

“Yes, what about homework?” Her voice is so soft, softer than Credence thinks he’s ever heard it. He wonders what Mother will do to him. He wonders why Chastity couldn’t keep her fucking mouth shut for one day in her life.

Credence swallows. “I’ve been a bad influence on Modesty, Mother. This is my fault. I encouraged her to do something against our faith. I spread the poison of technology. It’s not her fault.”

“Oh, Credence,” Mother whispers. “You can’t protect Modesty from the consequences of her actions. But don’t worry. You’ll be getting your due for this as well.”

Credence isn’t quite sure what happens then. He’s thinking about Modesty, small and frail, even for an eight year old. He’s thinking about how she’s been denied so many things that other children her age would be given as a right. He’s thinking about Chastity, who ruins everything with her hatred. He’s thinking of Mother, whose idea of love is so toxic that Credence isn’t sure how anyone, let alone Mary Lou herself, has survived it this long.

But mostly, he’s thinking about how he himself is so often the reason this family can’t have nice things. That his own corruption always taints the things he cares for. That he deserves the Hell that’s surely awaiting him.

His vision begins to darken.

“Our father in heaven,” Mary Lou says, breathless. “Hallowed be thy name--”

Credence cocks his head. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but he understands Mary Lou is afraid. And it feels so good.

“Where is our god now?” he asks, his voice sounding strange even to him.

Somebody screams. Then it all fades out to white.

Chapter Text

He wakes up in a strange room, bound by some means he can’t see.

“Credence,” says a vaguely familiar voice to his right. “Credence, it’s all right. I need you to stay calm. It’s all right.”

Credence turns to see the handsome stranger from...he’s not sure how long before. It feels impossible that Credence should be staring at him in this moment. Entirely surreal.

“What…?” His voice trails off, hoarse and pathetic. He can’t find the other necessary words.

“Credence, my name is Percival Graves. And though the context is hardly ideal, I’m here to tell you that there are aspects of your life that aren’t what they seem. And more importantly, that there’s been an accident.”

Credence hardly processes what the man is saying, overwhelmed by the single fact that this man had been following him. This man knew him. Had every interaction between them been planned? The need to know where he is becomes more pressing.

Graves swallows and continues speaking. “Your mother is dead. Chastity is in the hospital. Modesty is fine and safe with her social worker. You are safe. The church is gone.”

Credence shuts his eyes against the news, hearing each piece in concentrated chunks. Mother: dead. Modesty: safe. Chastity: hospital. Church: gone. Mother: dead. Church: gone. Church: gone. Mother: gone .

Fat tears squeeze down his cheeks in hot, salt-stricken trails. He knows somehow this is his fault. Just like last time.

“I’m so sorry, Credence,” Graves says. He sounds sincere. But when Credence takes in the man’s face, he can see the wheels turning. There is calculation in his eyes, and Credence does not trust it.

“Where am I?” Credence finally asks. It’s the only question Graves hasn’t gone out of his way to answer. That and How long have you been watching me?

Graves takes a deep breath. “You’re being held in a guarded hospital room a few blocks down from the American Ministry of Magic. The MACUSA, as we like to call it. Which is a long acronym for our even longer formal title.”

Credence has to laugh. The answer is nonsensical. “Excuse me?”

Graves doesn’t seem to mind. “You’re a wizard, Credence. There’s no easier way to say it. You’re a wizard, and you can wield magic.”

He’s still laughing. Still crying. Still waiting to wake up in his stiff cot under his scratchy blankets, readying to face another bleak day with the Second Salemers.

“I’m a what?” he all but cackles at Graves.

Graves is patient. “A wizard.”

“Our father in heaven,” Credence murmurs between sharp intakes of breath. “Hallowed be thy name.” The words jar a memory. One that feels too distant to grasp.

His mother, just before.

He turns to Graves, sobering. “How long has it been since the accident? And am I in some kind of trouble?” He has more questions, but this will do for now.

He’s grateful when Graves doesn’t shy away from the truth. “It’s been just over a day. And yes, you are. But we’re still determining how much. The particulars are messy.”

Credence considers this, all maniacal mirth gone. “You said my mother was dead. Did I kill her?”

Graves’ expression doesn’t shift in the slightest. “For all intents and purposes, yes. You did. But you didn’t have much control over what was happening to you at the time. That’s why this is so messy.”

Credence feels his eyes welling up once more. He doesn’t much care that Mary Lou is dead. And she is Mary Lou to him now. No longer Mother . She was a cruel, ruthless woman who enjoyed the suffering of her children, or rather the children in her care. But he’s devastated that he had anything to do with it; it’s just one more black mark on his soul.

“How did I do this?”

Graves exhales through his nose. “Suffice to say this power you have, your magic, is deeply unstable. We’re still fitting together the pieces based on your sisters’ statements—and we’ll be taking one from you, as well—but something happened between you and your mother.”

Credence remembers. Mary Lou found out about the computers. She’d come upstairs and threatened Modesty. Credence tries to remember what happened next, but finds he can’t.

“Your magic,” Graves continues, “reacted, for lack of better word. It attacked Mrs. Barebone, and then erupted from the church, collapsing the second floor onto the first. I happened to be outside, and intervened as soon as I realized what was happening.”

I happened to be outside . So Graves had still been following him. Credence supposes he knows why now.

“What happens next?” he asks Graves, too numb to fear the answer.

“You stay here until we have a better idea of what took place. Your sister will stay at the hospital until she’s well enough, then she’ll be placed with a foster family. They’re trying to place Modesty right now.”

“Can I see them?”

Graves’ face becomes infinitesimally softer. “That won’t be possible, no.”

Credence knew it was a long shot.

“So,” he says, resignation creeping into his voice, “I’m just supposed to lie, immobile, in this bed while you decide my fate? What about a funeral for my mother?”

Graves frowns. “There won’t be a funeral until we reach a decision about how we’re moving forward. I mean no offense, but your mother’s body is evidence.” Graves looks away, and then back. His eyes hold an almost terrifying focus when they land back on Credence’s face. “As to your other concern about your current arrangements, Credence, you need to understand something about yourself. You have a power in you.”

That drags a hollow laugh from him.

Graves has the good manners to ignore it. “It’s unpredictable, which makes it dangerous. It killed your mother. Until we know it’s going to stay put, to stay dormant, we can’t risk letting you go.”

Credence feels himself growing angry. He’s tired of being bound.

“It comes out when I’m upset,” he says, frustrated. “Everything about this upsets me. I’m alone, and I’m terrified, and my family is gone, Mr. Graves. And I’m here in this room with my arms bound. I am upset .”

“You have two choices,” responds Graves, his voice even and his expression neutral, clearly unconcerned. “Stay restrained, but conscious, or get magically knocked out and stay restrained that way. We won’t be able to free you until we know it’s safe. So, awake or asleep, the choice is yours. I’ll be honest, Credence, at this point I don’t much care which option you choose.”

The utter lack of sympathy draws all the heat out of Credence’s words and sends it right to his humiliated cheeks. He doesn’t know what he was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Graves. “For all of it. I am so, so sorry.”

Graves sighs as he stands. “I won’t tell you it’s all right. You know it isn’t. But I will say there’s nothing to be done about it now. The only way out is through.” Then he nods at one of the nurses and exits the room, leaving Credence with his guilt.

The only way out is through. Credence can’t help but wonder, Through what?

Chapter Text

Only once Percival leaves the hospital room does he let his shoulders go slack and his stern expression fall into one of acute fatigue. It is exhausting being surrounded by the astounding amount of power Barebone exudes, especially for being such a pale, scrawny, sickly young man. Percival has to take several deep breaths just to keep himself from vomiting into the nearest trash can, simply for having been around Barebone for less than fifteen minutes. And while inside the room, it had taken every ounce of willpower for Percival to maintain his stoney facade instead of breaking out into the cold sweat his body so desperately yearned for.

But he had managed it, as Percival managed everything, because he knew it was important that Barebone feel as if Percival was an impenetrable force. With the man’s deadly and unpredictable power, Percival had to be a stabilizing figure. Like someone not easily rattled, though at his core that’s exactly how Percival feels: rattled. Because he has seen, and felt, the impossible.

And he needs to speak with Tina about it immediately.

He finds her, as he often does when she can’t be found in her office, at a No-Maj diner two blocks down from MACUSA’s front office. She’s nursing a cup of coffee and reviewing a case file transfigured to look like a Nora Roberts novel.

“We need to talk,” he says without preamble as he slides into the booth.

“Hi to you, too,” Tina replies without raising her eyes from her book-cum-file.

Percival sets a Disillusionment charm, then reinforces it. Then he sets a silencing ward. Then reinforces that . Then pauses and reinforces it one more time. Tina finally puts her reading down.

“Okay,” she says, wary. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“You need to tell me everything you know about the Second Salemers, Mary Lou Barebone, and her son, Credence.”

“You mean, the woman and crackpot organization I’ve been tasked with monitoring for over a year, and yet, despite the major occurrence that happened at their church two nights ago, I have been completely shut out of?”

Percival pauses a beat. Then, “Yes.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “Besides the fact that Credence blew her and her crazy church up a day ago--which you likely know far more about than me--there’s not much to report. MACUSA’s been keeping tabs on them since Mary Lou started up the organization 20 years ago, and while they spew a lot of hateful bullshit, they don’t actually get much done. Or, well, they didn’t. Mary Lou was in charge. Credence Barebone and his two sisters seemed to just be along for the ride.”

Percival frowns and breathes heavily out his nose. “So, none of them had an aptitude for magic? Not Mary Lou, not the kids?”

Tina laughs. “Are you kidding?”

“I am not.”

“No. None of them. Certainly not Mary Lou, and definitely not any of her adopted indentured servants. I think Mary Lou would have beaten it out of them, if they did. And they say No-Majs are civilized. She was a piece of work; can’t totally say I blame Credence for losing it like he did.”

Percival lets out one more breath before committing to his next words. “And yet I think that’s exactly what’s happened.”

Tina laughs again, but it’s less certain. “What do you mean?”

“The boy. Young man. He didn’t blow up the church and his family with any kind of explosive. He used something else .”

Tina frowns. Percival watches as she slowly pieces what he’s saying together, her expression changing with understanding.

“No,” she says. Then again, firmer. “No. We would have known. I would have known. I did bi-weekly check-ins with the church. I would have known.”

Percival shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t have. His power has been repressed very deep down, and for a very long time.”

“No,” Tina replies, laughing once more. “I just can’t believe that. So, what? Credence--a known No-Maj--is actually some kind of...squib gone wrong?”

“We have a name for those, Tina.”

Percival can’t blame Tina’s intentional obtuseness. He doesn’t think he’d be willing to accept this reality either if he hadn’t just spent fifteen minutes engulfed by the powerful undeniability of it. It shouldn’t be possible--Credence shouldn’t be possible--and yet there he was, in a sad little hospital room.

He knows she’s come to terms when she silently takes the pen from the diner table and bolsters Percival’s own silencing ward with one of her own. He’d smile at the clever bit of magic required to make her wand look so pen-like while still maintaining its function if their situation didn’t feel so dire. Alas.

“They can’t live this long. He can’t be one, he’s way too old.” Her words still come out as a whisper.

“You didn’t feel it,” Percival counters, leaning forward and whispering despite the wards. “I’ll take you to see him tomorrow, and you’ll understand. Whatever happened at the church has freed him of whatever held it back. I mean, I sensed something curious when I first ran into him, but nothing like what he’s putting off now. I frankly can’t comprehend how the nurses and doctors can stand to be around it all day.”

“They wear charmed smocks,” Tina answers absentmindedly, her thoughts elsewhere as she considers the shift in her reality. “Wait. What do you mean, when you ‘first ran into him’?”

Percival sighs. “We had an encounter about a week ago. Bumped shoulders on the street. I felt a spark of something, but nothing like what I felt today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asks Tina. There is an accusation in her tone that Percival doesn’t appreciate, but can’t fault.

“There was nothing much to say,” he answers. “I had no idea of what was lying in wait.”

“Still: you should have come to me. The Second Salemers were my case.” Tina lets out a breath. Percival watches her will her shoulders back into a more relaxed position. “And that was the only time you saw him?”

“Well,” Percival says, and Tina’s hackles rise again.

“Damnit, Percy.”

“I may have orchestrated a couple more interactions to get a better handle on what I felt.”

“How many more times?”

“Just two. And I may have been doing some recon outside the church the evening he saw fit to knock it down.”

“Merlin, Percy. And just what do you think you felt?”

Percival tilts his head. “I think his latent magic...waking up. For lack of better words.”

Tina’s angry expression holds a moment longer, and then finally softens into something resembling concern. “He must be terrified,” she says quietly.

“He is,” Percival agrees. “And he’s not being held in the most comfortable of confines.”

“Well, with so many unknowns--”

“And the death of his mother--”

“There’s really only so much the MACUSA can do.”

“Indeed.”

Tina’s brows knit as she looks into her half-drunk cup of coffee. “What can I do to help? Surely you’re not the only one working this.”

“I’m taking point,” Percival says. “Seraphina’s already agreed.”

“And she knows that he’s an...I can’t even say it.”

“An Obscurial? Yes.”

The word sits between them, heavy. Just uttering the name brings a shiver to Tina’s back, and a faint nausea to Percival’s stomach. He’s not sure he’s ever even heard it aloud before this very moment. Such a taboo concept is relegated to the most dusty of history texts, pulled out by only the most driven and niche of wizarding scholars. It’s certainly not a word fit to be said within the four walls of a cozy, comfortable, No-Maj eatery, no matter how strong the silencing wards.

“So, you’re running point?” Tina prompts.

