Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Credence doesn’t sleep. Not much. When it’s not the stinging in his hand, it’s the thoughts in his head, or the emptiness in his stomach, or the fear in his mind. His skin is too white, too pale, any bruise stands out, the darkness under his eyes is always there, never leaves. Sometimes he thinks people might notice, might ask, and there would always be the same answer. Sin. It’s his fault. It’s always his fault. But people don’t ask, don’t notice. People don’t look at him. They push him out of the way, mutter harsh words under their breath, they don’t take the leaflets. Credence only wants them to take the leaflets. It doesn’t matter that they don’t notice – his bruised cheek, his dry lips, his scarred hands. All he asks for is for them to take the paper. They can dump it, break it, scribble on it, do whatever they want with it, so long as they just take it.

Credence doesn’t ask them to, though. Not with words. Just take the paper, please take the paper. His hands trembling, his voice failing him, he can’t ask them to, but can’t they see? Can’t they hear his silent cry for help? Perhaps they do, sometimes he wonders, perhaps they do, and they ignore him on purpose. Perhaps they smile, knowingly, as they brush past him and let out a guttural laugh – how would he know? All he ever sees is his old ragged shoes and the wet dirty sidewalk – perhaps people are just evil.

It’s a punishment in itself, the wait. He makes his way back to the church with a resigned pace. His heart hammering in his chest, his breath coming out in unsteady intervals, he almost feels his belt loosen up and unbuckling itself from the trousers. He’s come home with half the leaflets he left with. Ma won’t be pleased. Credence can feel it, as though she already knows it before he crosses the doorway.

It’d been raining one day, he was just a ghost in the street. The leaflets flew from his hands, up into the air, the cold breeze made him shiver. It wasn’t so much the freezing raindrops creeping to his bones so much as the sight of the wasted paper all around him. It’d stuck to the pavement, to the windows, to the trashcans. It was his fault. Ma always made sure to make him believe it, repeated it over and over again until she thought it was carved into his mind. You should’ve kept a firm grip, Credence. You should’ve waited until the rain stopped, Credence. You are useless, good-for-nothing, Credence. You’re not having supper, Credence, go upstairs and I don’t want to see your face until tomorrow morning.  

Credence doesn’t sleep. He whimpers, weeps, cries a lot. Into his pillow, of course. She is always waiting for him to break, to give in. But he doesn’t, not when she’s around. There’s still a little strength within him. But today, Ma has managed to wipe away even that. Today he’s weak, hasn’t had anything to eat for at least 12 hours, and he tripped and all the cabbages and carrots ended up rolling around in the cold dirty floor. He stayed down, the hall sank in silence, he stayed down, a whimper fighting his way through his throat, he bit his lip, his tongue, he lost. Ma had no tolerance for those kind of silly things. He made him kneel on corn, in a dark corner as the rest of the children waited silently for the soup.

When everyone leaves for bed – Modesty lurking around, half a carrot tucked in her pocket, Ma caught her in the act – he stays there. His trousers are ruined, he’ll have to ask Chastity to mend them. He hates nothing more than asking Chastity for favours. Fine, but you have to give away my share of the leaflets for two days. All right, but you have to polish my boots. Perhaps he could try to mend them himself. He only needs a needle and thread. He never learnt how to sew, though. And if Ma wakes up and finds him at such task he’ll be beaten again. He sighs.

He fixes his gaze on the clock above his head, counting the seconds, minutes, until it’s midnight. Ma must be fast asleep already. And so must be his sisters. He presses his scarred hands on the cold ground and pushes himself up quietly, only to find out that standing up is somehow so much more painful than staying down. He puts a hand above his mouth to prevent the weeping from slipping out and waking everyone up. His footsteps echo in the empty church, and he casts a glance to the staircase. Too many steps. Too much effort. He can barely keep himself upright, and God forbid he try to get to his room only to fall down the stairs and get injured. It’d be wasted money, you foolish, silly boy, so he chooses instead to lie down on the bench, picking at the crumbles left on the table. His knees sting, the bench is cold and hard beneath his body. He doesn’t sleep. When Ma is up at exactly 7am, he’s sitting with his hands crossed on his lap. The pain has subsided, but not left. It never leaves.

