So he picks Modesty up at eight thirty sharp and walks her down Broadway to the Trinity Church for the nine o'clock service. They stop at the bagel stand at Bowling Green, plain toasted sesame for Graves and extra butter for Modesty. They eat while they walk, Modesty chatting about her week.
There’s an odd sort of comfort in being there, in the church with Credence’s sister. Despite everything she’s been through she still manages throw herself into worship, her chin tilted piously, delicate features serene as she mouths the words along with the pastor. Hands folded neatly atop her knees. Her eyes shine as she absorbs the sermon, her slender body sways to the hymns.
(Credence hadn’t stepped foot in a church since he moved in with Graves. He still prayed every evening, a private event held while Graves washed up. He caught glimpses through the door of the ensuite, of Credence knelt by the bed. He did it quickly and quietly, hunched over and still, not making a peep. He never said the words aloud and Graves never asked what he prayed for. But it showed in the tense set of his shoulders and the twist of his features there in the dim privacy, that his relationship with his God was still in turmoil. He’d stand abruptly and climb straight under the blankets, lying statue-still until Graves joined him. It would take a moment for him to stir, but stir he would, rolling to press close. It felt like a miracle in itself, every time he nestled against Graves, the warm weight of his limbs, the sound of his breathing in the narrow space between them. Sometimes he’d be shaking a little and Graves would know that he wanted to be closer but couldn’t ask, that something in his conversation with God had stopped him short. And so it was up to Graves to close the gap and ease his lips over his creased brow, until the lines there smoothed. More than once, as they slipped into the oblivion of sleep together, Graves would hear a hushed “thank you” whispered in the darkness, two words said so fervent that Graves had to squeeze his own eyes against the swell of emotion.)
Perhaps it was her youth that allowed her to retain a pure and devoted spirituality when her brother could not. The service always left Modesty shining bright and joyous. And Graves found that the moments in the church were the closest he felt to peace these days. Not out of any sort of discovered piety, that would never be for him. But being immersed in a thing that had such a hand in forming Credence, no matter how distorted it had become, was something. More than nothing.
So every week he walks Modesty back to the Goldsteins’ apartment, and every week he declines their invitation to come up for coffee. Sometimes he looks up at the window and sees Tina watching him walk away. If anyone could come close to understanding it would be her, and it makes it all the much worse.
They don’t know if Modesty has magic blood or not. It’s likely, as Mary Lou Barebone apparently had a method to her madness and would adopt children who’d been suspected of being possessed or cursed by the orphanages. Many of them were reported to be linked to odd accidents, strange coincidences, unusual noises. The establishments would write to Barebone to take them off their hands. Modesty is still a year too young to tell for certain. With all the repression that she’s grown up with they don’t want to risk missing any signs, and she’ll be tested by an expert come her eleventh birthday. But for now she’s taken to living with two witches remarkably well. She’d also seemed unsurprised when they’d told her that her brother had magical powers. Tina frets, as she’s prone to do, that she’s taken it all too well, that it might be a sign of the traumas of her childhood. Queenie is good at reigning her back.
It doesn’t matter if she isn’t a witch, attitudes regarding no-maj cohabitation are changing, and the laws will be quick to follow. Modesty is in the place that is best for her and anyone with a mind to take her away will have some answering to do.
The rest of the Barebones children have all been dealt with with as little upheaval as possible. The eldest sister Chastity showed no signs of magical ancestry, but a couple of the younger ones were still under observation. They were placed in care through no-maj authorities, but would be monitored by MACUSA until they were of an age to be tested. And new procedures for the detection of undocumented magical children are are being brainstormed so that there will never again be a tragedy the likes of the New York obscurus.
It’s great, that’s great. Graves is obviously pleased to see action actually springing and change on the horizon. Yet there will always be the bitter note on his tongue. Too late too late too late.
The first day of Grindelwald’s trial starts with a shot of Firewhiskey for breakfast. Followed by a pot of strong black coffee. He looks at the bottle of Insouciance glittering temptingly from the top shelf of his liqueur cabinet, his tongue dry. He craves it but he doesn’t let himself, not today. He’s already given account of what happened to him at Grindelwald's hands, but he still needs to testify in the trial. And the Spirit will hinder his ability to do so in full capacity.
The potion acts directly on the brain, building a bubble of disregard around the points of high emotional output. Being under it is almost like floating, things that should concern him seem trivial, things that should annoy him pass with a shrug. Things that should feel devastating are muted to such a degree that he can barely recall what was upsetting in the first place. Obviously it would be counterproductive to douse himself before he’s to account the most upsetting events of his life in front of an international assembly.
The other downfall of Insouciance is, that while it makes functioning day to day much easier, coming off of it is hell. The drop brings with it the rush of emotions that have been suppressed, and the longer spent high on it the worse the reverberation. It’s why people get addicted - they keep running for so long that the consequential low send them into a pit of depression. There have been many cases of immediate death following a bad Insouciance withdrawal.
Most importantly, Graves hates himself every time he comes put of the Insouciance induced haze. Because his grief for Credence is so irrevocably tied to his love for him that he cannot erase one without the other. It’s the same reason he turned down the memory extraction treatment that MACUSA had offered. It’s a common treatment for aurors working in the field to go through extraction, to take away traumatic memories or ones too sensitive to national security to remain in their heads. The memories are stored deep in MACUSA’s vaults where they can be accessed by the archivists if needed.
The president had come to Graves personally and tried to persuade him to give his memories of his time with Credence, and with Grindelwald up. Graves did consider it for a beat, tempted by the picture Seraphina painted for him. Things could go back to the way they were. He could be the steady, unshakable Graves he’d been, sure of himself and what he stood for. He could return to his position. He could salvage his life.