“Right. But I need someone to be Credence’s immediate go-to as we move forward. Things are frustratingly messy right now, and Seraphina and I are still determining how to proceed. But while I may be in charge of the overall situation, I need someone who can, more or less, be in charge of Credence.”

“And you think that should be me?” Tina’s tone doesn’t telegraph any enthusiasm.

“I think, as the MACUSA’s current agent assigned to the Second Salemers, you are in the best position to take on the role.”

Tina snorts. “Not even going to try and butter me up by saying I’m also the only one you can trust with this?”

Percival kicks her lightly underneath the table, but still says, smile faint, “Of course, there’s that, too.”

They sit in quiet for a moment, processing in their individual ways. Eventually Tina asks, “Who else knows about this?”

“Myself, Seraphina, and now you.”

Tina whistles low. “And what else do I need to know? About the case, about his condition, about whatever .”

Percival tries to think of what to say to her first. Does he warn her about the way her body will revolt  when she gets close to him? Does he debrief her more thoroughly about the crime scene she’s been barred from, despite her connection to the church? Does he tell her about how small and hopeless Credence Barebone looks, strapped to a bed and starved for affection? About how blatant his self-hatred and depression is in the stark white of the hospital gown and sheets he’s swaddled in like a straight jacket? That he feels guilty for being so unkind to the young man in his most dire time of need, because that’s the job and Percival is damn good at it?

“Hold on,” Percival says instead, then quickly disrupts the wards, both his and Tina’s.

“I hate that you can still do that,” Tina mutters, watching the magical seal flicker and then fade.

“I’m the only one who can at least,” Percival says quietly as he raises a hand to summon the startled server to their table. “I know what the seams of your spells look like too well. Makes them simple to unravel.”

The server arrives, still looking surprised. “I’m so sorry folks. I almost forgot all about you!”

Percival smiles his most charming smile. “No worries, ma’m. We’ve been doing just fine. But I’d like a cup of coffee, if you could.”

“Of course,” the server says with a blush. “And again, I am so sorry.”

Tina glares at Percival, but smiles at the server. “Really, it’s fine.”

They keep wards down while they wait. Tina glares at Percival the whole time.

“What? I need some caffeine,” he says with a shrug.

“It’s not like we were in the middle of something important,” replies Tina.

The truth is that Percival needs a moment to pause. He finds talking about Credence almost as exhausting as being near the young man. He’s trying to catch his breath and rebuild the energy he lost while in the room with the Obscurial that he still hasn’t managed to get back. To Tina, this is all just some exciting, if mind-blowing, news. She hasn’t felt the harsh reality of Credence’s power, and likely hasn’t processed what his presence means for the rest of the Wizarding world.

When the server is back with a cup of coffee for Percival in one hand and the pot to refill Tina’s sad-looking cup with the other, they fall silent again, both offering small smiles to the interloper. As soon as her back is turned, however, Tina begins reinstating her wards. Percival follows suit, albeit in a less hurried way.

“So, what do I need to know?” she asks, impatient.

He begins to start with the legal issues. “Seraphina still needs to consult the full Congress, but it’s looking like they’ll try Credence for the acts committed by his Obscurus, even though little is understood about their relationship, and I think it’s evident he had very little-to-no control over his actions once the Obscurus took over.”

“You talk like the Obscurus is somehow separate from him. It’s just another part of him, though, isn’t it? I mean, magic isn’t sentient, not like that. It can function independently, but not without instructions.”

“I would say that’s true of most magic, but I don’t think an Obscurus acts like most magic. You’ve been observing Credence consistently for the last year. Do you think he was aware of his power or at all in control of it?”

Tina tsks . “I guess not. It’s like I said: i would have known. I’m not so incompetent.”

Graves nods. “No you are not. You’re one of the most competent aurors in the United States, and you know I’m not just saying that. But you didn’t sense his power. Because his magic wasn’t presenting itself. So you have this young mortal with an immense, unheard of, amount of power simmering just below the surface. You said it yourself, Mary Lou was a piece of work. And as her abuse builds, maybe Credence finds his breaking point stretching thinner.

“If you, angry and afraid and untrained, suddenly found yourself engulfed in that much untamed magic, you’re telling me you could keep it from acting on your most basest of fight-or-flight instincts?”

Graves lets out a breath and leans back against the booth. He can feel the warmth in his cheeks from his heated words. He doesn’t know why he feels so strongly about this otherwise insignificant man.

Tina’s looking at him strangely. “I suppose I couldn’t,” she says carefully. Then, “Why are you so affected by this, Percy?”

It’s only because Percival knows Tina so well that he answers how he answers. Because they’ve worked together for years, and because he helped get her this job that she so desperately earned but kept getting passed over for time and time again. Only because her sister, Queenie, has fed Percival a dozen times over when he’s been too dead-set in a case to remember to take care of himself and she and Tina have been there to force him back into good health. It’s only because Tina has come to mean something close to family for him, that he lets his breath go as shaky as he feels and says:

“Because that man has me terrified and awestruck. He is special and scarred and as dangerous as he is alone. And if we don’t help him he will destroy himself and anyone else in his path in an effort to get away. And I’m not about to sit by and watch the idiots that make up most of our government throw Credence Barebone under the bus because we had our heads so far up our ass we couldn’t make the right choice, even when it stood before us clear as day, waving a white fucking flag. That man is defeated by what he’s done. Further punishment won’t give us anything more than ugly blowback.”

He’s breathless, by the end.

“Well,” Tina says after a moment of silence. “You know I always did love a good hill to die on.” She raises her cup of coffee towards Percival.

He smiles, grateful, and raises his own cup. “Thank you, Tina.”

Their cups clink together, and they each take a sealing sip.

“Not quite an unbreakable vow,” Tina says as she puts the cup down on the table.

“But it’ll do,” Percival replies. Then he drains his cup and breaks the wards once more. “I have to get back to the office. The President and I have a meeting.”

Tina scowls. “Can you at least let me break my own wards next time?”

Percival snorts as he stands from the table. “I’d rather let you try your hand at breaking mine.”

Then he turns on his heel and is out the diner doors with a flourish.

Chapter Text

In the hospital, Credence has very little else to do besides think. And there is much to think about. Himself, of course, and his situation. That Mary Lou is dead, apparently at his hands, though he can’t remember it. That Chastity has been wounded. Modesty, abandoned. The church, demolished, and all thanks to Credence. But those thoughts are overwhelming and soul-crushing, and Credence can only think of them and cry for so long before the strange, magical nurses arrive and dose him up again, lulling him into a hazy, liminal high that dulls his emotional aches and forces him to engage more with his tangible present.

It’s in these moments that Credence takes in the room. Its walls are bare, illuminated by the floating white orbs that circle lazily, untethered, above Credence’s bed. There are chrome machines that don’t touch Credence in any way, yet murmur along with his heartbeat and chest movements, confirming he is, indeed, alive. They don’t seem to be running on any kind of electric power. Maybe batteries, Credence thinks, until it occurs to him they probably run on magic and possibly aren’t machines at all.

He still can’t fathom that magic is real, and that he can, apparently wield it. And he’s almost positive he never wants to do so again, if the results are anything like they were the other day. Someone died because of Credence’s supposed magic, and no matter how much Mary Lou had made Credence’s life a living Hell, she hadn’t deserved her fate. Death by magic; Credence can’t think of a more traumatic way for Mary Lou to have died.

He thinks he’d be more concerned about the magic, generally, if he wasn’t so out of it all the time. Then again, Credence is lucid enough to appreciate that’s probably the point. Any time his thoughts drift to more unpleasant topics, he finds the drugs in his system--or had the nurse called them potions?--prevent him from holding on to any one thought too tightly. Credence always ends up drifting back to pondering the whiteness of his walls.

He stays in this state, considering his non-machines and the devastating whiteness of the room whenever he’s conscious, until Percival Graves arrives the following day with a strange woman in tow.

Credence isn’t sure what time it is--there are no clocks or windows, and the orbs remain at the same level of brightness whether Credence is awake or asleep. He looks blearily at the man and his companion.

“What time is it?”

Graves opens his mouth, and then closes it. He closes the door behind the woman and considers the watch at his wrist.

“9:37 in the morning, Credence.”

Credence blinks, owlish, in response.

“How are you feeling, Credence?” asks Graves.

“Mmm,” is Credence’s only response. He isn’t sure what else to say, and he’s awfully tired.

“What’s wrong with him?” the woman asks. “Is it the…?”

Graves doesn’t look happy. His face is scrunched, and Credence would think him angry if he could only muster the energy to really care one way or another.

“This won’t do, not right now,” he hears Graves say. Graves opens the door and pokes his head out into the hall. “Nurse!”

A man arrives shortly. “Yes, Auror Graves?”

“What’s he doped with?”

“A combination of muscle relaxants and mood stabilizers, per your suggestion.”

“Today’s a new day. Can you do anything to--I don’t know, clear this fog?”

The nurse pauses. “It isn’t advisable. He’s very unwell. When he’s more cogent he’s harder to manage.”

“But is it possible?” asks the woman.

“Well, yes.”

“Then do it,” Graves orders.

The nurse frowns, but steps forward to do as he’s asked. Credence feels his head taken in the man’s cool hands, and this mouth is forced open with some kind of instrument. A smooth potion that tastes of smoke without the burn trickles down his throat.

And the haze begins to clear.

Credence feels awareness creep up his spine like a spider, and as it draws itself nearer to his consciousness, the reality of Credence’s situation begins catching in a web of clarity.

“Oh my, God,” he murmurs. Then again, louder, “Oh my God, in heaven!”

The tears that sting his eyes barely register. His hands where they rest, bound at his sides, tug at their invisible strings in futility. And he’s wailing before he can stop himself.

“What have I done? What did I do? What did I do? Mother, I’m so sorry!”

Over and over he hears himself scream apologies for his deed and promises to do better and implorations for release, but it’s so far beyond Credence’s control, he hardly understands that it’s him whose making so much noise. Asking for such impossible things. There are other voices in the distance, but they’re even less significant.

His vision goes white in the midst of it all, and Credence feels, for a moment, as if he’s pulling apart. The voices in the background grow louder. Credence can just make them out through his own choking shouts and the sense that he’s disintegrating.

What’s happening?

I told you this was inadvisable!

Tina, don’t!

There are warm hands at his wrists now. He can feel them, even through the sobs wracking his worn-down body, though he can’t see them through the whiteness in his vision. The whiteness like the white of his walls and his sheets.

“Credence!”

The voice is firm, and loud for being mere inches from his face. The woman’s.

“Credence, you’re safe! No one is going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The voice and the hands are distracting enough to force Credence to pause. His vision begins to return, the edges growing fuzzy and then sharper in small increments. His cries abate along with the whiteness, and Credence feels the final hiccup leave his throat more than he hears it.

“What’s happening to me?” he asks the woman, his voice creaking. He’s still rocking against his bindings. Still reeling. He can only meet her eyes for a fleeting second at a time.

“My name is Tina Goldstein--Porpentina, actually, but who needs to know--and I’m here to talk to you about exactly that.”

“He needs his potion,” the nurse interjects. “This is highly dangerous.”

Tina’s head whips around to stare the nurse down. “He’s a trauma victim, sir. And you don’t treat trauma victims by keeping them high as a kite and then some. He has to have time to deal with this.”

Credence doesn’t believe himself a victim. The very thought would be laughable, if he had the energy. No, if Credence is anything, he’s a perpetrator. A murderer. He murdered Mary Lou and hurt Chastity and abandoned Modesty.

He feels that overwhelming wave of guilt begin to build in his chest, but before it can land in a violent crash of further tears and screams, another hand replaces one of Tina’s on Credence’s wrist. Graves.

“Credence,” says Graves, voice steady. “This has to stop. You need to breathe. Now.”

The voice commands compliance, and it’s an easy enough request to meet. Credence takes a breath, almost involuntarily. He looks around the room, at the scene that he’s caused, and is suddenly very cold. Shock maybe, he thinks to himself.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves,” he says through chattering teeth. “I’m not quite myself today.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Tina whispers. Credence’s eyes shift to her, but the sympathy in her face feels undeserved, and he has to look away again.

“When did you last eat, Credence?” asks Graves.

The nurse answers for him. “He isn’t eating, as such. We’ve been providing nourishment potions every four hours, round the clock.”

“Well, then let’s maybe get the kid some soup or something, yeah?” Tina says.

Credence wants to say no. He’s not sure he ever wants to see another bowl of broth again after all the times Mary Lou served it to him and his sisters, but he’s so damn cold. Maybe soup would help with the chill.

The nurse doesn’t look happy when Credence lets himself look at him. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says stiffly, and then he leaves the room.

“Credence,” says Graves, and Credence snaps back into awareness. He hadn’t even realized he’d drifted.

“Yes, Mr. Graves?”

“You’re going to eat, and then Tina and I are going to leave, and you are going to get some rest. And then tomorrow, Tina and I are going to come back, and we’re all going to talk. Do you understand me, Credence?”

Credence nods. Food. Rest. Talk.

The nurse is back a moment later with a bowl of broth floating on a white tray behind him. Credence can smell it as soon as it enters the room, and he has to admit it smells better than anything Mary Lou had served him.

“Here we are, Mr. Barebone,” the nurse says, perfunctory. Then he unbinds Credence’s hands.

“Thank you, Nurse Miller,” Credence returns, remembering the man’s name as he rubs at his tender wrists.

Nurse Miller’s expression softens. “Of course.” Then he checks the devices monitoring Credence’s vitals. Satisfied, he silently excuses himself from the room.

“Eat, Credence, please,” says Graves. He stands off to the side, stiff.

Tina, however, is seated comfortably on the bed at Credence’s feet. “Smells pretty all right, don’t you think? I mean, it’s got nothing on Queenie’s soup—that’s my sister—but I think it’ll do just fine for now, don’t you?”