When she places a too gentle hand on his shoulder, Credence flinches and bows his head even more.

“Credence” she acknowledges him, her voice soft and melodic and velvet-like. Nothing like her character. How she manages to sound so merciful when mercy is the last thing she’s ever shown him Credence doesn’t know.

No.

Shame on you.

Ma has fed you and put a roof over your head.

This is how you repay her? By thinking her merciless?

Mary Lou squeezes his shoulder, as though she can hear his very thought.

Credence waits for a blow that doesn’t come.

“Stand” she orders. Credence’s heart skips a beat.

“I can’t” he mouths, barely hearing his voice himself.

“Credence” she repeats, sternly this time, she hasn’t moved, he can sense her behind him now that she’s lifted her hand from his shoulder. Sense the hostility. “Stand.”

I can’t.

His legs shake, his hands are turned into fists. He stands and the pain in his knees comes rushing back, he has to hold onto the wooden table to prevent himself from falling. Mary Lou is making her way towards the kitchen counter. She produces a key from her skirt pocket and opens a cabinet. A minute later, there’s a slice of bread in front of him. Then, at least fifty leaflets are placed beside it with a short and grim thud. He looks up at Mary Lou, her face cold as stone, the only expression she ever wears, indifference.

Not for a moment does Credence think of protesting.

“I want you here by 10 to prepare lunch. Not one minute more, not one minute less”

“Yes Ma” comes his raspy voice.

He eats the bread in three bites, and can freely let out a cry once the door of the church has closed behind him. He presses his eyes together, tears threatening to fall down. Clutching the papers against his chest, he makes his way round the corner and into the sea of people rushing to their workplaces.

Mr. Graves sips at his black coffee patiently, looking across the road at the hunched black figure of Credence Barebone. His hand is permanently outstreched, holding one of many leaflets, the ones that Graves had chuckled at the first time he’d read them, the ones that no one but a handful of old ladies had but spared a glance at, so far this morning. Mary Lou Barebone was no stranger to MACUSA, was no stranger to him. The Second Salemers society has been at it for years, Graves remembers reading a file containing as much as two pages of factual information about them. Nothing serious that would prove a threat to their wizarding community. No need to interfere. Tina had thought otherwise. We cannot stand aside and let this continue. No-Maj or not, have you not the slightest pity for him, for those poor children? Graves had dismissed her as he always did when she got too caught up in her emotions, in No-Maj’s affairs.

He should’ve stood his ground. He should’ve seen it coming. He hadn’t. Despite her stubborn personality, Tina had never truly acted on any of her feelings. He had thought it’d only be one more of those occasions. But it hadn’t been, and now one of his best aurors was wasting her talent in a secluded corner of MACUSA, seated at an old desk handing out wand-permits.

He squeezes the styrofoam cup and the warm liquid caresses his skin. Something is different today, he can see Credence making faces and even moving his lips from time to time. What he’s saying, Graves has no idea. He never bothers to use a distance-hearing spell. Credence never talks. People around him only spit hatred his way and that is something Graves does not need to listen to, lest he be consumed by the same rage that’d consumed Tina weeks ago.

He stands up and throws the cup in the nearest trash bin, producing his wand out of his pocket, ready to disapparate and get down to business, there’s work he’s got to do. Then there’s a whimper and he’s looking at Credence Barebone collapsing against the ground, hands outstreched in front of him in an attempt to shield himself from the impact. The papers fly out of his hands and people dodge his body, pretend they can’t hear his suffering cries when he can hear them perfectly from across the road. Mr. Graves presses his lips into a thin line and lets out a curse.

He disapparates.