He would lose the parts of himself that he likes the most. The thing is, he far prefers the person he’s become with Credence by his side to the one he was before. Director Percival Graves had been a respected man, feared by criminals, admired by his colleagues. He remembers the satisfaction of being promoted, of taking his seat beside Seraphina in the council chamber. He’d valued the letter of the law as the force of peace and order, and his own duty as an opposing force to chaos and darkness.
How naive he’d been, how misformed. That black and white mentality with which he’d built his worldview was unsustainable with Credence in his life. He found himself breaking from ideals that had been taught to him by his parents, abandoning principles he’d hewn at school and polished as an auror. He’d broken codes he himself had helped write into MACUSAs doctrine, and the thing was, he liked himself better for it. Each sway he made felt right, felt good and pure. He looked in the mirror and observed a new gleam in his own eyes, an easier set to his shoulders.
And more than that he could never wish away the good memories. His time with Credence was something to be treasured and preserved, not discarded on a shelf in the archives like they had meant nothing. And theres nobody else but him left to remember each precious thing.
(First. The Second Salem boy in the rain. It is absolutely thundering down in that way that stops the city in its tracks. Thick raindrops pound the cement, chasing all but the most determined commuter to take shelter in the nearest shop. A lone figure remains out in the torrent, dressed all in black arms outstretched and tilted up to meet the rain.
Graves had forgotten his charmed umbrella in his office the night previous, and the thick layers of wards on the building block him from conjuring it to him. So he’s rushing through the storm with the rest of New York, thin impervious shield doing little to combat the sheer amount of water falling from the sky. With his chin buried in the collar of his coat he nearly mows the boy down in his hurry. Thankfully he notices with enough time to avoid collision, and is about to snap a reprimand, what kind of idiot halts in the middle of the sidewalk like that.
But his words fall off his tongue before he has a chance to utter them.
Despite their near accident the boy takes no notice of Graves standing mere feet away from him. His face is tipped to the sky, eyes closed and features slack. He looks almost tranced. He is so pale Graves wonders if he’s not a ghost, skin hued bluish silver from the cold. Water streams from the inky black hair plastered to his brow, down over delicate violet eyelids, spidery eyelashes, along his narrow nose and over his parted lips. His arms are spread at his side, thin fabric of his jacket sodden and clinging to his skinny frame. His expression is an ancient thing of worship and abandon, Graves is struck with the certainty that he is witnessing a transcending. That he is trespassing. After an inappropriate length of time he tears himself away and hurries to work, but he cannot shake the picture of the boy in the rain. Despite his better instinct, curiosity has him in its grasp.
Later. The boy in the sun. Sitting on the park bench while the rays of late autumn sun fight futilely to fend off the encroaching chill of winter. The dapples fall across his hands as they methodically tear pieces of bread to toss the the pigeons flocking at his feet. Conjuring a satchel of seed to set between them. The knock of his sharp knee against Graves. Stilted one-sided conversation morphing gradually into the flow of familiarity. Birdseed shifting in the palm and sharp claws of the pigeons on his thin wrist, bright joy transforming his face. A stack of pamphlets abandoned at their feet for the dusty pages of a newspaper, fingertips growing smudged with black as the crossword fills in. Blooming warmth where their legs press closer each day.
The boy. Credence.
Credence in the snow, flakes caught in his hair, cheeks stained softest of pinks. Persistent sniffles of a runny nose, Graves handing over his fine silk handkerchief, warmth in his chest at the sight of his embroidered family crest pressed to Credence’s chapped lips. His self-heating thermos passed back and forth between them, herbal teas fortifying delicate lungs against the chill. A rough brown paper bundle pressed shyly into his hands, a hand-knitted storm-blue scarf that instantly becomes Graves’ most cherished article of clothing. The crooked stitches and scratch of cheap wool not even phasing him at all, not when Credence flushes so nicely whenever he wears it.
Credence in the dark. Panting on Graves’ stoop in the middle of the night with tears on his cheeks. A bundle in his arms, the smallest blondest girl with one foot already beyond the veil of death. The end hangs over her like a vulture, her wheezing breaths few and far between. /My sister./ Credence’s voice so choked with grief that the words crack and crumble. "Please Mr Graves. I know that you’re a witch. You have to save her."
Credence in his kitchen. Standing and watching the cauldron scrub itself clean in the sink with wide but calm eyes. Credence in his den, thumbing the strange names on the spines of his books, not yet daring to pull them out. Credence leaning so far over his three-dimensional map of New York that his chin passes through the tops of the tallest towers, the lights casting his thin face into dramatic shadows. Credence thawing out on his couch, wrapped in two quilts with a hot mug of pepper-me-up tea and still shivering after Graves drags him in out of a veritable blizzard. Credence daring to take a book off the shelf and proceeding to read for hours straight, a silent presence while Graves works at his desk. Credence with the old Graves family photo album on his knees, the first person to crack its pages since his mother died and it wound up in Percival’s hands fifteen years ago. Credence furtively whispering to him, face hidden in his hands, whole body thrumming with distress. “I’m a witch too. I’m trying so hard to stop but i can’t. Can you help me?”)
The official report is a jumbled mess. Their timeline is unintelligible and they have Credence Barebone listed as a primary accomplice in the anarchist terror plot to overthrown the First Magical Statute of The United States of America.
“I met Credence Barebone in September of 1925, a full year before Gellert Grindelwald set foot on American soil. My interest was partially professional and partially personal.”
“Would you elaborate, Mister Graves, on your motivation for making contact with Mister Barebone?”
He couldn’t stop thinking about the boy in the rain. It distracts him from work, a mundane day of reading reports that hums with frantic energy. He’d been beautiful, the boy, and fragile. In a way that stirred his blood and itched his palms.
“Everyone knew about the Second Salemers; we’ve been monitoring them for years. I noticed the boy because it was my job. And when he seemed receptive to my company I thought he might offer some insight. After that I continued my acquaintance because I was fond of him.”