Credence tries to listen fully, but he’s so damn tired, it’s hard. He nods along with Tina as he fumbles a spoonful of broth from the still-floating tray into his mouth.

“You have a sister?” He asks after he swallows the surprisingly palatable liquid.

“I do. She’s a real handful, but you’d like her. Even Percy has a soft spot for her.” Tina jerks her head back to Graves, and Credence follows the motion, unbelieving.

He can only muster the energy, though, to say, “ Percy?”

Graves huffs. “I did tell you my name was Percival.”

“This is all very strange,” Credence says, pushing the tray away. “And I’m very tired.”

“I’m sure,” says Graves, extending a hand to Tina. “We’ll take that as our cue.”

“And we’ll be back tomorrow, like we said,” Tina adds. “Get some rest, Credence.”

Credence lies back against the bed and watches them go, the door clicking quietly shut behind them. Sleep comes quickly after.

Chapter Text

When Credence next wakes, he feels more than a little better. The grief and the anguish haven’t subsided, but the urgency and the all-consuming panic have left him. He feels as if room in his body has been made for breath. There is a space inside him today that had not been there yesterday. So Credence sits in his cell of a hospital room and breathes in deeply the sterile, magically charged air, and is relieved to feel his chest expand and contract with the action. He is alive today, and not so ready to beg for death.

He notices the floating tray is still beside him, but instead of leftover broth, it’s laden with water, tea, buttered toast, and orange slices. He wonders how long it’s been waiting for him to wake up, but the toast is still warm, the butter still shining, and he thinks it can’t have been very long at all.

A moment later, Nurse Miller enters. “Ah, Credence. You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Credence swallows his first bite of toast. “Better, thank you.”

“You seem to be doing well without your potions. Auror Graves will be thrilled.”

Credence isn’t sure what to say to that, and to the dry disapproval apparent in the man’s voice, so he says only, “What time is it?”

Nurse Miller whips a wand out of seemingly thin air and waves it quickly. The time, 10:03, hangs brightly in the space where the wand had swished , and Credence drops his toast.

“There we are,” says Nurse Miller, missing Credence’s shock. “Just after ten.”

Credence picks up his dropped toast. Get used to it , he tells himself. To the nurse, he says, “You must serve breakfast late then.”

Nurse Miller smiles, understanding Credence’s meaning, and Credence reads the pity easily. “It’s charmed, of course.”

Credence nods, throat dry. Because, of course . Of course. Magic. He takes a sip of tea to hide his discomfort, and is surprised to find the drink already sweetened and pale with cream. He’s never had tea like this, and he’d feel luxurious if he wasn’t being held for murder.

The thought reminds him. “Did Mr. Graves and Ms. Goldstein say when they’d be by today?”

Nurse Miller scoffs, eyes on the devices tracking Credence’s vitals, a floating feather quill scratching something Credence can’t see onto a piece of paper, also floating. “No, they did not.”

Credence watches the quill move in a flurry. “Oh. I just wondered if I might have...missed it.”

The nurse sighs, finally looking at Credence. “You didn’t, but don’t worry. Those two are as reliable as they are pushy. They said they’d be here, so they will. I wouldn’t want to see them too soon though, if it were me.”

Credence frowns. “Yes, Mr. Graves is very formidable.”

“That’s a word for it,” Nurse Miller agrees. “Okay, Credence, I’m going to start my rounds, but if you need anything just say, ‘Assistance, please,’ or tap on the top of the bed rail like this--” he demonstrates using his finger to press a section of the bed rail that’s glowing faintly. “Do you have any questions?”

“No, not right now.”

“Then eat your breakfast, and I’ll be back in to check on you later.”

In the silence of the room after Nurse Miller exits, things feel more bleak. Credence’s breakfast is good--certainly better than anything he had from Mary Lou--but he wonders for how much longer he’ll be treated so well. For the first time since the accident, Credence allows himself to spare a thought for his future. He doesn’t know the laws of the Wizarding world, but if they’re anything like his, and he’s found guilty of killing Mary Lou, his odds aren’t looking so good. Then again, murder is a cardinal sin. If he’s sentenced to death, God will surely think it just.

He isn’t able to dwell on the possibility long, because just as Credence begins picking at his orange slices, the door to his room opens and Graves and Tina walk right inside.

“Wow, Credence! You look well,” Tina says in lieu of hello.

“Thank you,” he replies. He doesn’t remember much about the encounter he had with Tina the day before, but Credence remembers that he felt safe with her around. Like he could trust she wasn’t going to hurt him.

“I can see they’ve kept you off the sedatives and muscle relaxants,” Graves observes. “And you’ve managed to keep your hands unbound. That tells me you’re playing nice--good.”

The words sting. Credence can barely tolerate that someone, even someone as cold as Graves, thinks him so capable of violence. Even if it’s true.

“I have no desire to hurt anyone, Mr. Graves,” Credence says, firm as he can muster.

Graves doesn’t respond. He just eyes Credence up and down and stays standing off to the side.

Tina, on the other hand, makes herself comfortable on the bed as she had the day before. “Hey, don’t let him spook you. He’s all bark.”

That earns a snort from Graves.

Credence turns to look at the man, and can’t quite believe he spent any time fantasizing about having Graves in bed. The very thought seems more far-fetched now than it did when he’d first had it. If he had known then that the man he’d pleasured himself to would be questioning him for murder not a week later, Credence never would have allowed himself the chance. Instead, he would have crept right down to the church below and prayed on his knees all night just for a chance at forgiveness.

He pushes the tray of food away, disgusted.

“Are you going to eat those?” asks Tina, gesturing to the orange slices.

“Tina,” says Graves with a sigh heavier than lead.

“What? I didn’t have breakfast.”

Credence nods, drawing the tray back. “Please, eat. I’m finished.”

“Thanks, Credence. That’s kind of you.”

Finally, Graves steps forward. He’s in a black suit as nice as the one he’d first worn when Credence had seen him on the street. It fits Graves well, and the crisp white shirt beneath the black vest pops in the harsh hospital light.

“We came to talk, not to eat,” he says, but his tone has no real heat. Credence gets the sense that Graves and Tina have known each other well for a good long while.

Tina, dressed more comfortably in an oversized white blouse and loose black slacks, rolls her eyes. “How wonderful, then, that I know how to multitask.”

Graves approaches the bed, but doesn’t join Tina on it. His eyes land on Credence, and hold on to his face. Credence wonders what Graves sees in his features--his guilt, maybe? He knows he isn’t much to look at, cheeks as gaunt as they are, skin so damn pale, but maybe Wizards can read other things in the faces of others. Maybe magic provides some other kind of insight.

“Credence, I’m sure you have more questions now that you’ve had time to settle into your situation. Tina and I are here to answer those questions as best we can, and tell you anything else you need to know.”

Credence nods, and when there is no response, he asks, “Do you want me to start?”

“It might be easier that way,” answers Tina as she pulls back the peel on another orange slice.

“How much longer do I have to stay at the hospital?”

Tina looks over her shoulder at Graves, who says, “The depends on the consensus met by President Picquery and her cabinet. Another few days at least.”

Credence feels his stomach flop. “What does that mean?”

Tina takes the question this time. “Our world hasn’t seen someone with your power before. Its instability makes you unpredictable. The president of our community, your community, must decide where you should stay and in what capacity--as a prisoner or a free wizard.”

“And she has to decide if we try you for the death of Mary Lou Barebone,” adds Graves. “With the input of her cabinet and the Congress, of course.”

Credence only understands about half of what Tina and Graves are saying, but the core gist is clear: Your fate is no longer in your hands, and it doesn’t look good.

“Can you tell me how she’s leaning?” Credence asks, more afraid of not knowing than of knowing.

Graves shrugs. “Most people want you locked up forever for the safety of the wizarding world. A solid, but smaller, number want you executed for the same reason. And a good number fewer think rehabilitation is the only humane answer to your...condition.”

Credence’s eyes shut tightly. Graves speaks so plainly and without feeling. “And where do you fall, Mr. Graves?” he asks, bitter and terrified.

“I don’t think there are four walls that could hold what you’ve got simmering inside of you. And I think you need help.”

Tina scoffs. “He’s being difficult because he’s under a lot of pressure, Credence, but what he thinks is best for you is rehabilitation. And he’s got President Picquery just about ready to agree.”

That cheers Credence a small, but not insignificant amount. It’s more kindness than he expected from the man.

“You keep speaking of this power I apparently have,” Credence says, eyes darting back and forth between the bed, Tina, and Graves. “Can you be more specific?”

“Well,” Tina begins, but then she goes quiet. “You see,” she tries again, but with the same results.

“Merlin,” Graves mutters. “You’re what we call an Obscurial, Credence.”

“An Obscurial?” the word feels heavy and sticky in his mouth, like tar.

“It means your magic has been corrupted after years of self-hatred and trying to force your abilities down. You’ve developed a magical parasite called an Obscurus . As the host to this entity, you’ve become an Obscurial . Obscurials are rare, especially in this day and age, and none have ever lived past ten years of age.”

Graves delivers the words in the flat and quiet manner Credence has come to expect from him. Like what comes out of his mouth, at least when it comes to Credence, is so unimportant and meaningless, the words don’t deserve any real feeling or care. But for his part, Credence is stunned.

He knows he must have gone even paler, a surprising feat. An Obscurial ? All others dead by ten, and yet Credence has reached 21. What did that mean? Was his death imminent, too? But underneath Credence’s shock and fear, there is a ribbon of anger winding its way up his spine, weaving through the muscles of his shoulders.

He turns to look at Graves, braced by that anger. “You say things so bluntly, Mr. Graves. So coldly. Do you even care about what’s happening here?”

Graves tilts his head. “Do you mean, do I care about what’s happening to you ?”

“Percival!” says Tina sharply.

“It’s a fair question,” Graves continues, eyes locked on Credence’s. “You need to understand, Credence, that my job is to keep our people safe. You are a danger to our people. I don’t want you dead, no. And I don’t think we’ll get anywhere trying to cage you and your Obscurus away to be poked and prodded in the name of discovery. But my motivation here is not, to be frank, your well-being. It’s the well-being of those that won’t be able to defend themselves against you if you don’t get some control over yourself.”

The room is silent enough to hear a pin drop, but Credence would not have been able to hear it himself over the blood pounding his ears. Still, hurt and angry as he is, Credence can’t bring himself to look away from Graves. The man is, after all, completely right. Credence is a danger to anyone he comes in contact with. He killed his mother. He almost killed his sisters. He destroyed their home. He isn’t safe .

“Thank you for the clarity, Mr. Graves,” he says, voice hoarse. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Graves nods his head. “Anymore questions?”

Credence has many more, but he knows there’s no way he can voice them. “Not right now, I don’t think.” His voice comes out thick, and he just wants to stave off the tears until Graves and Tina have left.

Tina sighs. “Credence, for whatever it’s worth, I care about what’s happening to you. I care about your well-being. Percy’s just an asshole.”

“Auror Goldstein,” Graves says, voice low and full of warning.

Tina momentarily closes her eyes, and then says back, “Yes, Auror Graves?”

“I think it’s time to go.”

She looks back at Credence. “I’m sorry we’ve upset you. We’re doing what we can to get things resolved as soon as possible. I promise.”

Credence can only nod. His throat is too constricted to speak. He feels the first tear land on his clenched hand.  

“We’ll leave you to your day,” Graves says as he walks towards the door. “Let’s go, Tina.”

Tina rests a hand quickly atop one of Credence’s. It doesn’t linger, but the warmth is welcome. Credence believes Tina when she says she cares.

“I’ll be in touch soon, Credence,” says Tina. “Try to get some rest.”

He can’t even bring himself to wave goodbye as they walk out the door, and Credence is left completely alone once again.

Chapter Text

“A little harsh in there, don’t you think?” Tina wouldn’t normally be so rude to Percy, except her patience is running thin with the weight of Credence’s magic bearing down on her, and the fact that it was evident from her short time with Credence that he’d never willingly hurt a fly, let alone brutally murder his mother and nearly kill his sisters.

“It’s not my job to play nice,” Percy snaps back. “He’s a murderer.”

Tina feels her cheeks grow hot. “He’s barely more than a kid, Percival, and you know it. Why are you acting like this?”

She watches Percy’s nostrils flare, and she realizes he feels at least as ill as she does. He had hidden it well, though she supposes she had, too. That was the nature of their job, after all. Hiding. Plus, it had been easier that time to pretend. Credence seems to have settled, and his raw power along with him. The discomfort has thus manifested as one of the worst headaches in Tina’s life. She can only imagine how Credence impacted Percy.

“I can’t lower my guard,” he says finally.

Tina shakes her head. “He’s not a danger to you.”

“Obviously,” Percy says, rough. Then he sighs and raises a hand in apology. “Things are tenuous at MACUSA. I can’t be seen showing favoritism.”

“So consideration is favoritism now?” Tina knows she should be more forgiving. Percy had filled her in on where things stood back at MACUSA the day before. She knew Credence’s options weren’t looking how either she or Percy wanted.

“It is when you are what Credence is.” She watches him take in one more deep breath in and out through his nose. “We can’t talk here.”

“Listen, let’s go to mine. Queenie’s home and she’d be happy to see you. We can sit in my kitchen and figure out a game plan.” She can tell he’s tempted. He’d shut the idea dow before she’d even stopped speaking if he wasn’t. She adds, “Plus, Queenie made cupcakes, and my stomach can’t handle too many more of them. Save me from myself.”

She watches Percy consider turning her down. He always does, at first. There’s a part of him that still clings to the idea of professional boundaries, even when it comes to someone he’s known as long as Tina, and by default, Queenie.