Credence gathers what few leaflets he can reach, they’re already dirty and wet, and some of them are already crumbling under his desperate grip. Fighting down the tears, he manages to stand up after a couple of failed tries, and all but stumbles through the waves of people and towards the closest alley. His legs don’t collapse under his weight again until he seeks support against a dumpster, and he takes a moment to catch his breath and let himself be proud of that. Then, he leans against the brick-wall and purposedly falls on his bum with a groan. The pain in his knees seems to pump along with his heart, he can feel blood running down his legs. He sits quietly and closes his eyes. The alley smells like car fuel and chimney, the trash next to him like something akin to rotting fish – not that he would know what fish smells like, rotten or not.

He clenches his hands open and close and wishes Ma had gone for them instead. They took more time to heal, but at least they didn’t take away his capacity to walk properly. It’ll take him twice the time to get back home in this state.

He lets out a sigh and looks down to his lap, where his bony hands are gripping the paper.

His grip grows firmer, and his hands shake. He’s angry. Angry at himself. Angry because he knows what’s coming, he knows what’s waiting for him if he returns with his hands full again, but he can’t make that change. Any other day, he might have made a run for it, run far, to where Ma’s words of rightousness haven’t yet been heard, where she’d never think to look or make someone look for proof that he’s been disloyal, useless, careless, unworthy. The black ink would start fading away eventually – there’s a loud cracking coming from the clouds, promising water – mixing from the corners, turning into a black foggy illegible stain. They wouldn’t even serve as evidence.

He lets out another whimper and hates himself for it. There’s nothing he can do against it, nothing but delay the inevitable, he thinks. He can’t run from it, he knows that, but he can stay here just a little longer, watch with the corner of his eye New York citizens passing by, dressed neatly and carrying bags or suitcases, smoking, the lots of them. Credence thinks that fire would be a good ally. He already smells like smoke anyway, so what would a little bit more of it make? Not a difference. And Ma wouldn’t know, she wouldn’t know her precious leaflets had been burned to ash in a dirty and dark corner of the city.

Or would she…?

There’s always the doubt. There’s always a way of knowing, she always seems to know.

If Credence didn’t know better he’d think she was a witch herself.

Graves approaches the bump in the ground with caution. He can see Credence’s legs sticking out, the rest of his body hidden by the garbage dumpster. The fabric’s dirty, old, rugged and bloody at the knees. His hand clenches around his wand in his pocket upon hearing the never-ending whimpering and feeling the raw darkness that always seems to follow the boy around. His helpless cries echo in the alley, they’re all Graves can hear, the hustle and bustle of the city being left behind, unimportant.

Credence stirs, and Graves stops dead on his tracks. Surely he can’t see him, nor hear him?

He produces his wand out of his pocket and reinforces the repelling spell, just to be sure.

He doesn’t know what’s driven him here, nor does the voice in the back of his mind, that same one that’s telling him not to get involved. He doesn’t listen to it, he doesn’t need to, doesn’t need to listen to it because he’s not going to get involved. Or so he thought, until he finally found himself in front of Credence Barebone lying on the ground, jumping at the sight of something appearing in front of him with no warning. He. He is the something. And the boy looks up and Graves is frozen in place as Credence drags his legs to his chest and places his hands on the dumpster next to him to get up, only to have a painful groan escape through his lips and his body fall down again.

The sound makes Graves wake from his stupor, and he puts the wand back into his coat hurriedly, though something in the boy’s eyes leaves it pretty clear he’s caught sight of it.

“Stay down, Credence” he says before he can stop himself, gaining a gasp from the kid. “You’re in pain, I just want to help”

Credence watches nervously from the ground, and Graves thinks he must look rather intimidating – he doesn’t do it on purpose. People just bow when he walks past, only a handful of aurors and president Picquery hold his gaze, with the exception of Tina, when she’s edgy and stubborn, when she’d been pleading for her words to be heard, for some help to be provided to the same poor boy looking at him and giving the impression he hasn’t eaten for days, which Graves might as well know, is not just an impression.

Graves crouches down to Credence’s eye level, offering what he thinks is a kind smile. It mustn’t have been kind, because Credece seems to want to shrink into nothingness, and he even shoots a glance to the street on his right and people passing by, as though he’s considering calling out for help. Graves shoots a look to the boy’s bloody knees and tries a smile again, this time accompanied by his outstreched hand.