“And Mister Barebone? What was his motivation in your relationship?”
After two weeks of casual daily conversations, Credence brings him a sandwich. It’s a meagre thing wrapped in parchment, fatty meat ends and mustard on dry brown bread. Credence won’t meet his eyes even as he hands it over. Graves knows by now what such a small gesture will cost Credence. Normally Graves takes lunch warm and comfortable in his office, fresh food delivered off the lunch cart. Creamy chowders, croissants with watercress and salmon, smoked beef on toasted rye, potato salad, and such things. He finds he much prefers eating this limp sandwich standing in the freezing alley behind the building, elbows knocking as Credence eats beside him.
“There were many reasons for Mister Barebone to pursue our friendship. I possessed wealth and resources the like of which he was unaccustomed. I was an authority figure who could offer him protection. I was somebody to talk to who wouldn’t ignore him or ridicule. You take your pick.”
“But he was unaware that you were a wizard?”
Autumn takes hold of the city, the daylight briefer and more fleeting, allowing the chill to linger. The mornings are dark and cold, frost sparkling on the streets. Credence doesn't have a proper coat or gloves or boots, apparently he’d outgrown them and doesn't have the money for more. His shoulders always shake in his thin clothes. Graves brings him a pair of gloves one bitterly cold morning, pushing them into the boy’s protesting hands. They have warming charms in the stitching and had seen Graves through years of hard winters. He convinces Credence to keep them by showing him his own brand new pair. He's already plotting on how to get him to accept a pair of Kelpie wool socks to keep his feet dry.
“He was aware, although I didn’t realize it at the time.”
“Perhaps he was drawn to you because he wanted more power? You must understand how it looks Mister Graves. The Obscurial seeking you out to learn how to wield its powers.”
“His. His powers. I cannot prove to you that he didn’t have some underlying agenda to break into the magical world through me, as you seem to believe. But I was the one who approached him. He did not seek me out despite knowing what I was. And keep in mind that at the time he was under the influence of the church. He was raised to believe that magic was something evil to be feared and loathed. It would make no sense for him to want to get closer to that.”
“And yet he wanted to get closer to you despite being aware that you were one such being. Why?”
Graves quickly learns that physical touch is a complicated issue. It is something that Credence both dreads and craves in equal turns. The evidence of the harsh way he’d been treated crosses his palms in scars too old for Graves to heal, but he smoothes his thumbs over them anyway and wills them to fade faster. The newer wounds, the bruises and welts that blemish the milky skin, he can tackle. He stops by the pharmacy to pick up a mild topical potion that'll dull the pain and aid healing without drawing suspicion. Credence even permits him to help apply it to the angry red belt marks on the silk smooth underside of his arms, leaning hungrily into the place their skin touched even though it must hurt him.
“Is it too far-fetched for the council to believe that he was simply fond of me too? He’d suffered abuse for his entire life, there’s nothing nefarious about wanting a to hear a kind word now and again.”
“But eventually the topic was broached yes? Did you reveal yourself to him Mister Graves? This boy who you believed to be nonmagical?”
“Oh I apologize, I was under the impression that I was acting witness for the trial of a terrorist, not defending against accusation of statute infringement.”
“Don’t make me label you hostile Graves.”
“Then don’t imply that I’m the one on trial if you please. Especially on irrelevant charges. Mister Barebone was of magical ancestry therefor I was fully within the law to act as I did.”
“Intent-”
“-is not what this man is on the stand to speak to today Inquisitor Carson, please redirect your line of question.”
“…Yes Madam President. I will restate. Mister Graves. When did it become apparent to you that Mister Barebone was more than he appeared?”
The little girl - Modesty - has pneumonia, a bad case. Her breath comes laborious from wet sounding lungs, her coughs shake her skinny chest alarmingly. Her skin is pale as death and cold to the touch, even after he instructs Credence to rub her down with towels to get her blood flowing. The combination of malnourishment and winter damp has allowed this illness to spread inside her, and even a nomaj doctor could do little for her at this stage. /I know you’re a witch./ Credence had pleaded. His eyes rimmed red and his hands shaking, small sobs escaping as he strokes his sister’s hair. Graves rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.
“Mister Barebone came to my home and requested that I aid his sister who was very ill. He expressed that he was aware of my magical abilities, and had been since we met. He implored me to use them to heal her. The girl was in dire enough need that I made the call to cast a spell to clear the infection, and then brew a potion to dispel the virus. After that I spoke to Mister Barebone and he confessed his own magical abilities.”
“Did he tell you, that night, about the obscurus?”
“He himself had no knowledge of the obscurus at that time. And his magic appeared to be very minimal. I believe that Mister Barebone possessed some amount of natural Sight, as he described being able to see physical evidence of magic. Which he saw in me as well as himself. He also described strange dreams. But he was under the impression that he’d never performed an act of magic.”
“But at that time there had already been two major incidents of obscurus activity, and an unknown number of more minor ones. Correct?”
“Yes. But nothing he told me indicated any connection to the events.”
“What did it indicate to you, Mister Graves? What did you think of Mister Barebone then?”
Once it is clear that Modesty is out of danger, he steps out onto the fire escape for a breath of fresh air and a moment to think. Credence is in his apartment. His apartment with all of its undeniable evidence of magic. From the moving pictures on the walls, the drakèlope horn displayed on his mental, too large and too luminous to belong to a nonmagical creature. He’d taken the boy’s confession at face-value in order to treat Modesty in a timely manor, and now the implications are setting in. He feels breathless and jittery, unmoored like he hasn’t felt since the months after returning from Europe. Until this point he hasn’t allowed himself to entertain thoughts of a future with Credence. He’s been enjoying their time together as one enjoys the warmth of a late summer day; with the anticipation of autumn chills. But now the sliver of potential rung in his ears, /I’m a witch too/. He grips the steel railing hard, hope beating in his chest.
