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“Do you remember when we first met? I thought I had wandered into a dream.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien
Credence Barebone loathed Christmas. It reminded him of everything he lacked, from money to love to a real family. It made him want to call out to the glittering parents with chubby little toddlers that ran behind them, pointing at toy after toy while mom and dad exchanged a look and said coyly, “Maybe Santa will bring it if you’re nice.” The child would nod, mouth agape and eyes wide, while Credence shrunk further into his dark, solitary alleyway. As if they could see him as anything other than a freak.
He hated going home and seeing his mother, his demon, feed other orphans while he and his sisters starved. Whimpering, he clutched habitually at the scars and welts on his pale palm, knowing the holiday would bring more beatings. It was in the name of religion and piety, of selflessness and suffering for a higher cause. If he did not hand out all of his pamphlets, he would be struck for insubordination and wickedness. The memory of leather on his skin was a powerful force in his dutiful distribution; heart jumping in his chest and throat constricted, he would shove paper with shaking fingers at strangers who looked at him with pity or revulsion.
His sisters were better at it. They actually believed the fire spit from his mother’s mouth about witches and wizards, their danger, and their menace on the city. Chastity and Modesty were perfect, and when they were not, they did their best to change. But Credence, Credence loved even the idea of magic. It was another reason he hated Christmas, however--the magic in the air seemed unavailable to him, each snowflake just a reminder of a cold home, each mention of flying deer a jarring reminder of a world from which he was disbarred.
Santa or Satan? His pamphlet screamed at him with red and black ink. We need a second Salem. Mother had made them specially for the holiday. She hissed every year that Americans had lost the true meaning of Christmas in their SEARS catalogs and liquor, and preached about their immorality on the bank steps until it was all Credence could hear.
He sunk down against the grey brick, already feeling the sting of winter wind on his ungloved fingers. Wrapping his arms around himself, he laid his head back carefully and wondered if he could just sink into the wall, never to be seen or heard again. The blackness in him that always accompanied his angriest moments had ravaged the city earlier that day, a Christmas Eve tragedy, but now he was simply drained. His body was so hollow and heavy all at once, like lead had replaced all of his organs and he was simply a replica of a boy.
Lost in his own head, he could have easily fallen asleep, mostly unperturbed that such apathy on a freezing night could lead to an early death. At 18, he thought more about death than anyone else he knew, save for his mother, who knew the story of the crucifixion and accompanying resurrection backwards.
A strange popping sound startled him from his stupor and he yelped as he watched a mass appear seemingly out of thin air, twisting shapelessly for a second before settling in the form of a well-dressed, handsome man somewhere in his forties. His black hair was shaved on both sides and slicked into a triangle on the back of his head, and he was staring at Credence oddly.
Credence, of course, screamed.
Or, at least, he attempted to scream. The man had whipped out a stick-like object alarmingly fast and waved it at him without sound, and suddenly Credence could not make a sound. His eyes widened fearfully as he struggled against what could only be an enchantment, making this stranger a wizard. He clawed at his own throat, panicking, even as he tried to stand and flee. The ground was slippery with snow, though, and every attempt was thwarted as his thin soles slid gracelessly on the pavement. He was effectively trapped, staring at this man with a mixture of awe and horror. The man mumbled something about this being the wrong alley. Checking for other witnesses, he stowed the object and started forward.
The man walked toward Credence cautiously, going to him as if approaching a timid animal. He held a finger to his mouth to beg silence, and then another wave of his wand sent air rushing out of Credence’s lungs to a resulting gasp of surprise and fear.
“Thank you,” Credence said, because he was accustomed to thanking people who frightened him. He kept his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the wizard’s painstakingly polished shoes, but looked up soon after.
That odd expression was still on the man’s face, something wary and enraptured all at once. Credence blushed, thinking he was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, all edges and mystery. He wondered if he could read minds like his mother said they all could. See the future, kill him with a glance, all that. Credence was also incredibly flattered and confused by the attention, certain the man had made a dreadful mistake in appearing in his dark piece of New York City.
Mother chimed in from his head, screeching about manners--though he was unclear how polite she would want him to be in the presence of someone magical--so he stuck out his hand awkwardly, grimacing at himself when it shook so violently. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was so quiet that it could have been the wind.
“Percival Graves,” he introduced slowly, and then crouched and grasped Credence’s hand. The young man inhaled sharply, shocked by the warmth, the proximity, the ease in which contact came to Graves.