“My name is Percival Graves”

Credence looks at his hand in doubt. Graves fights down a frown, re-considering his decision of offering his real name and then shrugging the thought off because it doesn’t matter, if he’s going to help this boy heal, he’ll do it by using his wand, which means he’ll have to be obliviated eventually. Real name or fake name, it’d make no difference because neither would be remembered.

Except that may not be necessary, the voice at the back of his mind reminds him, he saw through your repelling spell.

“Come on, I don’t bite” he jokes. Credence looks at him with tired eyes, and only now does Grave seem to notice the dark shadows on his pale soft-looking skin, the way his eyelids seem to be almost closing. He looks drained. He finally shakes his hand, shooting another glance to his right and then to the auror’s coat pocket, where the wand is resting safely out of No-Maj’s eyes.

But he’s not a No-Maj, the voice chimes in again, and Graves is almost angry at himself for not noticing it earlier, he wants to shut the voice down. Making mistakes is not something common in his routine, and nothing makes him grumpier – Tina’s choice of word.

“I’ve…” Credence starts, looking at Graves for a brief moment and then directing his eyes back to his lap. “I’ve seen you…”

Percival smiles again, a genuine smile this time which he thinks is a pity Credence is missing by avoiding his gaze.

“Of course you have” the auror squeezes the boy’s hand gently, and Credence seems to notice just now he’s still holding it. He retrieves it with a gasp, his eyes still looking downwards. Graves would literally have to lie on the floor to be able to look him in the eyes, and he hates it. Hates how Credence’s made feel so inferior that he’s believed it and hates that this has become his signature pose, a posture he cannot shake off, always looking down, his shoulders shielding him, he almost looks like a turtle trying to hide in its shell. “You’re a very special boy, Credence” he adds with what he hopes is a gentle voice.

This gains him a sheepish look.

He smiles again and makes sure Credence feels the warmth in the gesture.

“I’m really not” the boy whispers, flinching at something Percy cannot feel, gripping the leaflets with such force that his knuckles go white. Graves swallows down his anger and makes sure it doesn’t show on his face when he takes the wand out of his pocket and gains a longer look from the Barebone kid. “Is that really a–“

“Wand” Percival finishes.

Credence lets out another surprised gasp, as though hearing the word from Percival’s mouth is something he wasn’t expecting. As though he wasn’t expecting him to own up to it. Surely if he’s been able to see through the repelling spell all this time, he’s also seen him disapparating, so Graves cannot quite understand why just a simple word carries so much meaning.

“So you’re a–“

“Wizard”

“I thought that–“

“Women are witches” Graves explains, seeing the question written all over Credence’s face – all over the leaflets.

Credence lets out another whimper which prompts Percival to place a hand on his lower leg, only to have the kid shrink back against the wall at the touch. The auror finds himself getting closer to the boy, lowering his voice in an attempt to soothe him. “Shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right” he repeats over and over again, one more time swallowing down the bitterness at the sight of the young boy before him, cowering because the beating of a hand is all he’s ever felt and all he’s ever prepared to expect.

Graves finds himself gripping his wand almost with the same force that Credence is gripping the leaflets.

He waits until the boy’s breath has stopped coming out agitated, and squeezes gently where he’s never lifted his hand, starting to pull up the trousers.

“I know it hurts” he whispers, “but I can make it stop, Credence”

The boy sniffs and rubs his eyes furiously, as though he’s scolding himself for crying. Graves wants to tell him it’s okay to cry. That if there’s a person that’s allowed to cry, that’s him. He already knows that Credence is an incredibly introverted kid, anyone that looks at him, really looks at him for a moment, is able to tell. 

With a fleeting look at the bruised and bloody knee, Percival makes a vow. Rushed as it might be, his decision is final, and he is not going to let this boy spend one more day under the same roof as Mary Lou Barebone, he is not going to turn his back on him. It’d be against all he stands for. He is not going to stand by and let Credence suffer anymore. No more.

When Graves hovers the wand over the injured flesh, about to recite the incantation in his mind, Credence’s grip on his wrist stops him. The auror swallows a curse.