“You know you want to,” she says, part-teasing, part-exasperation at the show of resistance. It’s always so unnecessary. They both know he’s going to give in.

She recognizes the moment it happens. Percy looks away to hide a sigh, and she knows she’s got him.

“What kind of cupcakes?” he asks.

“She’s getting creative. Marshmallow mint chocolate chip. With pecans.”

Percy raises an eye at her.

“Don’t knock it till you try it. They’re amazing, Percy. Fucking amazing.”

“Only one way to find out,” he says, sounding resigned.

Tina lifts a hand, waving him onward. It’ll be good to decompress back at her apartment.

Queenie is ecstatic when they arrive.

“Percival Graves,” she says, voice almost a squeak. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Queenie,” Percy says, going in for a hug and to drop a peck on Queenie’s cheek. “I’ve been around.”

“We’re here for sugar,” Tina says, dropping her things onto a chair at the dining table.

“I got all the sugar you need, honey,” she says as she kisses Percy’s cheek right back.

“The cupcakes, Queenie.”

“Oh! Sure.”

“And I’ll take some coffee if you’ve got it,” add Percy.

Tina watches her sister sashay away from Percy and over first to the coffee pot to get a pot started, and then to the dome-covered dish of cupcakes. Years ago, Tina would have mocked Queenie for her forced femininity. Now she see it for what it is: Queenie having fun. She hasn’t had enough of it in her life, Tina doesn’t have the heart to tease her for it anymore.

“These aren’t the final version, mind you, but they come pretty close.” She places the plate on the dining table where Tina and Percy are already  seated, lifting the dome with the wave of her wand. Two cupcakes float from the dish and land on the dessert plates drifting over to meet them.

“These smell great, Queenie,” says Percy. He’d never admit to his sweet tooth, but both Tina and Queenie are already well-acquainted with it.

“Well, you tell me what you think after you eat them. I can’t tell if they need more marshmallows or less.”

“Will do,” Percy agrees.

There’s an unspoken running joke between the three of them that Percy needs to verbalize any of his thoughts because his occlumency skills are too strong for Queenie. The reality, Tina knows, is that Queenie wouldn’t dare invade his thoughts in the first place. But there’s no fun in the truth.

Tina unwraps a cupcake, takes a small bite, and tries to avoid the explosion of marshmallow from the center that follows by pulling her face back as soon as the gusher begins. In her opinion, there’s definitely too much marshmallow. She watches Percy attempt the same maneuver, but not knowing what to expect means he gets a late start, and marshmallow splatters down his shirt front.

Tina doesn’t bother hiding her snort.

“Oh, honey,” Queenie exclaims. “I didn’t even think to warn you!”

There is marshmallow on Percy’s chin. He magicks the whole mess away with a silent wave of his hand.

Tina thins her lips to avoid a smile.

“Don’t you dare,” Percy warns her.

She nods. Understood.

“So did you two come down just to see me?” asks Queenie, politely failing to notice the way Percy firmly pushes his cupcake away.

“No,” Percy answers. “But seeing you is an added bonus.”

Tina knows he means it, even if Queenie’s concoction did attempt to ruin his shirt.

“You’re sweet,” Queenie says. “Then you came to talk shop? About that Barebone boy, I assume.”

Tina doesn’t bother acting ashamed that she shared confidential information with her sister. Percy knows she shares everything with Queenie, and not even because Queenie can read minds.

Percy, because he’s Percy, gives Tina a glare that lasts about two seconds before he turns back to Queenie. He smiles atq her, but doesn’t say a word.

Tina rolls her eyes. Percy may accept she tells Queenie everything, but talking about confidential cases with a civilian is one line he won’t cross, even for someone he’s known as long as he’s known Tina’s sister.

“You’re a good auror, Percival,” Queenie says, standing. “I’ll let you two chickens talk it out. I have to get to the store anyway. Got to make a new batch of cupcakes.” Then she excuses herself from the table, grabs her purse off the coat rack, and leaves the apartment.

“Not going to bug me this time about Queenie?”

“I’m angrier you didn’t warn me about the cupcake.”

“Can you blame me?”

Percy’s brow furrows. “Easily.”

They allow for one more moment of quiet, holding the space for the more joyful part of their conversation.

Then Percy pushes them forward into less pleasant waters.

“I have 72 hours to find a home that will take him and to get him moved in, or Congress is going to try him for his mother’s murder. And if he goes into a program and fails to gain control, we’re both losing our jobs and he’ll be executed.”

“I know,” Tina says quietly. They’d talked about all of this the day before. “So what are we going to do ?"

“I reached out to a few places this morning. Three have already said no, flat out. Two are considering, but they want compensation.”

Tina frowns. “How much?”

“More than MACUSA is willing to pay.”

“Shit. Is that legal?”

She watches Percy rub at his chin. He looks exhausted. Tina feels it too. Even though her time around Credence has been minimal, something about his magic has stayed with her. She can taste it at the back of her tongue, clinging to her throat. She feels worn down from it, and her dreams are permeated by an inky black web that constricts everything it touches. She wants to ask Percy if he feels the same way, if he’s dreaming about the same things. But she knows him well enough to know he’d never tell her.

“No. But I’m going to pay the difference myself, anyway,” he says.

“Percy…”

“No, Tina. I won’t be dissuaded. Credence needs--. He deserves an opportunity. I have the money. I’m paying the difference.”

Tina swallows. “And the President’s okay with that? With breaking the law for Credence?”

The look in Percy’s eyes as he responds is hard. Cold.

“Are you going to tell her?”

She snaps her mouth shut, shocked. Percy’s always been an independent thinker, unafraid to ruffle feathers. But he’s been loyal to Seraphina, her buttons left largely unpushed. The choice to fund Credence’s rehab behind her back is entirely unexpected.

“This is a huge risk,” she says carefully. “MACUSA could do worse than fire you if they find out about it.”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

Tina can tell that’s true. And she knows Percy’s too stubborn to argue with.

“So, when will Credence leave the hospital?”

Percy picks at the cupcake he’d pushed aside. Tina watches him pluck a chocolatey pecan from the gooey mess and pop it into his mouth. He swallows, slow and deliberate. “I’ll figure out which center I want him in today and confirm the details, then I’ll talk to Seraphina. He could be moved in as early as tomorrow if they have a bed ready.”

Tina mulls that over. “The sooner the better, I guess.”

“There’s no part of this that’s going to be easy for him. It’s best to get it over and done with.”

Percy looks down at his watch and then stands from the table. “I need to get things settled. I’ll let you know what’s happening after I speak with Seraphina.”

Tina stands too. “I’ll be at the office for the afternoon, dealing with all the things I’ve been ignoring to process this mess.”

“Actually, I’d like you to ignore them a little longer and go back to the hospital.”

“Why,” Tina asks. “We just left!”

“We answered Credence’s questions this morning, it’s time he answers some of ours. He’s not expecting us back today, so it’s a perfect chance to go.”

“Surprise him into answering frankly?” It’s a common interview technique, but it doesn’t sit well to apply it to someone so fragile. Still, she won’t argue.

Percy’s smile holds no happiness. “Something like that.” He moves to leave, and then pauses. “Thank you, Tina. I’d be in a much more difficult place if I didn’t have you.”

Tina smiles, the joy absent from hers as well. “So give me a raise.”

That draws a real smile out of Percy. “Talk soon,” he says. And then he’s out the door.

Tina waits until she’s sure he’d made it down the hall before collapsing back into the chair, dropping her head into her hands, and muttering, “Son of a goddamn bitch.”

Chapter Text

Credence’s room feels as stark and lonely when Tina returns to it two hours later as it had when she’d left it. She can’t fathom being trapped within the four walls of this white room without feeling some level of discomfort, even without the added burden Credence has been tasked with. Something about all the white and chrome sets Tina on edge, so she can only imagine how it might be impacting the Obscurial. Which is why she’d stopped in a little No-Maj shop and picked something up she hoped might cheer Credence up. It won’t solve his problems, but it might just lesson the sense of isolation a little.

“ Knock knock ,” she says softly as she simultaneously opens the door and raps against the surface.

“Miss Goldstein,” Credence says, voice just high enough to indicate his surprise. He’s in bed, looking just as he had earlier in the morning.

“Tina, please,” she says, the door closing quietly behind her. “No one calls me Miss Goldstein unless I’m in trouble.”

Credence smiles faintly, but Tina’s gaze catches the way his hands are bunching the sheets. “Tina, then. Is Mr. Graves with you?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. Just me this time. I’m guessing that’s all right with you?”

“It’s fine,” Credence says. “Not that I would mind if Mr. Graves were here,” he quickly adds.

“That’s generous of you, Credence. He hasn’t been the kindest.”

Credence shrugs. “I haven’t done much to deserve kindness. I’ve pretty much done the opposite.”

Tina watches Credence try to keep himself together. He takes two deep breaths, which he tries to hide by ducking his head, and his fingers forcibly relax against the sheets. When his eyes rise to meet Tina again, he seems more stable, but she suspects the facade won’t last. Not with the questions she’s readying to ask.

She decides to start soft. “So, I brought you something.” She lifts the small paper gift bag she’s been holding. The pale green tissue paper crinkles with the motion.

That startles Credence. His eyes widen, then narrow. His mouth downturns into a slight frown. “A gift?”

Tina nods. “Something like that, sure,” she says, sitting on the bed again as she’d done before. “This room gives me the heebie-jeebies. So I stopped into this cute little No-Maj shop and tried to find something I thought might...perk it up a bit.” She places the bag beside Credence.

He takes it tentatively, like he doesn’t want to disturb the tissue paper. “Should I open it now?”

“Of course! I like to know straight off if I did good or not when it comes to presents. And I want you to be honest.”

Carefully Credence removes the tissue paper, setting it beside him on the bed. Then, oh-so-gently, he lifts out the small potted plant Tina had picked out for him. Tina tries not to fidget while he inspects the dark, spikey leaves that shoot skyward.

“Oh,” he says softly, so softly Tina almost doesn’t hear him though they’re sharing the same three feet of space. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”

“The gal behind the counter at the flower shop called it a snake plant. Well, she called it a sanse-what’s-it, and I told her that may as well be Greek to me, and then she called it a snake plant. This one’s pretty small, but they can get a lot bigger. Do you really like it?”

Credence nods. Swallows. “I do. But--I don’t know that I’m in a position to take care of it.”

Tina remembers that Credence remains under the impression that imprisonment--if not death--is still a viable option for his future. He doesn’t know the lengths Percy is going to as they speak to ensure that doesn’t happen.

“I know it’s hard, Credence, especially since Percy’s been going out of his way to be a jerk, but I’m going to ask you to trust us right now. And to trust that Percy has a plan for you. One that lets you take care of this plant for as long as you want.”

She looks away while Credence wipes hastily at his eyes, though of course she doesn’t judge him for it. She hopes he won’t judge her for what she says next.

“So tell me about that night.”

Credence’s breath catches and the about face. She’s close enough to hear it. His hands come down from his face and rest on either side of the small planter.

“Excuse me?”

“That night with Mary Lou. Tell me about what happened.”

“Didn’t Mr. Graves--”

“I want to hear you tell it, Credence.” Her voice doesn’t carry the same coldness as Percy’s had, not by a mile. But her tone has gotten decidedly less friendly.

“I don’t remember much,” Credence finally says.

“That’s okay,” Tina lies, because fewer details won’t help his case any. “Just tell me what you do remember.”

Credence takes a moment to compose himself. Tina can see his chest rise and fall with the deep breaths he’s taking. She takes a breath of her own as her head begins to swim. As Credence grows more upset, his magic grows more unruly, and Tina feels a headache coming on.

“I was helping Modesty with her homework, which we do...did...every night after dinner. Chastity was there, reading. It was a normal evening. Nicer than most, but normal.”

He pauses. Tina waits.

“We were working on spelling, which Modesty hates. The activities were the same every week, and because we couldn’t use a computer, her choices were even more limited. More boring.”

“A computer?” Tina asks. She’s heard the word before, has a vague image in her head of what it might mean. But she wants to be sure.”

“Yes,” Credence answers. “A computer.”

“But what exactly is that?”

“It’s….” Credence pauses, trying to figure out how to explain a device he clearly thought Tina would be familiar with. “Well, I’m no expert since Mary Lou banned them, but they run on electricity. They look kind of like small televisions. You use them to type or get online.”

“You’re going to have to bear with me, Credence,” Tina says with a smile. “I’m familiar with televisions but I have no idea what an online is.”

Credence opens and closes his mouth. “Online just means the internet. Do witches and wizards not have the internet?”

Tina shrugs. “Magic and electricity don’t often get along. No-Maj tools are foreign to most of us. Especially the electronic ones.”

“Okay. Well--sorry, it’s just really hard to describe something like the internet. Especially since I was never able to use it.”

Tina waves a hand. “It’s fine, Credence. We can circle back to it. So you were practicing spelling with Modesty?”

“Yes,” answers Credence. “She was complaining about doing her spelling. I made a careless comment about asking to use the Chromebooks at school--they’re just a type of computer--and Chastity heard me. She told Mary Lou, who threatened Modesty and myself. I….”

Again, Credence pauses. Again, Tina waits.

“I got angry. At myself. At Chastity. At Mary Lou. It overwhelmed me, I think, to be so mad. Mary Lou was going to hurt Modesty. She’d already hurt me, and the idea that she’d turn around and do that to Modesty. I lost it.”

Tina frowns. She doesn’t need to ask about the myriad of ways Mary Lou Barebone liked to punish her children. She recognizes, as far as Credence knows, that she’s supposed to be ignorant to what he means when he says She’d already hurt me . But Tina isn’t willing to take her temporary Percy-esque exterior to the length of asking about painful memories that aren’t in dispute. She knows Credence is telling the truth. She’s seen with her own eyes that he is.