“I thought that he must have slipped through the cracks. As an orphan, especially if his mother wasn’t magical, it could make sense that he’d gotten lost. And especially in a family like the Barebones. I figured that he was a late bloomer, nearly a squib. When I tested him his magic was barely equivalent to that of a toddler, weak and unconscious.”
“But magic was present?”
“Undoubtably.”
“Yet you did not report him to the assembly, as protocol demands?”
His offer to formally introduce Credence into the magical world is met with a fit of anxiety. It isn't a panic attack; Credence would never emote outwardly enough to panic. But he does curl up on the sofa and tremble silently. His eyes glaze over and he chews on his lips enough to bead crimson blood along the tight line. In that moment his magic had swells stronger than it has thus far, the decernoscope Graves had been using to test him lights up fiery red and whines a piercing note, vibrating so hard it rolls off the table. He only calms when Graves sits beside him and pulls him close, murmuring reassurances into his ear.
“As I’ve already said, the Second-Salemers are taught that magic is an abomination. Years of self-hatred on top of the fact that he had experienced so much abuse at the hands of authority made MACUSA the sum of all of his greatest fears. I promised him that I wouldn’t make him reveal himself to anyone until he was ready.”
“You do acknowledge that this decision was in direct opposition to your duties as an agent of the assembly?”
“And that the consequences of such an infringement would be termination of employment yes. So that matter is settled as far as I see it.”
“Very well. How did your relationship with Mister Barebone change after that point?”
Since Credence doesn’t want to report to MACUSA, Graves can’t get him a wand, which is a hiccup in the exploration of his abilities. Unsure of how to proceed with the practical side of his education, Graves sets him to reading up on history and theory. Every day after work Credence accompanies him home and passes the evening devouring the books and quizzing Graves with curiosity that seems to grow more keen with each page. He only ever dares to stay about an hour; apparently if he isn’t back in time for the church dinner service he’ll be reprimanded. But this time quickly becomes the highlight of Graves’ day. After a long shift of overseeing his department, handling various crises, appeasing the councillors, there is nothing quite like settling into Credence’s company. He isn’t the most talkative fellow, never one to speak unnecessarily, but the conversations they do hold are very enjoyable. Given the circumstances of his life he proves to be remarkably clever, learning quickly and possessing of more thoughtful opinion than the highly educated society wizards Graves does business with every day.
“I attempted to tutor him. I hoped that a gradual integration into our world would be easier for him. He read historical and theoretical texts. We performed rudimentary magic exercises. Movement, levitation, minor illusion. Kids stuff.”
“Did you see any evidence of great power in him? Any hint of dark magic?”
The first time he lets Credence use his wand it starts to smoke. Credence - already nervous - drops it immediately, and then apologizes in mortification and picks it up again. To the same effect. The smoke isn’t like that produced by a fire, there doesn’t appear to be heat involved, or damage to the wand. It doesn’t smell of burning either. He instructs Credence to give it a wave, but nothing happens. It takes several sessions but eventually he's a able to wield it without the smoke. But the spells he attempts come forth extremely sluggishly. He manages to push a coin a few inches across the table and is left panting for breath. He casts a pale Lumos and sweat beads on his brow.
“As I’ve said, his magic seemed weak. I assumed it was due to lack of practice and that he was simply not a very powerful wizard. There was no reason to believe that he was hiding anything.”
“You did say you knew he’d been repressed.”
“I find it difficult to accept your implication that I should have known about the obscurus when the entire assembly never suspected it either. You know as well as I that there hasn’t been an obscurial case in America for centuries. There’s only a single academic paper on on the topic in our archive, and it regards it as lore rather than science. Nobody suspected.”
“But unlike the assembly you were - by your own admission - quite intimate with the obscurial by that point. You understand that it’s hard to accept that there was nothing.”
Credence has nightmares. It’s understandable, all things considered. He never tells Graves the details of those, but he does tell him about his other dreams. Odd visions that he describs of flying over the city, vivid views from angles he shouldn’t be able to picture with such clarity, of being in places he’s never been. Of the sensation of burrowing through dirt and squeezing through spaces too small to plausibly fit, of the inside of pipes, of pitch darkness and the smell of sewage. Of the city lights below and the stars above and wind tearing at his body. Again Graves wonders if Credence is a Seer, if this is his untrained inner eye roaming in sleep. He instructs Credence record what he remembers in a journal, but his accounts never hold any rhyme or reason that could be interpreted as plot or prophecy.
“You’ll have to take my word for it.”
“As you say. Moving on then, at what point did Mister Barebone begin living at your residence?”
“It was gradual at first. I proposed the idea in January, but he didn’t fully move in until March. He was reluctant to leave his sisters behind.”
“How did you finally convince him?”
He gives Credence a guest password to his apartment as a Christmas gift. By now Credence is only handing out the pamphlets to keep his mother happy, and it takes little to convince him that he should just spend the days in Graves’ home instead. It eases Graves' mind to know that Credence is warm and dry instead of on the street, with books to read, a space to practise magic, and as much tea and snacks as he can consume. And for the first time he can remember Graves finds himself eager to get home at the end of the day, no longer returning to dark and empty rooms. He stops lingering in the office like he usually would, garnering quizzical looks when he departs promptly at five with the rest of his staff. As he grows more comfortable in the space Credence starts to venture into cooking, and dinner will be underway. Graves likes it best when he arrives home in enough time to help. Once in possession of quality groceries, Credence proves to have a natural skill in the kitchen, producing stews and pastas and more where Graves might’ve just gone out to eat. Every night Graves tries to get him to stay over in the spare room, but every night Credence wraps himself up and departs back to the church. Each evening he lingers for longer, reluctance to leave evident in how he drags his thin coat slowly up his arms and hovers in the foyer, to the point where he has to run to make his curfew. Then one night Graves was projecting constellations on the ceiling, explaining the differences between their stories and the nomajs’. The lights were all off save for that of the fire, the room was warm and still and somehow they both fell asleep. They didn’t wake until dawn is seeping into the sky and the damage was done.