“It’s okay, you won’t feel a thing”

The boy looks up at him with red puffy eyes and shakes his head.

“I promise” Graves reassures him. Credence shakes his head again, and the auror lowers his wand with a sigh.

“She’ll know” the boy mumbles, almost inaudible.

“Come again?”

“Ma will know” he repeats with a strangled, ashamed noise. This time Graves cannot stop the hatred from showing, and he only realises it when Credence hunches in his place. He softens his expression immediately, raising the wand again decidedly as the other hand goes to caress at Credence’s neck gently. The boy relaxes at the touch after some seconds, releasing the air he’d been holding. Percival doesn’t think it twice before healing the bruises with the wave of his wand.

“No, my boy” he allows a finger to brush over the short hairs on the boy’s nape, cursing at himself for what he’s going to do next, “she won’t even remember it.”

Chapter Text

In a dream-like state, Credence lingers near the wizard leading the way. His mind is foggy, too many thoughts and too many questions and too much time he's been not feeling anything.

Not the cold nor the pain in his legs, he doesn't feel it anymore, just as Mr. Graves had promised. And he can't help but think it's such a foreign feeling, can't help but turn around and glance behind him with every turn, expecting to be caught. But Mr. Graves had promised that too. She wouldn't remember. Anything. Not the punishment the night before, or the night before that one, not even his name or the day they'd met.

Mr. Graves had promised he'd take the pain away, and he'd stuck to his word; and though Credence doesn't know this man at all, instead of turning around and running back to the church, to known territory, to his Ma's condemning words, he finds himself following the figure that stands tall and powerful and that is promising a better tomorrow. Just this once, Credence is going to permit himself to disobey. To live the now and hold onto this opportunity without thinking about the consequences he might have to face later on.

"You're uneasy" the manly voice brings him back to the present. He snaps his head forward and cleans his throat.

"You are sure, she won't be looking for me?" He dares to ask, to defy, just one more time, just to be on the safe side.

But Mr. Graves comes to a halt and Credence is already opening his mouth to mutter an apology.

"I– sorry, I–"

"None of that" Mr. Graves shakes his hand dismissively, "Credence, I gave you my word"

"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"I know you didn't" Graves smiles. It doesn't look like a genuine smile to Credence, but then again, how would he know?

Percival doesn't fail to notice that the boy seems to be dragging his feet behind him, as though he's reluctant to follow. His clothes are still dirty and ragged but the blood is already drying off at the knees. Credence looks like a doll about to snap, to reach the final days of its lifespan. Pale and resigned and too aware of his surroundings.

It'd only taken Percival two minutes to take care of business. To taint his impeccable record. Although he had total authority to perform obliviations, none of this was regulated and he'd certainly get an earful from Seraphina as soon as she found out. There'd be a lot of paperwork on his desk and a lot of chatter among employees. He'd taken in a squib and obliviated three no-majs. He wasn't going to get away with it so easily.

He lets out a sigh. Looking at Credence, he thinks he did end up falling into the same pit Tina had, though fortunately his future wouldn't be as dreadful as hers. MACUSA can't afford to demote him, especially with Grindelwald breaking havoc all over Europe and the non-magical sentiment growing stronger by the hour. There are too many things going on at the moment, too many things he has to tend to, and he has just added to that pile an immense weight. None other than a Barebone at that.

He rubs his eyes, feeling a headache creeping in.

No, Seraphina won't be pleased at all.

"Credence" Graves calls, and the boy snaps his head upwards, startled yet again.

"Yes?" comes his quiet voice.

"I don't suppose you've got some no-ma– money with you?"

Credence looks like he could pass out any moment so Percival doesn't want to risk disapparating and adding to that distress.

"Oh, I haven't, sir, I'm sorry"

"Just Percival, please" Graves insists for the third time.

"I haven't... Percival" Credence almost makes a face at pronouncing his name, which prompts Graves to startle him with a laugh.

"Is it that horrible a name?" He asks playfully. Credence's cheeks aquire a pink colour and he directs his eyes to the ground.