“How’d you lose it?” she asks instead, voice quiet.

“That’s what I can’t remember. I just wanted to keep Modesty safe. To put Mary Lou in her place. I heard her say, ‘Dear God in Heaven,” and I knew she was scared. And I liked it.”

Credence looks at Tina, his eyes wild in the recollection. The air around him crackles, and she tries her best to ignore it. His fingers are rubbing rhythmic circles against the ceramic pot in his hands.

“I think that’s understandable, Credence.” She says it partly to try and calm Credence down, and partly because she genuinely means it. She’d probably want to knock Mary Loud down a peg, too.

“I don’t know what happened to me,” he continues. “I don’t know what I did or what she saw. I remember that I felt strange, but I couldn’t say how. I felt strange, and Mary Lou was afraid, and then she screamed.

“And then I woke up here, bound to this hospital bed with Mr. Graves telling me I was a wizard and that I had killed Mary Lou.”

“Thank you, Credence,” says Tina. She pulls a shrunken pen and a thick piece of paper out of her pocket, and then re-sizes them with her wand. Credence jumps. “Sorry,” Tina murmurs. “Didn’t mean to startle you.

“It’s okay. I’ll get used to magic eventually. Probably.”

“I’m sure you will. For right now, the last thing I need from you is your written statement. Just right down everything you told me.”

Credence takes the items, staring oddly at the pen. “Nurse Miller never uses one of these. He has some kind of floating feather thing. I was wondering if witches and wizards even used pens.”

“Some do, some don’t. We can be an old fashioned bunch, if I’m being honest. But I like No-Maj pens. They’re so much more convenient!” What Tina doesn’t mention is that this particular pen has been spelled so it will only write the truth. She may not have talked to Credence while under veritaserum, but she was always planning for this.

She sits in silence while Credence writes and processes what he has said. It matches the statements given by his sisters. She’s almost positive he’s telling the truth, though Percy will probably be pissed she didn’t properly question him under veritaserum. She thinks about how hard it must have been to wake up to the news that his family was destroyed at his own hands. How Percy probably delivered the news with little fanfare or kindness. She wants to cry for Credence, because she knows there is no one else who will.

But first, she has one more question to ask.

She waits until Credence caps the pen and hands both items back to her, then Tina asks, “Credence, has something like this ever happened before?”

The reaction is instant. Credence’s hands freeze. His breath quickens.

“I’m sorry?”

Tina can already tell this is going to be painful to talk about, whatever Credence may be hiding.

“Was this the very first time something like this has happened, or has it happened before?”

“I’ve never killed anyone before!” He’s clenching the pot strongly Tina sends a wandless, wordless strengthening spell to bolster it.

“But have you hurt someone before?” she asks.

She sees it, then. The first tendril of black snaking out from somewhere behind him. Tina sees his eyes begin to cloud. Her wand slips into her fingers.

“Credence,” she murmurs. “You don’t need to do this.”

But he isn’t listening anymore. Another wisp of black seeps out from his right nostril.

“You’re not in danger,” she tries again. Tina thinks quickly--which shield spell will keep her and the Obscurial safe?

The knock at the door startles them both.

“I’ve got your lunch, Mr. Barebone,” says Nurse Miller as he walks into the room with a floating meal tray lilting behind him. “Dear Melin,” he exclaims.

“Get back!” shouts Tina, but when she throws a look back at Credence, the tendrils of black have gone. His eyes are normal again, though his breathing is erratic.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Credence, it’s okay. We’re okay.” She looks back at the nurse. “Tell him we’re okay!”

Nurse Miller steadies himself. “She’s right, Credence. We’re okay.”

The tension in the room dissipates minutely. Tina takes breath, pushing the air out through her nose, and forces her shoulders to relax.

Credence is still murmuring his apologies.

Nurse Miller waves his wand with a shaky hand, and Tina watches the tray of food glide over to the bed, landing smoothly despite the wizard’s fear.

“Eatin’ time,” says Tina, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t seem to work.

“I’m not hungry,” Credence replies.

Tina lifts the lid off the tray and sniffs around the plate. “I can always eat. The spread doesn’t look too bad, considering.”

Between them sits a roast chicken breast with mashed potatoes and gravy and steamed carrots. A small bowl of pudding and a plastic cup of iced tea are there as well.

Credence waves a distracted hand, and Tina grabs the pudding without needing further permission.

“I don’t know about you, but after some bad shit I like to start with dessert.”

Credence doesn’t bat an eye at Tina’s words.

“I’m going to Hell,” he says. “I am a danger to others, I’ve killed my mother, and I’m most certainly going to Hell for all of it.”

She puts the pudding down. She wants Credence to understand something.

“I don’t know anything about it, but what I do know is that you’re only a danger to others if you don’t accept that you can change. That you can grow.”

His response is silence. Tina knows this is a lesson Credence won’t learn overnight.

She sighs. “I’ve got your back, Credence. Percy does, too. I have to take off now, but I want you to understand that. We’re in your corner.”

Credence’s nod is so tiny it hardly registers. But Tina will take it, all the same.

She stands from the bed, brushing wrinkles out of her pants. “Take care of yourself, Credence. And your plant! I was told it doesn’t need much water or sunlight. It’s tough.” Like you .

His hands close around the pot. “I’ll do my best.”

Tina smiles. “And that’s exactly enough.”

Then she leaves the hospital room.

Chapter Text

Five days Credence has been in the hospital. Five days spent eating food magicked to the right temperature. Five days having his bowels emptied with the wave of a nurse’s magic wand because he isn’t allowed to find a bathroom. Five days spent largely in silence not knowing what was going to happen or when. Objectively, he understands eating toast that’s been charmed so the butter stays perfectly melted is a small price to pay for killing another person, but subjectively this room has become more of a prison than Mary Lou’s ascetic church ever was. Which he supposes is fair, given what he’s done. The little plant gifted by Tina helps with the strange ache some, and for that at least Credence is infinitely grateful.

Still, the near-silence and white walls and magic used where a simple stretch of the arm will do has Credence questioning his sanity. So when Graves walks in late on the fifth day with a bag of new clothes and tells Credence he’s leaving the hospital, Credence could almost cry for joy.

“Leaving for where?” He asks as he slips his legs out from the covers. They’re pale, and largely unhidden by his thin gown. He’s too anxious about leaving to care if Graves sees them.

Graves holds out the bag containing his new wardrobe. “I found a rehabilitation center willing to take you.”

“Isn’t that like for drug addicts? Alcoholics?”

Graves gives Credence a funny look. Credence tries not to feel discomfited by it.

“No,” says Graves. “I’ve found you a group home for witches and wizards who have experienced family-related traumas.”

Credence swallows, a pair of briefs frozen in his hands. He feels suddenly clammy. “I’m not a victim of family-related trauma.”

“Your mother starved you, beat you, and reduced your self-esteem to something the size of a grain of rice. Credence, anyone would find that traumatizing.”

He tries to control his breathing. He knows getting upset won’t do him any favors. “But I’m fine , Mr. Graves,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m fine .”

Graves gives him a look that clearly broadcasts how profoundly unimpressed he is by Credence’s statement. “So then you’re guilty of cold-blooded murder.”

Credence feels himself losing the battle with his breath. “That was my Obscurus.” He says the word easily, though it still feels totally foreign on his tongue.

“Your Obscurus is a product of your trauma. It’s the biggest proof of all that you need support.”

Credence drops the underwear to shove his palms into his eyes. He feels the bed dip, and then Graves speaks.

“Credence, there is no version of events where this feels good or right. There are only the choices you’ve been given: take un-influenced responsibility for the death of Mary Lou Barebone, or accept that you need help and let us provide it .” His voice is soft, the gentlest it’s been since Credence met the man.

So Credence nods. He wishes he could pray for peace, but God doesn’t feel like an option at the moment. Would God even listen to the soul of an aberrant killer?

“I’m ready to get dressed, Mr. Graves.”

“Good,” Graves says. He stands from the bed and steps back towards the door. “We don’t have much more time.”

Credence dresses quickly. He slips the underwear on under his gown, and socks after that. He follows with the pants and shoes, which fit surprisingly well. He wonders if this is magic, too. Wonders how much of his life will be touched by this force he can’t see, and yet seems to be everywhere and anything. This force that’s within him and that terrifies him.

Once he’s dressed below the waist, Credence has to face the prospect of taking off his gown to button up the shirt Graves has provided. Graves is respectfully looking elsewhere, and Credence doesn’t know why he’s worried about this at all. His body isn’t worth the attention, certainly not from a man as powerful and attractive as Graves. So he bites the bullet and lifts the gown. He focuses on the shirt in front of him, keeping his eyes off of both Graves and his own torso. He doesn’t need to see the expanse of his pale flesh, mottled with still-fading bruises from Mary Lou’s belt.

“Your mother do that to you?”

Credence is so stuck in his head that Graves’ voice makes him jump. He doesn’t even know how to answer the question. He wants to snap back, she isn’t my mother . But instead of opening that can of worms, Credence simply replies, “Yes.”

“For what it’s worth,” Graves says, voice cold. “I’m not sorry she’s gone.”

When Credence braves a glance at Graves, he’s surprised by the icy anger he finds in the man’s eyes.

“I am,” Credence whispers back. Graves just shakes his head and looks away once more.

Credence buttons his shirt as quickly as possible, and tucks the bottom into his slacks. The shirt is a crisp white, the same style as the ones he wore while living with Mary Lou, but a much higher quality. It’s the same with the slacks, which are a black so deep they almost seem to absorb light. The same black that saturates Graves’ pants, too. Graves, of course, wears the style much better.

The outfit is finalized by a wool coat. It is, by far, the most overwhelming piece of clothing for how beautiful it is. It’s the same shade of black as the pants, but there’s an iridescence to the dye that makes Credence think of crows’ wings. The light only catches the color occasionally, but when it does, Credence feels his breath catch.

“I can’t accept this,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“The gift is too great. This coat is too expensive: I can’t accept it.”

“Don’t be stupid,” snaps Graves. “Take the coat. It’s freezing out there.”

“I’ve survived the cold before, I’ll survive it again. You must return the coat. Or donate it, if that’s not possible. But I can’t take it.”

He doesn’t quite understand why he’s pushing back so hard against the damn thing. A very significant part of Credence wants nothing more than to run his hands against the wool. To let the very tips of nails catch on the black wooden buttons. To feel the weight of the fabric press into his shoulders.

“If I can donate the coat, then consider this me donating it to you.”

Graves is angry, Credence can tell. And Credence knows he’s being ungrateful, but it’s not his intention to be rude. It’s just….

“I don’t deserve this.”

Graves scoffs. “That’s not for you to decide. I brought it for you. I want you to wear it. What you do with it after I leave is your business. But for now, put the damn coat on so we can leave this place.”

It’s a losing battle, Credence realizes. Stubbornness never was a quality he clung to, so he finally drops his protests.

“I,” Credence begins, but his voice drifts into silence quickly. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”

The coat feels incredible as he slips it on. The satin lining is soft and shiny, and cool when it first makes contact with the cotton of his shirt sleeves. It’s also too big, the shoulders far too broad. It makes the sleeves of the coat fall to Credence’s knuckles, so he feels like a child playing dress up. It would fit Graves better in every way. But it’s warm, so warm. So warm Credence wouldn’t be half surprised if Graves admitted to a magical enhancement of some kind. Then again, maybe that’s just the consequence of good quality craftsmanship.

“Much better,” Graves mumbles. “It’s a little large in the shoulders, but the cut suits you well.”

Credence doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, so he bites back the denial on the tip of his tongue. This coat doesn’t suit me at all.

“You’re very generous, Mr. Graves. Thank you.”

Graves waves a hand, his dismissal clear. “Please do me a favor and don’t mention it again.”

In another context, the comment might bring out a smile in Credence. Generally speaking, he appreciates frankness in others, even when Graves’ particular flavor of frankness is as unsettling as often as it’s helpful. Of course, when it comes to Graves, Credence wishes many of their interactions were occurring in a different context.

His mind doesn’t have too long to wander, though, for as Graves stands off to the side watching Credence with an impatient gleam in his eyes, Credence’s own eyes catch on the final item sitting at the bottom of the bag.

Graves notices. “It was the only personal effect that remained after the explosion,” he says.

Credence picks up the crucifix carefully. The chain and the cross are both made of silver and remain perfectly intact despite Credence’s violent outburst. He’d wondered only once about the fate of the necklace, and then pocketed the thought for another time when his faith didn’t feel so gutted. To see it before him now is a shock.

“I’m surprised it survived,” he says to Graves, eyes locked on the tarnished metal icon.

Graves shrugs. “Maybe someone’s looking out for you.”

Credence wants to laugh. Doubtful .

After a pause that goes on far too long, Graves checks his pocket watch and coughs.

“It’s time to go.”

Credence is almost afraid to ask where to.  But he nods, slipping the necklace into the pocket of the too-large coat and taking the potted snake plant in his hands. He’s never had much, but even Credence can recognize how pathetic it is to have so few personal items. His life has been reduced to a few gifted clothes, a crucifix he no longer feels fit to wear, and a plant he’s almost certain he’s going to kill.

The hospital outside of his room is noisier than Credence expects. Nurses walk quickly in the same pale grey robes that Nurse Miller sports, talking to one another as they pass and giving Graves and Credence curious looks as the pair moves through the halls. Credence isn’t sure if it just feels like everyone’s eyes are on him, or if they really are. His skin crawls either way.

There are so many questions he wants to ask Graves, but he knows it isn’t the right time. Not with so many ears listening. He wishes he could create a bubble of silence for just the two of them. If wishes were fishes , as Chastity used to say.