“The Second Salem woman, she treated her wards…poorly. As an understatement. One day she took to Credence even worse than usual. I didn’t see him that day or the ones after; in the end I had to go to the church to find him. He wasn’t even fit to walk. After that he was easier to persuade.”
“He was hurt?”
“Badly. It seemed that the woman had been growing suspicious. She brought a neighbourhood thug to beat Credence. That’s what she did; she tried to beat the spirit out of all of them.”
“And after, was Mister Barebone angry? Did he show signs of wanted revenge?”
“That boy hadn’t a vengeful bone in his body. He faulted himself for angering her, thought that he deserved it. I suggested going to the nomaj authorities but he would never.”
“And after that? What would you call the nature of your relationship at that point?”
Credence doesn't speak much in the following days. He's listless, going through the daily motions of rising for breakfast, dressing in the new clothes that Graves brought for him, reading his books. The spark is missing, the excitement over the magic and hunger for information that he’d shown before faded. With the aid of potions the swelling around his eyes goes down, broken bones set overnight, all the bruises gone without a trace. But he clearly is not healed. He responds to questions with his usual impeccable politeness, but beyond that - nothing. He doesn't once ask to return to the Salemers, didn’t mention the church at all. Which Graves would’ve previously thought of as a victory, now he’s not sure.
“Trauma is complex, trauma victims more-so. I tried my best to be whatever he needed me to be.”
“Do please try again and answer the question Graves, without wasting my time with your vagueness this time.”
“Fine. What would I would call the nature of our relationship? I tried to be his friend. But he’s never been treated decently by anybody in his life, and I believe at that point in time it made it impossible for him to view himself as my equal. The ladies and gentlemen of the jury would most likely identify us more as student and teacher.”
“But you wouldn’t?”
“It’s hard to qualify what I did as teaching. I only taught him rudimentary things that a parent would teach their child. A mentor perhaps, a guide. I provided him the tools for exploring his abilities but he was relatively independent in his learning.”
“Mentor will suffice. But we have it in your own confession that you became romantically involved. At what point was this?”
Credence has nightmares. Which makes sense. But it takes a while for Graves to see just how bad they are. Because Credence doesn't cry or shout out, doesn't make noise at all. Graves realizes the severity of Credence’s nighttime suffering some weeks into living with him, when he is awoken by something, and opens his eyes to find his alarm clock hovering in the air above him. For a moment he assumes that he's doing it himself - although he never looses control like that - but when he attempts to consciously will it back to its place on the side-table, it pays no heed. Upon sitting up he notices that the clock is not alone, a number of objects in his room are afloat, and not by his hand. It can only mean that the only other occupants of the apartment is responsible, although this amount of power is far beyond anything Credence has displayed so far. Graves steps into the hallway to find the rug rippling slowly in midair, additionally the sconces are flickering on and off. He calls Credence’s name and knocks on his door to no response. Concern drives him to open the door, against his own vows to give Credence as much privacy as possible. But the scene that greets him inside makes it evident that he has made the correct decision. All the objects in the room are floating, but not peacefully like his clock had been. The room seems to vibrate with raw power, the air rippling with it. A book shakes apart at the spine, pages shredding, a pen cracks in midair, ink droplets splattering the wall and ceiling. Blankets twist and writhe, furniture moans under the stress, and in the middle of it all is Credence. He’s curled up in a tight ball, eyes squeezed closed. He's even paler than usual with beads of sweat on his creased brow. And he is utterly silent.
When his calls go unheard, the only thing Graces can think to do is to grab the boy and physically wake him. His hands on Credence’s arm are no more effective in invoking a response, but he does manage to drag him back down to the bed. Touching him, Graves can feel how violently he's shaking, as if he is about to shatter inwards. Instinctually Graves pulls drew him close and wraps his arms around him, pulling the quilt up over them both, rubbing at Credence’s shoulders and murmuring reassurances into his ear. Gradually it seems to work, the tremors lessening until Credence’s eyes blink open, glazed with disorientation but awake. All the floating objects clatter to the ground. Perhaps in that moment Graves should have let him go and backed away, given him some space. But instead he stays there, the two of them pressed together under the bedclothes, ragged breathing in synch. Perhaps it was that moment.
“He needed a lot of comfort. He’d been ripped away from everything he’d ever known, regardless of how wretched it had been. I offered what I could. We grew closer with time, and eventually yes, our relationship crossed boundaries. With all due respect your honour I’d like to retain some semblance of privacy regarding the details.”
“You must understand, Mister Graves, that the nature of your relations is pertinent to this case. However we will do our best to limit our questioning to the relevant information. So to be explicitly clear, you and Mister Barebone became lovers.”
From that day Credence often seeks Graves out during the night. When his thoughts are too dark to be alone with he knocks on Graves door, always just two short raps, always polite and quiet in case Graves is already asleep. Even after Graves insists that he is welcome no matter the hour. Alternatively if there is a repetition of the first night, Graves might be the one crossing the hall. Eventually they are spending more nights together than not. Eventually they awake to the morning still wrapped around each other. Eventually the touching leaks over into the daylight hours, hands lighting on backs in the kitchen, knees pressed together on the couch, feet brushing under the dinner table. Eventually Graves loses his late shred of self restraint and presses lips to forehead, first in comfort and then again to chase how right it felt. Eventually Credence grows bold and reached out the twine his fingers through Graves’ as they stroll hidden in the shadows of the park. Eventually they come together, never intended to part.
“Yes.”
“And this was when?”
“Late April, 1926.”
“And you continued your cohabitation up to the point of your abduction? Which we assume to have occurred sometime during the week of the nineteenth to twenty-sixth of August.”