"Not at all, sir" he mumbles, and before Graves can call him on it again, Credence sneezes and the auror's attention snaps back to the sloppy clothes the boy's wearing. The warming-charm must have been too late already to stop the cold. They need to leave the streets. Needless to say, Percy isn't carrying any no-maj money on himself, so it's a relief they're only a few blocks away from Mrs. Klaus' bookshop. The sky rumbles.

"Come along, Credence"

Credence's never been in a bookshop before. He's watched from outside, of course. Watched the tall and long pieces of furniture holding tens of hundreds of books with longing, with a sparkle in his eyes, a sparkle he'd never thought of letting his Ma see, lest he give her yet another reason to ask for his belt.

Of course, there was but one book Credence was expected to know from beginning to end. He read it every night, he knew Ma liked to hear him quoting, even the nights his hands ached way too much to properly use them let alone hold such book, he placed it against the wall, brought a candle near and recited the words under his breath. Now, Ma is not here. Now, he follows a wizard into a magic shop where books are hovering above his head and rearranging themselves on the shelves as he stares agape. Now, the life he was living mere hours ago, feels way more distant than it should, dull and grim.

"Credence" Mr. Graves calls with gentleness, though there is a slight insistence under the words, and the young boy wonders how long he's been standing there staring at a starred sky floating near the rooftop, how long Mr. Graves has been calling his name, how long it has been since his heart beat this fast against his ribcage, not because of fear, but of awe.

He quickly makes his way towards Mr. Graves and a young ginger lady who offers him a kind smile before he's guided through the seemingly never-ending corridors. They reach a solitary room with unoccupied colourful cushions placed around a fireplace. A few books are scattered around – did that witch on the picture just wink at him? – and a cat is sprawled atop a small table. The animal looks up uninterested but gives a low meow nonetheless.

Mr. Graves makes his way inside. Inside the fireplace, that is. Credence stares yet again.

"I'm sure this is all very overwhelming to you, but we better make it home before that storm breaks lose" Mr. Graves gestures to the ceiling, and Credence looks up to see not clouds, not a single one, but the same starry sky that'd taken his breath away upon entering the place. "Come on, closer"

Mr. Graves offers his hand. Credence stumbles over until he's completely inside the fireplace himself, puzzled.

"Now this is the second fastest way to travel. You just gotta have a handful of floo powder like this one here" he shows Credence his right hand, gripping something that looks and smells like nothing but ash, dripping between his fingers. "And throw it as you name the destination. Now don't worry, there'll be flames but they won't hurt us"

Credence gasps. Flames? Actual fire?

He hunches over and brings his hands together into a firm grip. Then there's another firm grip around his shoulder, Mr. Graves is holding him in place.

"Take a deep breath if you're nervous" he whispers in his ear. Credence closes his eyes and tenses up. He doesn't catch what Mr. Graves says, the blood pumping in his ears and his stammering heart way too loud to hear past it. The last thing he sees before breaking into a cough is an immense green colour engulfing him, and then the environment has made a complete and utter change. The colourful cushions aren't there, but there's a black sofa over a big red carpet.

There are lamps casting a yellow light over dark wooden furniture, and the ceiling is not a starry sky anymore, but just a normal one. Credence misses the contact the moment Graves steps away from him, outside the fireplace.

"Ages since I used the floo net" he mumbles, dusting his impeccable coat off. "Never been my favouri–" the wizard's words die in his mouth. "Credence? Are you all right?"

Credence nods, but the truth is he isn't. His legs feel like jelly and there's a sour taste in his mouth. He places a hand against the brick dome that's surrounding him and stumbles out of the fireplace.

"I'm just... cold" he draws a deep, shaky breath. "Mr. Graves, I think I'm going to–"

Faint.

But Graves was already at the boy's side upon hearing the world 'cold'. Because Credence was anything but cold, Graves had felt it through the thin layers of clothes. Credence was hot as a furnace.

"Credence?" he tried, holding the boy upright. No answer. He was limb against him, white as a sheet, and his breathing was coming out quick. "That's one hell of a fever" he groaned as he picked Credence up.