As they exit the front hospital doors, Credence is surprised to find that he and Graves are still in a part of New York he recognizes. He had thought they’d be somewhere more remote. More magical.

Graves takes a look at Credence’s expression and quirks a brow. “Not what you expected?”

Credence shakes his head. “No. That said, I’m not sure exactly what I did expect.”

“We like to hide in plain sight. But we’ll be leaving this all behind in a moment.”

Credence wonders what that means. If they’ll be taking a car or train. Or maybe something more mystical, like a hidden passageway. Nothing, at this point, would surprise him. When Graves takes his arm and guides Credence down an out-of-the-way alley, he’s almost certain they’ll be travelling through the latter. But Graves merely walks them to the very back of the alley off to the side of dumpster.

“Put your arm around me,“ orders Graves.

“I’m sorry?” Credence says, certain he’s misheard.

“Around my waist, Credence.” Graves’ hand is still on Credence’s arm, and he moves it around his own waist. “Like this. And hold on tight.”

Credence grips without thinking, overwhelmed by the sudden intimacy of their situation. Graves is warm and firm beside him, and Credence catches a distracted whiff of his cologne.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He feels a little light headed.

“Apparating. It’ll be quick, but don’t let go.”

There is a crack, and then blackness.

Chapter Text

Credence opens his eyes in another world. Countless people of all shapes and sizes hustle and bustle down an unknown city street. Dressed in a myriad of colors and fabric, the tingle of what Credence has come to recognize as magic skitters down his spine, overwhelming and everywhere. He feels like he’s going to throw up. His grip on the snake plant falters. It tumbles from his hand, forcing Graves to throw out his free hand. The pot freezes in mid-air and then floats skyward.

“I need to sit down,” he mumbles against Graves’ side. “I’m going to be sick.”

Graves tsks, hitching Credence up. “I don’t think so.”

Graves pulls him into a small building that smells like lavender and vanilla, and then Credence feels himself being pushed into a well-cushioned chair. The potted plant floats along beside them, landing on the table with a thunk .  “Water, please, Kara,” Credence hears Graves say. “And a shot of Ogden’s.”

“Where are we?” asks Credence, taking in the room. The walls are a clean white, but so ornamented with photos he can hardly tell. Especially because the photographs are moving. Credence points at them wordlessly.

Graves follows the motion. “Magic.”

Credence swallows. “Good lord.”

A woman walks up with the water and a small glass of something amber. The drinks Graves had ordered.

“You look worse for wear,” she says, frowning. “Can I get you some tonic water instead?”

Graves answers for him. “How about a second shot of Ogden’s.”

Credence watches her walk back to the counter. “I don’t think that will settle my stomach.”

“Nonsense,” replies Graves. “Whiskey solves all problems.”

Credence swallows, mouth snapping shut.

“You asked where we are,” continued Graves. “Broadly, we’re in wizarding New York. Specifically, we’re in an old Speakeasy.”

“I’ve never been in a bar before,” Credence says, still a little dazed.

“You’ve never been in wizarding New York, either. But we stopped because you look sick, and I need a drink.”

“Do all wizards travel the way you just did?” asks Credence between sips of water.

”Yes, those of legal age most often apparate to get around. Or use the Floo, but I prefer not to ruin my clothes every time I have to run an errand.”

Graves’ response is mostly meaningless to Credence, so he lets it drift in one ear and then right out the other. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

As he speaks, the server, Kara, brings him the second shot of whiskey.

“Overwhelmed?” Graves says, raising his glass. “Get used to it.” Then he downs the drink.

Credence looks down at his own glass wonders if Graves really expects him to drink the alcohol. They both stare at the drink in silence, until Graves shrugs and mutters, “Might as well.” Then he takes the second shot, too.

“I’ve convinced President Picquery and Congress at large that death or imprisonment isn’t in their best interest. So they voted to have you rehabilitated, like I said back at the hospital.”

“But how did you do that?” Credence can’t fathom it.

“By telling them we’d rather have one of the world’s rarest and most powerful creatures on our side rather than against us.”

“Like some kind of weapon?” Credence feels sick.

“It’s politics. Choices are only ever made in self-interest.”

“Are your people expecting loyalty from me?”

“My people, who are now your people, are always looking for an advantage. Be grateful I found a way to give them one.”

“Yes, Mr. Graves, you’ve made it clear I should be grateful for many things.”

“Your life, chief among them.”

Credence feels a familiar anger begin to bubble. “Then put me down. That seems like the simplest solution, for how much you care.”

Graves doesn’t even scoff at the attitude. “Don’t give me that,” he says. “You’ll get no pity from me.”

“I don’t want pity. I want this to be over.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say. Completely useless and absolutely impossible. But though he knows this, Credence still can’t keep the words from slipping out his mouth.

Graves frowns. “Too late for that now.”

Credence shuts his eyes and focuses on taking deep breaths. He feels out of control. “So what’s going to happen to me at the center?” he grits out.

“Therapy. Menial chores. Routine.”

Therapy! The very word makes Credence balk. He tries to cover his reaction; he doesn’t need another lecture from Graves about what he needs. Instead he says, “And it’s paid for?”

“By the U.S. magical government. Free of charge to you, you’ll be staying in a place that will give you a warm bed and regular meals. A solid deal.”

“For how long?”

“Six months.”

The questions swirl. Then what? Where will I live? Will I be able to see my sisters? How will I support myself? Will I still see you?

He doesn’t ask any of them. He doesn’t think Graves can or will answer them. He takes a drink of his water and tries to accept the ambiguity of his situation. The unknown.

“Are you ready?” Graves asks.

He takes a last sip of water and nods.

“Good.” Graves stands and straightens his coat. He takes out two strange looking pieces of colored paper and places them on the table under one of the empty shot glasses.

“Even the money is different,” he observes, almost numb from all the adjusting he’s had to do.

He’s expecting another sharp comment from Graves. Instead, Graves sighs and places a gentle hand on Credence’s shoulder, the tips of fingers brushing at skin of his neck with the motion.

“You have to brace yourself for the all the ways your life will be different now. Trust it will get easier.”

Then he takes his hand away and shoves it deep into his jacket pocket.

Credence’s skin flushes from the touch, his neck tingling as if shocked. He stands quickly and grabs his plant, nods jerkily. He can find no words to speak.

Once outside, Graves offers his arm to Credence. “You’ll need to hold onto me again. We’ll be apparating to the facility.”

He takes the offered arm, winding his own around Graves’ elbow.

“Hold on tight, Mr. Barebone,” says Graves. Then they’re sucked in the magical vortex of apparition once more.

It’s just as disorienting when they land, but Credence manages to hold onto his plant this time. He still feels like he might vomit, but he manages to keep it down.

“Here we are,” says Graves, looking at a large, multi-story Victorian-esque house. It sits on a large plot of land with winding gardens and pathways surrounding the coral and turquoise structure. There are windchimes hanging from the porch rafters, and multiple bird baths and bird feeders visible in the front yard. In the very center of the front yard is a sign that reads, “Nix House Healing Center.” It’s not what Credence is expecting.

Inside, the home is surprisingly plain. Credence is anticipating something grander, more mystical, especially based on the exterior. But there’s nothing particularly personal or magical about the place once they’re inside. There are few pictures, moving or otherwise, and the decor is neutral; nothing like the bold colors and decorations outside. It feels incongruous to Credence.

“Mr. Graves,” says a witch walking down the hall. She has beautiful shining hair that changes colors every few seconds. She stops before Credence and offers a kind smile. “Credence, I presume.” She extends a hand. “My name is Venus. Welcome to my home.”

Credence shakes her hand weakly. “It’s nice to meet you, Venus. Thank you for letting me stay with you.” He isn’t sure how else to respond. The situation is so foreign.

“I’m happy to do so,” she answers. She turns to Graves, holding her hand out to him again. “Nice to see you again.”

Graves shakes the hand, suave smile on his face. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Credence is surprised at how charming Graves seems. He hasn’t had that smile directed at him since Graves was following him, seeking out information. Playing him. He wonders if Graves is playing Venus.

If he is, Venus doesn’t seem swayed. Her smile stays professional, and her hand doesn’t linger in his. She turns back to Credence and says, “Now that you’re here, let me give you a tour and help you get settled.”

Graves steps back. “I know when I’m being dismissed. Credence, Tina will be by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

“And when will I see you again,” asks Credence. Graves may not be the kindest, but he’s been the one constant in in this mess. Credence feels a strange panic at the knowledge Graves is leaving him.

“I couldn’t say. But I would think you’d be glad to see the back of me.”

Credence has no appropriate answer. He purses his lips.

“Goodbye, Credence,” says Graves, putting out his hand.

Credence takes it, unhappy to do so. “Goodbye, Mr. Graves.”

Then Graves is turning, leaving, walking back out the front door. Credence can’t explain why he wants so badly to follow him out. He’s terrified of this house, this world. Of talking about what happened, and explaining what he did. Of being abandoned in a place of unfamiliar magic and people. He wants a known variable. He wants an anchor.

“Don’t worry,” says Venus. “He won’t forget you here.”

Credence turns to her. “How do you know?”

“He isn’t the type. He takes care of what’s his.”

“I’m not his,” the very thought makes Credence blush a furious red.

“You’re his responsibility. He won’t turn his back on that.”

Credence still isn’t convinced.

“And even if he did,” continues Venus, “know that those of us here at Nix House won’t. We take care of ours, too, and now you’re one of ours.”

“Thank you,” says Credence. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Venus’ smile is kind. “That’s just enough. Here, let’s put your things down in your room and I’ll show you around. Have you had dinner yet?”

“I haven’t.”

“Then I’ll give you the tour and we’ll talk over a meal. That’s my favorite way to get to know someone anyways.”

She turns back down the hall where she came, gesturing for Credence to come along. He takes a deep breath, clutches his snake plant closer, and hurries along the hall to follow.

Chapter Text

Credence wakes up and blinks. The clock on the nightstand that sits between the two beds in his room tuts at him in irritation.

“I know you know the routine by now, young man. It’s 7:00 A.M. Time to get up.”

Credence stares at it, still half asleep and not terribly happy about it. He’s always been most struck by the fact that the clock doesn’t have a mouth, and yet speaks so clearly. Especially given the lack of apparent speakers.

The man in the neighboring bed groans, and then stretches. “Off, now,” he says.

The clock blows a rasperberry, despite not having a tongue.

”Morning,” Credence says, stretching his legs under the covers.

“Morning,” Ben, his roommate at Nix House, mumbles.

Credence likes Ben. At nineteen, Ben is one of the older inhabitants of the center. Before Credence, he’d had the room to himself as the only man above the age of eighteen staying at Nix, and he’d handled Credence’s arrival gamely. He’d been very generous with Credence too, offering help navigating the halls of the house and introducing him to many of the others staying there. And if he minded Credence now taking up half the space Ben must have thought of as his, he doesn’t show it.

He watches Ben throw on some comfortable clothes and finger comb his curly brown hair roughly. He takes his wand off the shared nightstand and slips the thin piece of wood behind his ear. Ben had told Credence it wasn’t common for wands to be so slim, Ben was just lucky that way.

Credence’s own absent wand and lack of knowledge around magic on the whole had made him stand out considerably upon arrival. He was still a bit of a novelty, even five weeks later, but he’d found most of the others willing, if not out-right excited, to share their knowledge with him. In turn, they asked a myriad questions about what he was doing there if he’d never used magic. What kind of wizard went over two decades without casting a single spell?

At the insistence of both Tina and Venus, Credence has said nothing about his nature. He’s starting to understand the gravity of his existence. The rarity of his kind. When he’s asked for the thousandth time what his deal is, he just shrugs. “I guess I’ve been using magic and never realizing it.” It’s the closest to the truth he dares get.

“See you at breakfast,” says Ben as he slips out the door. He meditates in the garden first thing in morning, Credence knows, and generally joins everyone for breakfast closer to 8:00.

“See you,” Credence echoes, getting out of bed himself and then heading for the bathroom on their floor.

He waves silently to the others he sees already emerging from their rooms. There are four bedrooms on his floor, and nine young people between them. They share an expansive bathroom, magicked to comfortably allow for all of them, at the end of the hall.

Nix House has four floors in total. The top two floors are the dorms. Men on the third floor, women on the fourth, and a room on each for those who don’t identify with either gender. This had surprised Credence at first, but then he’d gotten over himself. The first floor is for living, with a kitchen and dining room bigger than any conventional house would allow, as well as a two sitting rooms with books, games, and plenty of comfortable chairs and couches. The second floor is for working, or at least that’s how Venus had put it. It holds rooms for group and individual therapy, rooms decorated minimally but beautifully with big windows and lots of plants and non-obtrusive art. They are bright and warm in feeling, which Credence appreciates when the truth of his childhood and early adulthood is being dragged out of him by the gentle probing questions—and silences—of his therapists.

Everyone knows, of course, from group what his home life was like. That was why they were all at Nix House after all. It was the trauma they shared. So they’d learned how Mary Lou treated Credence and his sisters everyday. They’ve all seen the scars on his hands, and Ben the scars on his back. They also know what Mary Lou preached. What Credence helped her spread.

He doesn’t know how to explain himself when the topic of the church comes up. He explains that Mary Lou had no clue that magic really existed in the form he now knows it does. That she’d been rallying more against astrology and cartomancy. No-Majs calling themselves “witches” and walking around wearing pentagrams.

“But we are witches,” Seneca had said, her look of disgust mirrored in the others in the session.

“And we read the stars and our cards,” Ben had added. “It sounds like she was rallying against us, too.”