“Forgive me the holes in my memory, it’s all the torture. You understand. But yes, by my last recollections Credence was still living with me, nothing unusual to note.”
“And those months coincide with the period without recorded obscurus activity. Would you say that Mister Barebone was improved?”
“In many ways yes. He was healthier, eating thee square meals and sleeping in a warm bed. He was happier for the most part. Obviously a past as upsetting as his could never be entirely erased, but time eased it. He was more confident in himself, certainly. He still deferred more than I’d like, when he was nervous or stressed, but he wasn’t often nervous or stressed. He said he was happy.”
“And his regard for you, indeed your regard for each other, how would you characterize it at your last conscious memory? He trusted you?”
“I believe so.”
“He loved you?”
“He claimed to.”
“Would you say he knew you? Fully and intimately? As a romantic companion does?”
Graves does his best to keep his own nightmares from Credence. The boy is fighting enough of his own demons, there is no need to concern him with more. Graves has been handling it alone for years besides, is well practiced at it by now. Whole months go by without one. But when, like an old friend, the trenches slip back home into the nooks of his slumbering psyche. The dream is the usual blur of sucking mud, burnt copper, green flares in a dark yellow sky, a thundering heartbeat and being chased by heavy boots and sweeping military robes. He’d long disciplined his body to react inwardly to stress rather than outward, even in slumber. Instead of thrashing and yelling, he wakes flat on his back, limbs held rigid and jaw clenched so tight his teeth ache. The scars that line the insides of his cheeks have opened up again on his grinding teeth. The lingering fear keeps him paralyzed some frantic heartbeats. It takes him even longer, staring at the pitch dark ceiling, to realize that Credence is awake. Lying on his side, as close to Graves’ body as he can get without touching, his eyes a barely discernible glimmer in the dark. “You we’re having a nightmare.” He murmurs when their eyes connected. His knuckles brush Graves’ where they’re still curled into tight fists.
It takes a minute of concentrated effort to unlock his jaw which aches all the way to his temples. His voice comes as a rasp, “Sorry, was I yelling?”
Credence shakes his head, “You were too quiet. And too still.” Because of course the boy would know that nightmares don’t need to manifest as screaming and struggle, of course he knows how the silence can be worse.
Credence doesn't speak again immediately, for which Graves is grateful; his breath was still coming quick and shallow in a way that has him breathless, his throat not quite yet unstuck. They just lay there for some time, Credence slowly stroking the tense tendons of Graves' hand until they loosen enough for him to slip his own fingers between. The small gesture, the simple companionship made Graves feel absurdly close to tears. He’d spent so many nights alone with the dream without breaking, and yet in the time that passes between them then he could have easily lost his composure.
Eventually Credence is the one to break the silence again, quiet enough that Graves could pretend not to have heard “You were in a war.” No inflection at the end; not really a question.
Graves answers anyway. “I was in the war.”
“I didn’t realize you - that we fought in the war.”
“Oh yes. Our societies aren’t so separate. Wizarding America is still America, and our affairs are irreversibly entwined. there are whole magical divisions of the military that have been there since the beginning. On the other side too. Whole magical conflicts that will never appear in a nomaj history book.”
Silence falls again for a moment, in which Credence’s other hand comes to gently trace the line of Graves’ bicep, over the place where the healers hadn’t been able to fully smooth down the skin blown apart by a nasty nomaj shell. He doesn't make a comment, but his actions were full of understanding.
Neither of them slept again that night, but Credence keeps up his gentle path, smoothing from his pot-marked shoulder down to his wrist, and back again, all the way into dawn break. And that was all they speak about the matter of Graves’ time in Europe, for which he will forever be grateful. He has nothing to say on the matter; war was hell and it haunts him. He’d been unprepared as a young auror fresh out of training full of ego and naive nationalism. He’d witnessed indescribable horrors; he’d participated in them. He was one of thousands. He survived. Many hadn’t. There really isn't more to say. And Credence seems to understand that without being told. From then on when the nightmare return, Graves will always wake to the unobtrusive presence of Credence lying beside him, waiting patiently for it to pass before pressing closer. Sometimes Graves will tell him things, bits and pieces that slip out in the dark, but Credence never presses for them. Mostly he just offers his wordless companionship, which does worlds more than years of mandatory therapy check-ins has.
“He knew me better than anyone.”
“Then we come to the most pressing matter of this investigation. How can we believe that Mister Barebone was not aware of Gellert Grindlewauld’s presence? If, as you’ve claimed, the boy knew you so well, spent months in your intimate company, how would he not have realized that an imposter has replaced you? It is extremely hard to see a way that could be possible.”
“For the record, please have it noted that the questioning now moves into the time that Mister Graves was held against his will by the terrorist Grindlewauld. Mister Graves can not be held witness to anything that transpired from this point.”
“Noted. Mister Graves is being held as a character witness for Mister Barebone, and his answers in regard to the actions of Mister Grindelwald are therefor understood to be speculation.”
“Now with that being said. Mister Graves, what do you propose happened between young Credence Barebone and the accused, Gellert Grindelwald?”
Seraphina tells him first, at his bedside when he’s finally regained himself enough to listen. And then he reads it in the official report. But it’s not until the third time that it all comes together.
Goldstein had come to visit, looking even more pale and disheveled than usual. It’s three days since they’d found him and ten since the terrorist was captured. He’s heard what happened and heard her role in it, what had nearly happened. He’s glad to see her.
He feels obligated to rise and greet her when she enters. The nurses had tried to convince him of total bed-rest for the week, but he’s been getting up and pacing as often as he can. Which is far less often than he’d like; the malnutrition and echoes of the curses have him dizzy and exhausted from so much as sitting up for too long. But he manages to stand when Goldstein walks in, and does his best to school his features to resemble the boss - the man - he was to her.