He shot a look to the sofa, but decided against it and made for his room instead.

"Nothing a pepper-up potion can't fix"

Credence wakes up with a muffled cry.

The first thing he notices is the soft and warm – way too warm, way too soft – mattress sinking under his weight.

The second thing he notices is how dry and obstructed his throat is. He lets out another cry and it seems to tear through his vocal chords.

The third thing he notices, is Mr. Graves sprawled on a chair a few feet from the bed, his left arm hanging to a side, a newspaper on his lap, and his head slightly bowed.

Mr. Graves is asleep, and Credence is in his bed. He lets out a scandalized squeak as he sits, a damp cloth he hadn't noticed on his forehead falling on his lap. Mr. Graves wakes up startled at the sound, quickly rubs a hand over his eyes and approaches.

"Merlin's beard, I must have dozed off" he says, his voice a different kind of hoarse. A comforting, alluring hoarse.

A cold hand comes to rest at the back of his neck, and Credence can't help but close his eyes and lean into the touch. So cold. It smells so good – it?

Him.

Mr. Graves.

"Lean back down, come on" Credence opens his mouth to protest – this is Mr. Graves' bed, he can't possibly let him go back to that chair – but all that comes out is a tortured whine which Mr. Graves completely misunderstands.

"Where does it hurt?" He asks, gently helping Credence settle down on the pillow, his cold hand wiping sweat off the boy's forehead.

Credence shakes his head, and suddenly Mr. Graves is pressing a glass to his lips. He swallows the water and feels alive again.

"Nowhere, it doesn't hurt" he is quick to explain, if only to see that worried expression on Mr. Graves' face disappear.

"Good, that's good" the man smiles. "Now we need to make that temperature go down. This might not taste like pumpkin juice, but it really helps" he offers Credence a mug containing something that looks like tomatoe soup, but doesn't even resemble its smell. He is also sure it shouldn't be smoking like that, is that safe to drink? He's not a wizard, after all... "There's nothing to worry about" Mr. Graves reassures him. "It's just a potion for the common cold."

He trusts Mr. Graves, why shouldn't he? All the man has done so far has been for the boy's own good.

He takes the mug, surprised to feel it cold at the touch, looks at Mr. Graves dubiously, and takes a gulp.

He's had worse before. Ma wasn't exactly an avid cook.

"That's it, bottoms up" He does as he's told. That might be the one thing he's good for, according to Ma. Might. She couldn't even grant him that.

Well, it matters not. Ma doesn't remember him now, neither do Modesty or Chastity. It doesn't matter what he's good for or what he's not.

"Feeling better?" Mr. Graves asks as he takes the mug out of his tense grip. Credence finds himself nodding, nodding and meaning it. He's too dumbstruck to put the feeling into words, though. He hasn't had much experience with medicine to tell the difference – there were always other priorities. Leaflets had to be printed, ink had to be bought, the church wasn't in the best of states.

The cold would go away soon, the fever was a defense mechanism, nobody died of a cold anymore, wasting what little savings they had on medicine was out of the question.

Credence snaps out of his thoughts and looks up to find Mr. Graves staring him down with an unreadable expression – then again, he's never been good at reading people, at understanding them, at talking to them.

There's a clock nearby, and its constant tick-tock fills the silence for some seconds. Credence knows Mr. Graves has been talking to him again, and again, he has been too gone to register it.

"Well, rest now" The wizard says out of the blue, turning around abruptly as if he's been in deep thought himself.

Credence must protest, even if he knows it won't change a thing, it's the right thing to do.

"But, sir, your bed..." Mr. Graves doesn't turn around when he reaches the door, he merely waves a hand and the room sinks in darkness from a moment to another.

"Rest, Credence" his last words float in the air, a whisper, a command. The door clicks closed, and Credence remains still.

Staring into the darkness. He pulls the cover over his chin. He waits. He knows it's there. That is no simple darkness, it never is. He doesn't close his eyes, today he doesn't wish to escape, to forget. Today has been a good day – for the most part – and he doesn't want to give in. If only Mr. Graves had left the lights on...