Credence has no words for these points. They’re not wrong. She may not have had people like Seneca or Ben in mind, but only because real magic was so outside of Mary Lou’s scope of possibility it never would have occurred to her. And if she had met Venus or Tina, Mary Lou surely would have tried to cast them into Hell on the spot.

“So how do you feel about magic now, Credence?” Venus had asked.

Credence had opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it.

He wants to tell them he never really bought any of what Mary Lou was selling. That he’d never really thought young men, women, and others claiming to be magic and living a happier life for it were the real enemy of divinity. But he doesn’t know how to explain how lack of conviction hadn’t stopped him spreading hatred and praying for the souls of “the damned” who were really just people he was deeply jealous of. How fear and anguish kept Credence compliant in Mary Lou’s scheme.

He wants to tell them that, but it isn’t wholly true, anyway. Yes, he’d been jealous of their freedom. Yes, he’d been afraid of Mary Lou on behalf of himself and his sisters, and he’d made choices out of that fear. But Credence also had believed in what Mary Lou had preached to an extent. He hadn’t believed those people evil, but he’d believed they’d still be going to Hell, like he’d be going to Hell for his own perversion, and now his own magic. Let alone his act of murder. He didn’t believe they were the Devil’s children, but he wasn’t convinced they were children of God either.

And he absolutely did not want to tell them he still feared for their souls after death. That he was still grappling with a belief system that promised damnation for the practice of witchcraft.

“I don’t know,” he had said to Venus, cheeks reddening with shame.

“So you think we’re evil?” Seneca accused.

“No, I don’t,” Credence tried to insist.

“But you think we’re going to hell?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know, maybe.” Oh, he hated to say it. He couldn’t quite believe it’d come out of his mouth. But he’d vowed to always be honest in this work. It was the only way forward.

“You know that means you’re going to hell too, right?” asked Seneca.

“I know,” Credence had said quietly. “I’m going to Hell for lots of reasons.”

“So stupid,” she had muttered. “No-Majs are idiots.”

“Come on, Seneca,” Ben had said, looking out for Credence even in this. Credence had been grateful, even though he felt he didn’t deserve it.

There’s an acute lack of religion amongst the witches and wizards Credence has met. They recognize a variety of Pagan holidays that Mary Lou would pull her own hair out to see Credence participate in, and many of the holidays resemble the Christian holidays Credence is familiar with. But though the new people in his new life have days they consider sacred, he’s only met a small handful of individuals who believe in any kind of god, or gods.

Of all the gaping wounds in Credence’s life at the moment, it is this, his damaged relationship with God, that’s one of the most painful. Second only to his in-the-air relationship with Modesty. For years, God and the church has been his main form of solace. Not the God or religion Mary Lou prescribed, but the God Credence met for himself in quiet private moments sitting among the pews or the trees or the children in the orphanage at story time. It’s the God he met during personal prayer that Credence felt loyalty to, and the God that now he feels divorced from. And he doesn’t know how to explain the ache within him to anyone else, especially when religion is the source of his one division with the rest of the house.

After that session where he expressed uncertainty about the spiritual fate of his peers, a small fissure spread between himself and some of the others. It hasn’t been very noticeable overall, but he can still feel it’s there. In the way Seneca won’t sit with him at meals as often. In the way Dove and May won’t talk about planet transits in from of him. In the way Ben has stopped volunteering facts about magic as frequently. It makes an already isolating situation for Credence all the more lonely, and he wishes he’d never said anything.

He won’t even talk to Venus or the other counselors about it, though he knows they won’t offer any obvious judgment. He won’t even talk to Tina when she visits, which happens twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays. And he hasn’t seen Graves at all since he dropped Credence off.

At breakfast, Credence sits with Dove and Seneca, and it’s only a little awkward. Seneca’s anger has cooled in the two weeks since their incident, and Credence suspects Ben has something to do with it.

“Your auror comes today, right?” Seneca asks between bites of oatmeal.

“Yes,” confirms Credence. “Ms. Goldstein.”

“She’s cool,” says Dove, who met Tina the last time she visited. “I like her haircut.”

“At least she gets her haircut,” says Seneca. Credence knows she’s referring to him, but that the comment is only lighthearted teasing. She’s been getting on Credence about his hair for weeks now. It’d been the first part of their tentative friendship to come back after his comments in group.

For her part, Seneca has no hair, having shaved it all off. She wants to take her wand to Credence’s hair something fierce, but Credence keeps turning her down. In the five weeks he’s been at Nix, his terrible bowl cut has grown into some ridiculous unkempt mane. It’s the longest it’s ever been, and he just hasn’t had the mind to do anything about it besides tuck the lengthening strands behind his ears and try not to look into a mirror too frequently. But Seneca has.

Dove knows all of this. They look from Credence to Seneca and then snort, “If you had your way, he’d have no hair at all like you.”

Seneca cocks a brow. “You’d look good with a buzz cut, Barebone, that’s all I’m saying.”

Credence smiles and butters his toast. “Maybe one day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Seneca. She’s heard that from him before.

He tells Tina about the exhange when he sees her later that morning.

“So things are getting a little better?” She’s been worried about him since the incident first happened.

“I think so,” he says. “I can’t blame anyone for how their feeling.”

“Maybe so, but still. I want you to have support here.”

Credence traces patterns into the dining table where they’re sitting with cups of coffee. “I think they’re trying to support me by challenging me.”

Tina considers this. “That’s a progressive way to look at it, I guess.”

Credence shrugs and sips his coffee. He’s come to love the stuff, and he drinks it with way too much cream and sugar just because he can.

“So, should we get on with it?” asks Tina. She’s referring to the short line of questioning she has every time she sees Credence. They keep tabs on his activity and emotions, trying to see if he’s using any magic in unexpected ways.

“Sure,” he agrees with a sigh.

In the beginning, after the dust had settled and the urgency of his situation had calmed, Tina had arrived with a proper doctor who had asked Credence a huge number and variety of questions about himself and his past to determine if he’d possibly been using magic his whole life without realizing it. If he had, he likely wouldn’t have become an Obscurial, but when he says that to Tina she just says they have to dot every I and cross every T. But then, he knows that isn’t true. He told them about the incident in high school, after all. That had certainly been magic.

He sees a doctor once a month now who works with the psychologist at Nix to craft a potential medicinal treatment or potion to help control his Obscurus. He practices breathing exercises too that he can use when he starts to get upset and there’s danger of the Obscurial exposing itself. It’s been slow-going, but it’s only been just over a month. It’s a process, process, process. Credence is coming to hate the word process.

After the questions, Credence just visits with Tina.

“Are you going to let Seneca cut your hair?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I know it looks terrible as it is. She wants to shave at least half of it off.”

“Very punk rock,” says Tina.

“Did punk come to the wizarding world?” asks Credence, smiling.

Tina smiles back. “Only a little. Mostly just the aesthetics carried over from people with No-Maj families. You know, you could probably use a little punk in your life right now.”

“Oh, so you think I should do it?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow at her.

“Why not? You might like it, and it’ll grow back if you don’t. Speedier than ever too, with the right spell.”

“What would Mr. Graves think of that?” He asks, because he can’t help it. He tries not to mention Mr. Graves with Tina, because he doesn’t want to seem desperate, though he is.

Tina must know how pathetic he is, but she never blinks an eye. “Yeah, Percy would hate it. All the more reason to do it, honestly. He’s a stick in the mud, but you shouldn’t be. It’d be more punk to do something The Man doesn’t like.”

“Mr. Graves is The Man now?”

“Of course,” Tina says emphatically. “He’s a total authoritarian.”

Credence’s smile becomes bemused as he looks at Tina. “And what does that make you, Auror Goldstein?”

Tina’s jaw drops and a hand flies to her chest. “Yeah, I’m, like, totally awesome. That’s what that makes me.”

Credence nods, eyes narrowed. “Sure.”

“Fine,” she says. “Percy’s not The Man. He’s too good for that. But you should still shave your head.”

He laughs. “Then maybe I will. Might get me back in Seneca’s good graces.”

Tina waves a hand. “She’ll come back around. Everyone here is in some kind of process. And as people, we’re all evolving.”

Somehow Credence thinks she’s talking more about him than anyone else.

“Look at you,” she continues, proving him right. “Look how far you’ve already come.”

He blushes. He wants to deny it, but he knows in his heart that she’s right. He can talk about what happened with Mary Lou and his sisters a little more easily now. The overwhelming weight of what happened, what he did, doesn’t threaten to crush him anymore every time someone asks about it.

And there are small changes in other ways. In his newfound willingness to ask for more to eat. In the relaxing of his wardrobe from slacks and button downs to jeans and t-shirts. In his ability to make eye contact. But sometimes it’s hard for Credence to measure his growth because there are newfound setbacks, too. Since that day in group, he’s completely shut down when it comes to conversations about God. If someone tries, he goes mute. It’s just too much. He’s also become deeply sensitive about touch. Unwanted physical contact is the number one thing everyone at Nix knows to avoid. The Obscurus has yet to make an appearance, but the only times he’s been worried it might is when someone’s put their hands on him.

That’s the biggest thing. For years, Credence has felt the Obscurus inside him, but only sometimes and only at his very core. Now, he feels it constantly, like it’s sitting always just underneath his skin. Like you could cut him, and not find blood but the inky black of this thing he carries within him. The professionals tell him it’s because he’s finally begun the difficult work of processing his trauma, but the result is the same—there are many days when even the soft cotton of his shirt feels like sandpaper against the murk writhing under his flesh. He doesn’t know if its in his head or really happening, but there are days when he thinks—no, knows —he’s never moving past this. He’s not going to Hell; he’s already there. This is his punishment for the death of Mary Lou and the harm that’s come to his sisters.

He’s stopped asking Tina if he can see them. The answer is always an apologetic no . He may not be a criminal in the eyes of the M.A.C.U.S.A. but no one’s letting him get anywhere near a No-Maj until they can guarantee he’s not going to kill them and out the wizarding community in the process.

“It feels like I’ve barely moved,” he finally says.

Tina shrugs. “Barely moved is still better than not moving at all.”

He can’t argue with that.

She drains her cup and sighs, and Credence knows that her cue.

“Thank you for visiting,” he tells her. She’s legally obligated as his magical case worker, but she’s only required to ask her questions and then go, not have a cup of coffee and make jokes at her bosses expense.

“You know I look forward to it,” she says.

“Tell Mr. Graves hello for me?”

Her smile is too soft for Credence’s liking. “Of course,” she says.

After she leaves, Credence goes out in search of Seneca. He finds her in the garden, sketching the water lillies.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly.

Seneca looks up from her sketch pad, blinking against the sun. “‘Sup.”

He tries not to think too much about it when he says, “Still want to cut my hair?”

Seneca’s face breaks out into a wide grin, and the relief that floods Credence is palpable.

“Oh, hell yeah.”

They draw a small crowd as Seneca razes the right side of Credence’s head on the patio. Her wand is exacting, not a single hair out of place. When she accio s a mirror to show Credence her handwork, he has to laugh. He looks ridiculous. But the crowd of witches and wizards is clapping in approval at the change, and if there’s one thing Credence feels, it’s that this version of himself is an unknown. He finds he doesn’t mind that at all.

He looks at Seneca. She looks at him.

He thinks, It’s going to be okay .

Chapter Text

Seven weeks after Percival drops Credence off at Nix House, he apparates back on its front door and heaves a sigh. He knows his magical signature would have pinged their wards, and that someone should be up shortly, despite the late hour of his arrival. He also knows visiting hours ended about three hours ago, but that there are some benefits to carrying a badge; this is one of them. 

Venus is there only a minute later. She smiles at him politely, but only opens the door enough to stand between it and the jamb. 

“Mr. Graves,” she says. “What a surprise.” 

“Hello, Venus. Please, call me Percival.” He tries a winning smile, but Venus doesn’t seem impressed. He presses on. “I’d like to see Credence.”

“Mr. Graves,” she replies, voice a little silkier, “visiting hours ended at 5:00 sharp.”

“I know, but I’m afraid I couldn’t get away until just now. You know how it is with jobs like mine. Hours are odd. Inconsistent. Hard to make appointments or stick to agendas.”

“True as that may be, we’re a place of routine. Unexpected visits aren’t always the most helpful to our residents.”

“I completely understand, really. But I’d appreciate your flexibility.” His smile sharpens, but only around the edges. 

Venus gives, but not by much. “Is it urgent?”

Percival cocks his head. “Would that help?”

It’s Venus’ turn to sigh. She opens the door wider. “Fine. But I’ll ask you to wait on the back patio while I get him.”

“Much appreciated,” Percival says, voice warm honey again. 

Venus leads him to the backyard and then leaves him there without a word. Percival holds the silence, uninterested in conversation now that he’s inside. 

He waits on the patio, eyeing the old chairs and wild garden. It’s hardly a manicured lawn, like much of the other exterior spaces. There are bird baths and statues, fountains and ceramic creatures all tucked amidst an overwhelming riot of flora and fauna, both magical and non-magical. It’s not what Percival would want, but he supposes it has its charm. 

It doesn’t take long for Credence to arrive, and when he does he looks about as shocked as Percival expected he would.

“Hello, Mr. Graves,” he says, fingers twisting the strings of his hooded sweatshirt. Percival takes a moment to appreciate Credence in something so casual at all.

“Credence, good evening. Please, sit.” He gestures to one of the seats. 

Credence seems as uncomfortable as a pig in a butcher’s shop. “What can I do for you sir?” 

He’s still standing, so Percival once again gestures to the chairs. “Sit, please.”

This time Credence complies. Percival follows suit, and they sit in silence while Percival decides where to start.