“Goldstein.” He greets, and then, because he owes it to her, “Tina. It’s good to see you.”
She smiles shakily but sounds genuine when she returns the sentiment. “It sure is good to see you too Director Graves.”
They sit, each in the two leather armchairs meant for visitors, because it makes his skin crawl to be in bed while speaking to others. He’d been in bed when Seraphina was here, and the handful of other officials who’d come to witness his initial statement, still too weak to support his own weight. And he’d been in the flimsy hospital robes to boot, at least now they’ve allowed him the dignity of proper trousers and shirts, if not yet a waistcoat.
“Tina I owe you an apology. For what you were put through by the man wearing my face.”
She’s shaking her head before he’s finished speaking, “Please don’t. You don’t owe me anything. He wasn’t you, you would never have done the things he did. I’m sorry because I should have realized that.” Her chin quivers, “I should have known it wasn’t you, I should have done something.”
He could reassure her, tell her that she wasn’t alone, people he’d worked with for years, people he’d gone to school with, nobody had known. But to be honest, he’s not quite there yet. Because they should have known. And that may never stop stinging. Instead he offers a small smile, “Then we’re both sorry. May we both forgive each other and move on?”
She nods and tries to disguise wiping her eyes as fixing her bangs. “Good.” He says, “Now Tina I hate to jump right to asking you favours-“
“No please! Ask anything, anything I can do Mister Graves.”
“You remember the Second Salem Church, the boy named Credence? I asked you to look out for him last autumn?”
Tina’s eyes widen and she opens her mouth before closing it again and nodding. She looks even paler, and something in Graves’ chest seizes. “I need you to locate him. As soon as you can. I can’t explain it all but he’s a wizard. And I need to know he’s safe.”
“He’s a…” The expression on her face is not one of surprise exactly, but she looks alarmed sure enough, and distressed. Which adds to Graves’ own mounting dread. She seems to struggle for words momentarily, he can see the thoughts racing behind her creased brow, “Mister Graves the Second Salem Church was destroyed by the obscurus.”
“Yes I know I read the report!” He snaps, “Credence wasn’t living with them at that time, he would have been far from there. I just need to locate him, there’s a two-way mirror in my pocket watch but evidence confiscated that if you’d just go-“
“Mister Graves stop!” It’s not like Tina to interrupt him, and his mouth snaps shut so hard his teeth jar. She looks grief-stricken and his heart is already breaking in his chest. “The report that you read was…very limited.” She says slowly, like she’s picking her way through a minefield. “So much is still uncertain, and they couldn’t give you to much information.”
“Get to your point Goldstein!” He’s standing without realizing he’s stood, and dizzy from it. But he stays up, held by panicked energy. “What do you know of Credence?”
She swallows, looking very small in the enormous chair. “I already knew that he’s a wizard. But…how did you know? I thought you didn’t have time to make contact with him? I thought that’s why you asked..”
“Yes fine, I lied. I did make contact. Now tell me what you know.”
“I-I’m sorry sir. Credence was the obscurus.”
(The report that Seraphina hands Graves is very limited. It’s heavily redacted, containing barely more information than they’d release to the public.
“You must understand Percival, we can’t bring you onto the case just like that, not after that man was walking around as you, using your clearance. We have to backtrack on everything he so much as glanced at for that whole time. Every memo that went through your office has to be readdressed, every staffer he talked to has to be re-vetted. Nobody’s going to trust that you’re really you for a while I’m afraid.”
She keeps talking as he reads through the report, “Grindelwald got ahold of an obscurus. Yes, I know, all the experts are in a tizzy. He set the creature on the city, intending to cause enough damage to break the statute entirely and kill as many nomajs as he could along the way. It took the joint firepower all of the downtown corps to take it out.”
“Once it was neutralized Grindlewald was shockingly compliant.” She says.
[04:18 the obscurus was destroyed.] The report says.)
“Credence was the obscurus.” Tina Goldstein says.
Grindlewald pleads guilty to every charge.
It feels…too easy. They’ve been preparing for this trial for months, gathering evidence, assembling witnesses, rehearsing statements, agonizing over every detail. Grindlewald has been arrested so many times before, and each time managed to wriggle through some loophole each and every time. A mishandled piece of evidence, an sudden confession from some unexpected party, a miraculous last minute testimony that negated everything else they had.
They’d had no reason to doubt that it would go the same way this time. Sure they had a certain amount of indisputable evidence for some of the charges; the assault of a government agent, kidnapping and imprisoning, impersonation and obstruction of justice all witnessed by half of MACUSA. But that would get him a few years at most, with too many grey-zones for his lawyers to leverage for leniency. They had to to ensure there were no weak spots in their offense for him to exploit.
And why they had to go after him for the rest. If they could convince the jury that Grindlewald alone, not Credence, who was responsible for the damage the obscurus did, they could get him some real time. Between the statute infringement, massive property damage, and multiple nomaj deaths, they have their first real chance to put the criminal away for good.
His lawyer is the usual one, a disarmingly young and sweet-faced blonde who has a devilish knack for bending any country’s legal system to her advantage. They don’t know much about her, nothing except for a barely discernible Russian accent and that she’s been with Grindlewald for years and has no records before that. She enters the chamber first, Grindlewald and his veritable squadron of guards following. They all sit while the charges are introduced, and when the President finally says the words, “And how do you plead?”
Grindlewald stands. “Guilty, your honour.”
A pause, in which it feels like all the air in the chamber has been sucked away. “On which charge?”
“All of them, your honor.”
Graves gave Credence one of a set of two-way mirrors. They had been passed down his family via a great aunt who had liked him much more than Dermont. They were a beautiful set, inlaid into the lids of two small pocket watches that had been commissioned for an engagement gift. The exteriors were meticulously crafted metalwork, foliage that changed with the seasons.