He struggled to speak, the resounding panic of being touched sending waves of nausea and premature pain through his fragile body. He gulped. “Mr. Graves, sir, I don’t mean to be rude--”
“Percival,” he corrected smoothly, still holding their hands together. He lifted Credence’s to inspect it when the shaking had subsided, having felt the raised skin. It caused Credence’s heart to skip a few beats. “May I?” he asked, and Credence nodded without knowing what he was agreeing to.
The stick-object was produced again, and Credence belatedly realized it was a wand, what his mother would call a wizard’s weapon. It didn’t feel like a weapon, though, when it was sliding gently over his palm, healing each open wound and chasing away the subdued sting that accompanied them. Credence was transfixed and could not decide whether or not his gaze should follow the wand or Graves’ eyes, which seemed focused even though his movement was effortless. When he finished, he rocked away and stood, much to Credence’s disappointment.
But then he extended his hand like a holy offering, and Credence grasped it lightly and allowed Graves to pull him to his feet. They stared at each other for a moment, both thoroughly amazed and confounded by their encounter. Credence felt his face heat again and his heart stutter in his chest, betraying his decision to never develop closeness with another human; his fragile self could not manage yet another selfish adult. Yet something felt different about Graves, like he could give him his soul and never regret it. He felt drawn to him and understood by him in a way no one had before.
“May I ask your name?” Graves spoke with deep authority and precision, augmenting his powerful and alluring nature. Credence wanted to know everything about him.
He frowned. Sighed. “Credence,” he supplied without the surname. Barebone was probably spoken in the magical world like a curse.
“That’s quite a name,” he responded, and the way he said it made Credence think he already knew that Barebone followed.
“My… mom named me. Not my real mom, she adopted me, she adopted me after… I… I’m not related to her,” he rambled, wringing his hands together while he looked anywhere but at Graves. Graves looked at him kindly and reached out to touch Credence’s face. Particularly afraid of such intimacy, Credence recoiled instantly, and Graves withdrew just as fast.
He held his hands up in innocence. “My apologies,” he said sincerely. His eyes held genuine sadness. Credence was astounded, having never been apologized to in his life. So he answered, “No need,” and stepped closer again.
He was shivering. Graves reached behind his own head and grasped a beautiful silk scarf between two fingers. It was the color of snow, but the warmth it exuded when wrapped around Credence’s neck reminded him of summer. They were mere inches apart now, Graves having left his hands around the young man’s neck with the very clear intention of putting himself within his personal space. Credence, for once, could not say he minded.
“Why are you not home on Christmas Eve?” Graves inquired casually, still not stepping back. Credence considered it a kindness; his unsteady, frail frame was inadequate protection against the weather, and he had not eaten that day.
In answer, Credence lifted his hands to display the healed welts, looking less severe only because Graves had taken a healing spell to them. The man’s face darkened as he softly wrapped his fingers around Credence’s wrists. “She did this to you?” he asked, and his eyes were smoke and fire.
Credence had never had someone care about this, ask him about it, spare him enough time to even notice the broken bones and bruises and belt lashes. He peered at Graves through long lashes with reverence and adoration, his heart beating like a car over broken cobblestone. “She’s afraid I have magic in me,” he rasped. “My real mother, Ma calls her wicked, unnatural. I think--”
“She’s right,” Graves said. “I can feel it in you.” He touched his palm to the spot above Credence’s heart and breathed out slowly, watching as tears streamed down Credence’s face. Graves held him even closer, Credence’s head resting in his shoulder, but Credence turned his face to meet his eyes. Those eyes promised to pick up all of his broken pieces and mend them.
“You feel so familiar,” Graves whispered, looking like a man who had become uncertain for the first time in his life. Looking like he wanted to save Credence from the hell he lived daily. And then he kissed his palm so gently, so fearfully and quickly for a man with such an imposing presence, before hurtling backwards and covering his mouth in absolute horror.
“I should not have…” He covered his eyes with one hand and rubbed it down, inhaling and exhaling with deliberately extended breaths. “I apologize,” he said through gritted teeth, obviously displeased with his outburst.
Credence remained rooted to the place Graves had left him. He’d never been kissed before, a product of isolation and people’s general revulsion when it came to his family. He touched his palm with his other hand, his skin tingling where Graves’ lips had been.
“No need,” Credence repeated with a small smile, some color creeping into his pallid face.
So Credence rushed forward with only minimal hesitation and kissed him on the mouth under the snow and starlight, sharing his warmth in the darkness. “Will I ever see you again?” Credence asked fearfully once they had finally parted, and all Graves could do was nod. He seemed just as stunned. At the clock’s stroke of midnight, he was gone, leaving Credence with the taste of scotch and mint.
Credence thought that Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.