Him being here had been an impulsive thing. He’d been talking to Tina about Credence, as they did every week after her routine visits, and he’d decided it was time he paid the man a visit. Tina always passed along Credence’s greetings, which Percival had never returned, thinking it best he keep ties cut from Credence and let Tina do her job without him interfering. But something about Tina’s debrief had struck him this time. 

“You should see him, Percy,” she had said. “He’s growing into himself, despite everything.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he’d told her. 

She’d rolled her eyes. “I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

“I hardly have anything to say to him. I can’t see the purpose of a social call.”

Tina had blown a small raspberry. “You’re being stubborn.”

Percival had kicked her foot lightly. “Have I ever been anything else?”

“Fair enough,” she had agreed. “But he’s been asking about his sisters and you just head from their social worker. I’m sure he’d like to hear the updates.”

“Which he’ll get from you when you see him in a few days.”

“But I’m sure he’d like hearing it directly from you.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Maybe not, but it’d be nice. You can be nice sometimes, you know. Wouldn’t kill you.”

He’d dismissed her a final time, clearing off his desk for the night and making it evident the conversation was done. But when he’d left the office, he’d found himself thinking still of Credence. He felt a certain responsibility for him, and he might be able to deny it to Tina, but to himself he could not hide his curiosity about the changes Tina claimed had taken place. And he did have news of Chastity and Modesty. Which is how he’d ended up at Nix House three hours after he was allowed and pushed his way in. 

And now here he was, outside with Credence. 

Sitting outside the center in the rickety lawn chairs fraying from overuse, Percival takes in the many ways Credence has changed since they first met almost two months ago. Tina was right: there are a number of marked differences. His hair is the most obvious, half of his atrocious bowl-cut razed away. It doesn’t do Credence any favors, in Percival’s opinion, but it’s also not his hair, so it doesn’t much matter what he thinks of it. 

After the hair, he notices Credence’s clothes. The clothes, however, are an improvement. The black jeans might be too tight, the plain hoodie nothing much to owl home about, but the fact that Credence no longer perpetually looks ready for church gets big approval from Percival. The all-black attire is an interesting choice, almost as if Credence is trying to emulate the black embrace of the Obscurus inside of him. But, Percival considers his own preference for black and decides not to overanalyze why Credence appears to prefer it, too.  

Then there are the other, less obvious, signs of change in the young man. He seems somehow less fragile. Before, Credence had looked as if the slightest breeze could knock him to his feet, but now he seems steadier. Percival supposes regular meals are due at least partial credit. Surely they’re the main reason the hollows of Credence’s cheeks have filled out, and that his complexion appears less sickly. 

He looks better. Percival looks at Credence, who is preoccupied with the knotted strings of his hood, and is satisfied by the changes he sees.  He made the right call in advocating for the group home.

“I brought you something,” he says to Credence, who finally turns to look at him.

“You didn't need to do that, Mr. Graves,” Credence replies, but Percival can tell he’s curious. Surprised, perhaps, that this is how the conversation is starting. 

“No, but I wanted to.” Percival reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a few different shrunken items he’d gone back into M.A.C.U.S.A. and grabbed when he’d decided to come. From his other pocket, he pulls out his wand. He puts the items on the table between their chairs, and then silently waves his wand.

“Good lord,” Credence murmurs as the six-pack of glass bottles and two mugs grow larger. “Did you bring me alcohol?”

Percival grins. “This stuff barely counts. It’s called Butterbeer. They make it in England. Some idiot tried to sneak a case of the stuff through customs. They don’t sell it in the States, you know. But we caught him and confiscated the goods.”

Credence raises a brow. “So, you’ve brought me illegal contraband?”

Percival scoffs. “It sounds bad when you put it like that. Also redundant. Contraband is always illegal.”

“Oh, then excuse me,” says Credence, but he’s smiling slightly now, and isn’t that novel? Percival isn’t sure he’s ever seen it before. “So then why did you bring me contraband?”

“Because it tastes good, and it occurred to me you’ve probably never had it,” Percival answers as he pours two bottles of Butterbeer into the two mugs simultaneously.

“And why the mugs?”

“Because Butterbeer tastes best when it’s warm.” Then Percival taps his wand to the mugs. 

Credence considers the foaming beverages, but does not take a taste. Percival watches him continue to tug as his laces as he takes his own drink of warm buttery sweetness. He seems to be working himself up to something. 

“I guess now the only question is,” he finally says, “why are you here, Mr. Graves? You’ve never struck me as the socializing type, and it’s past curfew.” 

Percival notes that Credence doesn’t look upset by the visit, just curious. And Percival can’t blame him. He’s kept himself intentionally distant from Credence, leaving most of the case to Tina. She’s a better fit for it than Percival by a mile, and his ego isn’t too big to admit it. But he’s curious about Credence, too, and wants to form his own judgment, especially of the man’s character and stability, outside of Tina’s perspective. 

“Tina says you’re doing well. Thought I’d come see for myself.”

Credence snorts. “That hard to believe I guess.”

Percival shrugs and sips his drink. “I haven’t seen you much since you left the hospital, but I’m still the one who’s ultimately in charge of your well-being.”

“I thought it was the well-being of others,” Credence shoots back, tone sharp. But then Percival watches Credence take a tentative sip of the Butterbeer. His eyes widen. 

“This is really good,” says Credence, the edges of his voice softened out. “Thank you for bringing it for me, Mr. Graves. Whatever your motivations.”

“You’re welcome. I sense a little less judgment around the legality now.” 

Credence grins, though he tries to cover it with his mug. “I see why someone tried to sneak more of this into the country.”

They take a few more sips. It’s cold outside as New York readies to leave autumn behind in favor of winter, so Percival casts a silent, wandless, warming charm.

“Thank you,” murmurs Credence as the warmth reaches him. “This hoodie is warmer than anything I’ve ever owned before--well, besides your coat--but it’s still cold on these chairs.”

World’s most dangerous wizard or not, it makes Percival angry to think of how Credence was raised while under the care of Mary Lou and her psychotic church. The more he learns about how the Barebone kids were raised, the more he wonders how Credence didn’t snap sooner. Even Percival can acknowledge that it said a lot about Credence’s strength of character to have survived as long as he did.

He clears his throat, caught up in his thoughts despite his partial intention for the impromptu social call. “Tina said you were asking after your sisters.” 

At this, Credence noticeably straightens. 

“I’ve spoken with their No-Maj case worker,” Percival continues, “and have heard they’re both doing fine. Chastity is turning everything into a fight at her new home, but Modesty is settling in well. She’s with a good foster family.”

He watches Credence’s shoulders relax. “I feel like all I’ve done tonight is thank you Mr. Graves. But...thank you. It means the world to me to hear they’re both okay. Even if Chastity’s making things difficult.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Percival says. “But her spirit isn’t weak.”

Credence smiles at that. “No, it isn’t. But she was close with Mary Lou. I took someone really important to her.”

Percival isn’t in the business of making people feel better, but Credence is so unlike the dark wizards Percival deals with on a daily basis that he finds the young man’s anguished guilt uncomfortable. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he finds himself saying as fast as he thinks it. 

Credence tilts his head. “That’s a very different perspective than the one you held when we first met.”

Percival shrugs. He can’t deny it. “I know you better now.”

“Do you?” Credence asks. He seems genuinely curious. “It’s been a while since we last spoke. Not so much has changed.”

Percival frowns a little. “More, I think, than you realize.”

They continue to drink their Butterbeer in a silence not nearly as awkward as Percival might have expected, despite their approaching the cusp of a very uncomfortable topic. Credence seems delighted by the drink, smiling with every sip and content enough to let that be his focus for the evening.

Which is why a Percival decides to push his luck and push his way into another difficult topic. 

“How are you adjusting to the home?” 

Credence looks sideways at him. “It’s all right. The staff here have been very kind. Group is hard, of course.” 

A more open answer than Percival had anticipated. 

“It’s good for you to talk about what happened,” he says. 

“That’s what they tell me.” Credence’s smile suggests he’s not entirely sure he believes this. Despite his own words in agreement, Percival isn’t sure he believes it either. Talking never much helped him. 

He decides to be candid. “I’ve always doubted the validity of talk therapy, but I’m also not a certified psych wizard. I presume the people here are more qualified to say what’s useful than me.”

Credence nods. “I do think they’ve helped me considerably.”

“I think you’re right,” Percival agrees. Then, “Your magic seems steadier.”

Credence sputters around his Butterbeer. “I’m sorry?”

Percival shrugs, summoning a napkin to blot at the traces of foam at his own lips delicately. “Your magic. It doesn’t feel as erratic as it did immediately after the accident.” In fact, Percival barely registers it at all. He certainly doesn’t feel ill or headachey as he had in the past. 

“I didn’t realize magic could be felt like a...palpable thing...to others.” Credence seems almost appalled by the idea, saying the word magic like a profanity. 

“You can’t, for most witches and wizards. It’s a settled, personal thing. I think because of your trauma, your magic temporarily became unanchored. It was its own presence.”

Credence puts down his mug and pulls his sleeves down over his fingers. “I think I feel it,” he whispers. “All the time. Right under my skin. Sometimes I think people should be able to see it for how strongly I feel it, but I never thought anyone else could actually feel it like I do.”

Percival puts down his mug, too. That’s interesting, he thinks. “What does it feel like to you?” he can’t help but ask.

Credence’s fingers are working the bottoms of his sleeves something fierce. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like a tightness. It aches to be touched.”

Percival turns in his chair so he’s facing Credence more directly, and leans forward. “Does it make your skin look different?”

“No,” Credence almost snaps suddenly shoving his sleeves up. 

Percival wants to frown at the action, but he suspects there’s a reason for it. “Does the fabric bother you?” He looks down at the newly exposed skin. It appears perfectly normal. 

“Yes,” says Credence. “It never used to be like this. Before, I mean.” He takes a breath. “Can you feel it?”

He shakes his head. “No, Credence. I can’t.” At most, Percival feels the edges of Credence magic, where normally he’d feel nothing at all from anyone else. It’s strange, but not wholly unpleasant like it had been before. 

He nods to Credence’s arms and extends a hand. “May I?”

He can tell Credence wants to say no. He jerks his arms momentarily closer before finally reaching out a shaky arm. “Please be careful,” he says softly.

Percival nods and oh-so gently places the tips of his fingers against the pale skin. When they make contact, he feels it more clearly--the pulse of magic running through Credence’s veins. There’s power here, more than he ever could have guessed, and without some guidance he can tell it’s going to spill out of Credence in unexpectedly, and potentially dangerous, ways. He thinks it’s already spilling out, which is probably why he and Tina--two people trained to the sensitivities of all kinds of magic--can feel it. 

“How uncomfortable does this make you?” he asks Credence.

Credence is breathing shallowly. “Very,” he murmurs. “Like you’re touching an exposed nerve.”

Percival lets go and wishes he could say some kind of calming spell. But he’s worried about the reaction that having his magic directly confront Credence’s might have. 

“Have you told the healers?”

Credence looks away. “Yes. They say it's because I'm finally talking about what happened to me and what I did.”

“That might be part of it. But it's certainly not all of it.”

“Is it wrong?” asks Credence. “Am I sick?”

Percival shakes his head. “You’re fine, but you need training. You need to start practicing magic. Learning some control.”

“I already practice techniques for that,” Credence counters. “That hasn’t help the sensitivity. How is that related?”

“You’re practicing techniques to stay calm. Control your breathing. Those are there to keep you regulated emotionally so your Obscurus doesn’t pop out and say hello when you get angry. But you need lessons in controlling your magic directly. It doesn’t have an outlet, and now that it’s here to stay, it needs to be used or it’s going to backfire. I think what you're feeling is your magic trying to do what you haven't let it do for over two decades.”

“But I don’t want to learn magic,” Credence argues. “I want nothing to do with it!”

“That’s not an option.”

“Can’t someone, I don’t know, take it out of me?”

Percival had considered this option weeks ago when they were all first deciding what to do with Credence, and he’s frankly surprised it’s taken Credence this long to ask about that exact possibility. A fitting punishment would certainly have been to remove his magic, wipe his mind, and be done with it. But magic removal was dangerous for the healthiest witch or wizard, let alone one as abused and malnourished as Credence. And suppressing magic was even more unpredictable. There was no safe option for Credence.

“No,” he says sharply. “That isn’t possible.” Not for you.

Credence looks crestfallen, eyes downcast and breathing uneven. “I don’t want this.”

Percival, though not prone to pity, finds an unexpected--if tiny--well of it for Credence. “In time, I think you’ll come to feel differently.”

He stands, magicking away the mess of empty bottles and mugs. He shrinks the remaining Butterbeer and pockets it. 

“I didn’t mean to end our evening on this note. I’m truly pleased to see how well you’re doing Credence, even if right now it feels like next to nothing.”

Credence stands as well. “The only way out is through?” he says, echoing Percival’s words from the first day in the hospital.

Percival smiles, faint but sincere enough to surprise himself. “Something like that. Take care, Credence.”

He turns to go, but is stopped by a hand at his arm. When he turns to look back, Credence snatches it back hastily.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves. I just...these lessons. When will I know more about them?” He seems resigned. Miserable. Percival doesn’t really understand why.

“Once I know more, I’ll make sure you’re informed. I’ll start making inquiries tomorrow.”

“I suppose I should say thank you,” mutters Credence.

“Only if you mean it. I won’t be offended if you don’t.”

Finally, Credence makes direct eye contact, and holds it completely. “I am thankful for all that you’d done, Mr. Graves. I am. I know things could have gone very differently for me, and that’s almost entirely because of you.”

Percival holds his gaze. “Then make something of your life now that it’s yours, Credence. That’s thanks enough for me.”

With that, Percival nods a final goodbye and leaves Credence on the patio to process. He has his own processing to do, as well, but for that he’ll need something stronger than Butterbeer.