It takes weeks before they allow him access to any of his personal affects; apparently even his clothes have to be checked over for security risks. It takes a month before they allow him back into his apartment. And even then many of his possessions are held up in evidence. His files are as good as lost to him.
The last box is released three months after he is. It’s a small one; some charmed artifacts, a few of his rarest books, all of the paintings that had hung on his walls, in various states of ruffled from their interrogations. The photograph of Grandmother looks remarkably unbothered, already back to snoozing in her chair.
His watch is at the bottom. He leaves it there, unable to bring himself to look at it. He shoves it to the very back of the hall closet and goes goes about his day for a few hours, until suddenly he can’t bare not to look at it. He scrambled to retrieve it, heart tight despite himself.
And of course it shows nothing, only a strange blank expanse of undulating black haze. He’s not sure why he’d thought any different.
Regardless, something keeps him from disposing of the watch. He keeps up the old habit of carrying it around in his breast pocket. It’s hard to tell but the familiar weight of it there might help. If anything does.
He goes to see Grindelwald. It would technically never have been permitted, but he cashes in on Seraphina’s guilt for the first and only time. He’s lost too much to this man, even she wouldn’t deny him this.
They give him two minutes. It’s the longest the European delegation is willing to look the other way while they violate the strict isolation lockdown that he’s under. A guard lets him into the cell and waves his wand over Grindelwald’s face to lift the curse holding him paralyzed.
“Percival Graves.” Grindelwald greets after blinking awake. His voice is remarkably composed for a man suspended vertically in midair, bound in chains that wrap thickly around his entire body. “I was wondering if I’d get the chance to see that face one last time.”
Graves doesn’t gratify him with a response. He paces the perimeter of the small chamber without a word, taking in the sigh of the man before him. He looks like shit, much worse than he had at the trial. He’s been hung at such an angle that the blood has rushed into his face, making his complexion blotchy and discoloured. Over the months in captivity his hair has grown long, it hangs straw-like and tangled, the colour dull with lack of washing. One of the most powerful wizards in the word, trussed up, stripped of him powers, filthy and utterly humiliated. This is what defeat looks like.
It’s not enough. The thought of this man being allowed to live out his days, even rotting miserably in a prison cell, fills him with a deep, numb sort of fury. Because that is a long life of misery, when what he deserves is a short life of pain. Graves wants to tear him apart, and then he wants to end him. The world should not have this monster in it for a moment longer than necessary.
The guards had taken his wand before he entered, but he might be able to summon enough wandless magic to kill him. He’d never tried before. Surely he could do some damage. Or he could just use his bare hands. He circles around to stop at Grindelwald’s head, which hovers about the level of his chest, and stares down into his unnatural eyes. His pale neck is very vulnerable.
“Are you going to kill me Percival Graves?” Perhaps his emotions show on his face. Grindelwald’s lips curl like he’d welcome it, “You might be able to if you’re quick. I’m sure the boys up there would let you get a few hits in at the least.”
Graves still doesn’t reply. It’s hard to say but he thinks that it bothers him, that he’s not getting the rise that he is clearly after. His crooked sneer twitches more into an animal snarl.
Graves backs away as far as the confines of the chamber allows, heels against the wall. This means that Grindelwald has to crane his neck even more to meet his eyes. “Why did you plead guilty?”
“Because I am guilty.”
Graves can’t accept it; there’s no way it is as simple as that. “You could have fought the charges for months, you could have pushed for extradition, the Germans would have been more lenient. Your people are good you probably would have gotten it. But now there going to let the dementors have you, and your body will rot in Azkaban. I thought you had grander ambitions then that.”
“I am but a man, and I am fallible. Is that so hard to believe? I made a mistake, and I got caught. This is the end for me.”
It is hard to believe - impossible even. Grindelwald has been terrorizing the international wizard community for too long to just confess. It doesn’t compute. But before Graves can push him, Grindelwald interrupts.
“But that isn’t why you’re here now is it? Ask me what you really want to know Percival Graves. Ask me how I got him to do it.”
Graves remains silent. The fury he feels at even the merest allusion to Credence is blinding. He’s not sure he could even speak if he tried, or what he’d say. Luckily Grindelwald seems to be in a chatty mood so he continues unprompted. “You want to know if I forced him. You want to know if I tortured him into it, or if he did it of his own free will. You want to know if he loved me-“
“He didn’t. He didn’t love you.” Graves snaps, vibrating with rage. He digs his fingers into the flag of his palm just to feel physical pain instead.
“Oh but he did. Is that the worst thought? That he didn’t realize that it wasn’t really you? Did you think he knew you better than that? Because he didn’t. He never questioned it. Not once. He did everything I asked of him, sweet boy.”
Every word is a thousand times worse than any pain he’s felt. His nails in his palm are nothing, the hunger pangs as he’d slowly starved in captivity, the curse that he’d endured are nothing. The flames of war, the shrapnel burrowing into his side, hitting the ground deaf and blind and bloody from the explosion, nothing. But the thing is, he’s right. This is why Graves had come here, this is what he needs to hear.
“That’s what is what made him so perfect. The abuse, the self loathing, the broken heart. No amount of love was ever going to fix him. You could have tried for years Graves, years! And it never would have worked. He was never going to fully believe that he deserved to be happy, so when ‘you’ started to change, when ‘you’ spoke to him harshly, criticized him, told him to do things he didn’t want to do, he just took it. It was truly a thing of beauty. How quickly love and tenderness can be undone. And he still loved me! Pathetic broken thing. He still looked at me with those eyes - you know the look - like he’d do anything for me. And he did! He did everything so perfectly. It’s such a shame it ended the way it did. He was truly magnificent.”
It turns out the guards only let him get one hit in before they drag him away. The last thing he sees before the cell door slams closed is Grindelwald's upside-down grin, a bloody crimson crescent in a bone white face.